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Chapter Text

The platform was noisy, too bright, too much. Shouts and laughter tangled with the hiss of steam, and everywhere John turned there were trunks, owls, and people rushing about with excitement. His hands shook faintly as he clutched his own second-hand trunk, dragging it along the platform. He didn’t look around for his mother or sister—he knew they weren’t there. He hadn’t asked them to come, and truthfully, they couldn’t bear to. His mother was still in the bedroom with the curtains drawn, and Julie was curled up on the sofa at home. It had been only a few days since the funeral.

The letter from Hogwarts had come in July (a month before his birthday), like some odd miracle, but John’s father had laughed softly and told him it must be some silly mistake. And then, just after John turned eleven, the laughter had ended forever. The grief pressed down on him now, as heavy as the trunk he dragged, and though part of him wished someone—anyone—would wave him off, another part was glad he was invisible in this chaos. He was glad no one could see how numb he felt, how empty.

He found the right train carriage at last and heaved the trunk inside. The corridor seemed endless, full of loud, excited voices. Carriages were already filling with clusters of friends, families, owls screeching from cages. He didn’t belong to any of it.

Halfway down, he saw one that wasn’t full. Just two children inside: a girl with dark braids, freckles across her nose, and a boy with a mop of sandy hair. They both looked up when he slid the door open.

“D’you want to sit?” the girl asked brightly, shuffling her bag out of the way.

John nodded quickly, grateful, and lifted his trunk in. He sat opposite them, pressing close to the window, his face turned towards the smoke and the platform outside.

“I’m Clara,” the girl said cheerfully. “Clara Woods. Muggleborn, like you?”

John’s eyes flickered towards her, startled, but he didn’t reply.

The boy spoke next, smiling as though trying to ease the awkwardness. “I’m Michael. Michael Fletcher. My dad’s a wizard, my mum’s not, so… sort of half and half. It’s weird, isn’t it? Magic.”

John turned his face back to the window. The steam swirled past in white clouds, hiding the crowd from view. His hands fumbled with his satchel until he pulled out a book—thick, worn, the cover cracked and softened with age. It smelled faintly of dust and old parchment.

The other two fell quiet for a moment, watching him.

“What’s that?” Clara asked finally, leaning forward. “Is it about Hogwarts?”

John set it carefully on his lap, fingers brushing the faded lettering on the cover: A Traveller’s History and Secrets of Hogwarts Castle. He’d found it in a small reseller’s stall in Diagon Alley, tucked under a stack of Quidditch magazines. He’d bought it for just a few Sickles, though it had looked as though it belonged in a proper library. The official pamphlet Hogwarts had sent him—A Brief Guide for the Muggleborn—was thin and dull in comparison. This book was alive with ink illustrations, side-notes in the margins, even small pressed flowers between the pages.

He didn’t answer Clara, though. He only opened the book to a page marked with a bit of string and bent closer to read. His eyes scanned lines he already half-knew, about the moving staircases, the ghosts, the hidden corridors. The words were like an anchor in his chest—something steady when everything else was slipping away.

Clara and Michael exchanged a look.

“Guess he’s shy,” Michael whispered, not unkindly.

“Leave him, then,” she murmured back. “He’ll talk when he wants to.”

But John barely heard them. He traced the illustration of a tall tower with his fingertip, the spidery lines of windows inked in black. His head felt strange, hollow, as though his memories were slipping further away with each breath. Already it was hard to picture his father’s face clearly, hard to remember the sound of his laugh. The numbness pressed in tighter, like cotton stuffed into his mind.

He let it happen.

The book was safe. The book had rules and facts, staircases and rooms and maps. It was better to drown in those pages than to let his thoughts slide back into the silence of home.

Outside, the train whistle blew. The carriage jolted. Smoke rolled past the glass as the platform slid away and the red train began its long journey north.

Clara and Michael began chatting again, quietly at first, then more animated. They speculated about what the Sorting Ceremony would be like, whether they’d meet actual ghosts, what kind of food there might be in the Great Hall. John listened without looking, every word catching at the edges of his mind. He wanted to speak—wanted to say yes, I read about the ghosts, they’re real, there’s even a Bloody Baron who’s terrifying, and the kitchens are run by house-elves who’ll make anything you want—but the words stayed inside.

Instead, he turned another page of the book, eyes fixed on a scrawled margin note in someone else’s hand from decades ago: Stair 144 moves only at dusk—never trust it then.

The voices of Clara and Michael blurred into a hum. The train clattered on, pulling him further away from everything he knew, further into a world of secrets and shadows, and he held the book like it was the only thread keeping him from unraveling completely.

John had already changed into his new uniform before leaving home. His mother had insisted on ironing the black robes the night before, her face pale and drawn as she pressed the creases into them, as if clinging to the small, practical task would hold her together. John hadn’t argued. He’d simply put the robes on that morning and buttoned them up tight, like armour.

Clara and Michael, though, were still in their Muggle clothes—Clara in a neat cardigan and skirt, Michael in trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. They didn’t seem to notice or care until the door slid open again.

“Hey, first-years,” came a voice, firm but not unkind.

A tall boy with long, curly brown hair ducked into the carriage, badge gleaming on his chest. Prefect, it read. His robes were immaculate, his wand tucked neatly into his belt. His eyes swept over the carriage quickly, intelligent and serious, though there was a kindness hidden behind the sharpness.

“You should be in uniform by now,” the prefect said, directing the words to Clara and Michael. His gaze lingered only a moment on John, already dressed, before flicking back. “We’ll be reaching Hogsmeade before long. Best to be ready before it gets too crowded.”

Clara flushed. “Sorry! We didn’t realise—”

“No harm done,” the prefect said. “But change quickly. I’ll be checking again.”

With that, he moved down the corridor, reminding other carriages.

John stood at once. Without a word, he pulled his trunk back out into the corridor and stepped aside, closing the carriage door firmly behind him. He knew enough to give people their privacy. Clara and Michael were clearly comfortable with each other—they must have been friends before all this, maybe even family by how they whispered to one another. Neighbours, he’d overheard. It was easier to let them change together.

He leaned against the wooden wall of the corridor, book still in hand. The train rocked beneath him, rattling over the tracks. Every so often, a group of laughing students passed by, brushing against him as though he weren’t there.

John opened his book again, balancing it carefully against his arm, though the words blurred with the sway of the train. He pressed on anyway.

Somewhere further down the carriage, he heard the prefect’s voice again—reminding, directing, but always gentle. Something about the boy made John’s chest tighten. He looked about fifteen, older and steadier, the kind of person who seemed as though they belonged exactly where they were. John dropped his eyes back to the page quickly, the lines of ink a safer place to hide.

Then came the sound of loud, grumbling voices. Low, indignant, and growing steadily louder as they approached the first-years’ carriage.

“Stupid, stupid!” a voice hissed sharply, undercut with a rough edge of teenage fury.

John didn’t look up, though his hands tightened around the book instinctively. The voice had the quality of someone used to taking up space, to being noticed.

“Don’t talk to me about stupid!” another voice snapped back, sharper, smaller but no less angry.

They were close now, their boots clattering on the polished floor of the corridor. John caught a glimpse of movement in the glass panel of the carriage door—a flash of red and gold robes, the tie of a Gryffindor uniform clearly visible.

The first boy was blond, hair brushing just past his shoulders, messy at the ends as though he hadn’t bothered to comb it properly. He was scowling, brow furrowed so deeply it almost seemed painful. He was muttering furiously under his breath, jabbing a finger at the polished wood of the wall as he walked.

“Pushed down a year!” he growled. “Me! Thirteen, already supposed to be in third! They’re insane! I’m too old for second year, Alfie, too old! I don’t care what anyone says—totally ridiculous.”

His companion, a shorter boy with dark hair and a narrow face, nodded furiously, matching every frown with his own. “It’s not fair! I was supposed to be in the same class as you. Now what if they don’t even let us share a dorm? You can’t just— ugh! This is stupid!”

As they continued they collided with something—or someone.

John didn’t move aside. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even flinch at the impact, only rocked slightly with the movement of the train. His book slipped a little in his hands, and he caught it automatically, eyes never leaving the page.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going!” the blond barked, even though John hadn't even moved, voice sharp, anger flaring in the corners of his mouth.

John remained silent. No blink, no glance. His face was turned to the window again, expression blank, as though he weren’t even there.

“What the- he didn’t even move!” the smaller boy, Alfie, muttered, fists clenching in frustration. “Mate, do you think he’s… dumb or something?”

The blond’s scowl deepened. “I don’t care. I’m not apologising. Not to some… some random first-year.” His voice dropped to a mutter again, almost to himself. “Bloody ridiculous… all of this… pushing me down… I should be in third year… third! And now I’ve got to deal with idiots and…” He gestured vaguely at the carriage, voice trailing as he muttered to Alfie, “If I’m not in the same dorm as my mates, I swear—”

Alfie jabbed him in the ribs, making the blond jerk sharply, snapping his head toward him. “Quiet! Don’t scare the kid... or whatever that is!”

The blond glanced again at John, whose eyes remained fixed on the sketch of a moving stairway, oblivious to the muttering around him. There was no fear, no acknowledgment. Just an unreadable stillness that somehow made the blond pause. His brow furrowed deeper. He tilted his head slightly, observing, before muttering under his breath, “What the hell is he even doing… reading like that…”

Alfie snorted. “Some muggle-born geek, I reckon. Probably thinks he’s smart or something.”

“Not apologising,” the blond—Roger—said again, louder this time, jab of defiance to the universe itself. He shoved past, Alfie hurrying beside him, both glaring as if the world itself had wronged them.

John didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Only the faintest pressure of the book in his hands, and the faint rattle of the train, acknowledged the collision at all.

Roger and Alfie muttered to each other as they stomped down the corridor, robes brushing against the walls, the sound of their voices fading slowly until only the gentle rocking of the train remained, punctuated by the occasional murmur from distant carriages.

John exhaled a little, unconsciously, and pressed the book closer. The stillness of the carriage returned, as if the interruption had never happened.

That was when he noticed more movement out of the corner of his eye. A fifth-year boy was walking down the corridor with an easy, confident air, one hand tucked into his robe pocket and the other swinging casually at his side. His hair was impossibly fluffy, dark and wavy, tumbling past his ears in a manner that seemed almost deliberate, as though he had trained it to look effortlessly chaotic. His robes were pristine but deliberately unconventional: a vividly patterned scarf thrown over the collar, cuffs turned back to reveal silken lining, and boots polished to a brilliant shine.

He spoke in a crisp, oddly posh English accent, soft but carrying easily in the corridor. “Mary, do hold your skirts in place,” he said lightly, almost teasingly, as a girl in Hufflepuff robes fell a step behind him, rolling her eyes. She caught up, brushing her own hair back into order, expression equal parts exasperation and amusement.

Freddie—John would soon learn—had transferred to Hogwarts only the previous year, arriving from a school in Zanzibar after the attacks had made staying home impossible. The boy’s presence carried a certain energy: charismatic, assured, but not overbearing. He noticed the collision John had experienced with the Gryffindor pair a moment too late to intervene, yet his sharp eyes immediately picked up the first-year leaning quietly against the window, book in hands, silent and still.

He paused. “What do we have here?” he murmured, tilting his head and stepping closer, Mary at his side. The boy’s eyes lingered on John for a moment, examining the neatness of his uniform, the careful way he held the book, the faint pale cast to his cheeks. He crouched slightly, hands reaching out before John could protest, fussing over the too big uniform, tugging gently at the sleeves and smoothing down the robes.

“Oh, you are far too precise,” Freddie said with a cooing, melodic tone. “Absolutely impeccable, really. But let me just…” He patted John lightly on the head, tousling his wavy, brunette hair that fell around his shoulders. “Hmm… I’d wager Ravenclaw for you,” he said thoughtfully, leaning in to whisper. “Yes, yes… the way your eyes keep darting back to your book… itching to return to reading… and such patience. Oh, delightful. Truly.”

John felt a flicker of warmth at the praise. Unlike the red-and-gold boys who had shoved past him without care, Freddie’s attention was gentle, attentive, curious. And there was something undeniably kind in the way he fussed, even if it was a little overwhelming. He didn’t speak immediately—he only watched the boy, then slowly, almost shyly, gave a small nod.

Freddie noticed. He smiled, eyes sparkling. “Oh, you do engage! Excellent, excellent.” He clapped his hands together once, softly, delighted, before glancing down at Mary, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and clearly trying not to laugh.

Before he could say more, the carriage door opened, and Clara poked her head out, small and apologetic. “Um-” she said softly, “you can come back in now. Sorry for… um… kicking you out.”

John looked up at Freddie, his lips curling in a small, genuine smile. “Thank you for being kind,” he said softly. His voice, though quiet, was steady, and he felt the words meant exactly what they said.

Freddie’s reaction was immediate and theatrical. He gasped, bringing a hand to his chest and leaning back slightly. “He speaks!” he cooed, clapping his hands together in delight. “Marvelous, marvelous!”

Mary rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly. “Honestly, Freddie,” she said, voice flat, “you make it sound like he just invented fire or something.”

He paid her no mind, crouching slightly so that he was at eye-level with John. “No, no, Mary. This is extraordinary! A first-year with charm, composure, and speech!” His smile was warm, playful, almost indulgent. “Now, off you go, little bookworm. Back to your carriage—your companions await. But do, please, allow me to inspect that book later. Such treasures deserve attention.”

John stepped carefully past him, back into the warmth of the carriage. Freddie gave him a little pat on the shoulder before straightening and turning to Mary with a flourish. “Really, what a delight! First-years should all be so… promising.”

Mary shook her head, though a faint smile tugged at her lips, as they followed down the corridor with the ease of those who knew Hogwarts’ rhythms well. John settled back into his seat, heart a little lighter than it had been, the faintest thrill of curiosity buzzing under the surface. For the first time since leaving home, someone had noticed him, not for trouble or inconvenience, but for who he might be.

Ten minutes kater, the train slowed with a soft screech, the rumble beneath their feet changing to a gentle, almost hesitant roll. John’s eyes followed the blur of the countryside outside the window, now darkening with the approach of evening. Steam hissed from the locomotive one last time before it hissed to a stop, and the sudden quiet made the carriage feel smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Clara and Michael had already gathered their belongings, chattering quietly, and were nudging each other toward the door. John hesitated, his hands gripping the straps of his trunk a little tighter. His robes felt enormous, swallowing him up entirely, the sleeves dragging past his wrists and the hem brushing the floor. “You’ll grow into it,” his mother’s words whispered faintly in his mind, though they felt distant, like a memory half-erased.

“Come on!” Clara called softly, glancing back over her shoulder. Michael gave him a small wave, both of them moving with the confidence of those who had rehearsed this moment a hundred times.

John swallowed, lifting the trunk with a careful effort, wobbling slightly as the weight shifted. He stumbled once, catching himself on the polished wood of the carriage wall, the wheels squeaking faintly beneath him.

“Careful, first-year,” a voice said, crisp and measured. Brian May—in prefect robes—stood nearby, eyes sharp. “Leave the case. The house-elves will take it.”

John froze. He looked down at his trunk, the scuffed corners and worn leather suddenly seeming heavier than ever. “But… I—” but Brian didn't hear.

“Really,” Brian said gently, stepping closer. “They’ll put it straight in your dormitory after you're sorted. You just follow the rest of the first-years. Trust me.”

John’s throat tightened. He gulped, staring down at the trunk as if it might suddenly sprout legs and run away. Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered it to the floor.

Before he could do anything else, a small, rustling sound came from beneath the carriage. Two tiny house-elves, their large ears twitching and eyes gleaming with efficiency, appeared from the shadows. One reached a delicate, gloved hand toward the trunk while the other muttered softly to itself, adjusting its apron.

John’s lips parted, but no words came. His hands fell to his sides. The elves lifted the trunk with surprising ease, their movements swift and practiced. It disappeared into the shadows of the train corridor, taken away with an efficiency that made John’s stomach twist in nervous awe.

He watched them go, shoulders tense, as if letting go of the trunk meant letting go of something he could never get back. The memory of his father, the smell of home, the quiet safety of his room—they all felt tied up in that case. And now it was gone.

Brian May’s hand rested lightly on John’s shoulder. “It’ll be safe,” he said, voice low but firm. “And it’ll be waiting for you. You’re okay.”

John swallowed again and nodded, though the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. He adjusted the oversized robes around his arms and followed Clara and Michael out of the carriage, stepping carefully along the platform. The cold evening air of Hogsmeade wrapped around him, sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow, even though it wasn’t quite winter yet.

Every step felt tentative. The world was new, enormous, and unfamiliar. And yet, somewhere beneath the nerves, there was a small spark of curiosity—an itch to see the castle, the magic, and perhaps, in time, to feel at home.

John stepped onto the platform. The train hissed softly behind him, letting off clouds of steam that curled into the dim, cloudy sky above. It looked as though the heavens were preparing to open, the low clouds heavy and swollen with rain, and a chill clung to the evening air. His book, safely tucked into the deep pocket of his robe, was the only possession he clung to.

Around him, first-years were gathering hesitantly, the adults and older students bustling with energy and direction, giving instructions, calling names. The crowd jostled, laughing and whispering, some clutching their trunks, others their satchels. John felt small and strange amidst the swirl of robes and voices, an observer more than a participant.

A booming voice carried over the murmur of students. “First-years! Over ‘ere! First-years, come on!”

He looked up to see an enormous figure striding toward them, wide shoulders nearly brushing the top of the platform roof. The man’s hair and beard were wild and thick, and his coat looked far too large for him, sleeves dangling past his wrists. He waved a hand in a friendly, almost clumsy manner.

John froze for a moment, unsure if he should approach. The other students were already edging forward, drawn by the sound of the voice, shuffling toward the massive man. The sheer size of him made John’s stomach tighten—he had never seen anyone so tall, so… impossibly large.

He didn’t know the name, didn’t need to. Something about the presence was undeniably kind, despite the slightly intimidating figure. The man crouched a little, as if to meet the students’ eyes, and his voice boomed again, cheerful and warm: “Over here, you lot! Don’t be shy, come on now!”

John clutched the folds of his robe, feeling the weight of it pressing him down. Without a trunk, without a satchel, he felt even more exposed, but he took a careful step forward, the book heavy in his pocket, pressed close against him like a talisman. The others were moving with him, and the path toward the water—and whatever awaited them across it—stretched wide and dark before him.

He tugged at the oversized sleeves, brushing his hands against the fabric, and followed the throng of first-years, feeling the damp chill of the evening pressing against his skin. Somewhere in the distance, the low rumble of the train faded behind him, and ahead, the mysterious figure continued to call, gesturing to the first-years like a shepherd gathering his flock.

John swallowed, tight-throated, and stepped forward. The clouds above him seemed ready to spill rain, the sky a murky, swirling gray, but somehow the moment felt alive—full of possibilities, terrifying and exhilarating at once. He clutched his book tighter, tucking it fully into the deep pocket of his robe, and moved closer to the figure, heart drumming in his chest.

The first-years were herded down a narrow path toward the edge of the lake. The water shimmered darkly beneath the gray sky, the surface rippling in the wind, and the line of small black boats waiting patiently seemed almost surreal. John’s heart hammered as he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his oversized robes, and the faint scent of rain filled the air.

He paused at the water’s edge, clutching the folds of his robe, and instinctively reached into the deep pocket he had fashioned as his own little sanctuary. The book was there, pressed snug against the wand tucked beside it. He buried them deeper, as if hiding them from the storm and the unknown together, and whispered a silent prayer. Please… let this be okay. Let me not fall in, let me survive this first night… let me be… safe.

A prefect gave a loud call, and one by one, the first-years stepped into the small, dark boats. John hesitated, then followed, placing his feet carefully on the narrow plank before letting his knees bend, sinking low. The boat rocked slightly under his weight.

He wasn’t alone. The boy sitting opposite him looked pale, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the boat with both hands. Every slight movement—John adjusting his robes, the wind pushing against the boat—sent the other boy flinching, bumping the vessel into a small wobble. “S-sorry,” the boy stammered, voice shaking. “I… I’m just—”

“It's ok,” John said softly, leaning forward slightly but keeping his voice low. The words surprised even him. He reached one hand toward the side of the boat, resting it lightly on the trembling edge. “Don’t… don’t rock i-it too much.”

The boy nodded quickly, swallowing. “I’m… scared of falling in.” His eyes darted nervously to the dark water on either side of the boat.

John’s gaze followed his own reflection in the lake, ripples distorting his image, and then returned to the boy. He squeezed his hands together in his lap, holding tight to the book and wand under his robes, buried like treasure. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I… I'm sure they won't let us actually fall i-in.” The words were quiet, but somehow solid, and he hoped the boy could feel it.

The first drops of rain began to patter against the surface of the lake, tiny taps that grew steadily heavier. John hunched a little, covering his book with one hand and pressing it closer to his chest, while the wand remained snug against it. He listened to the rhythm of the rain on the boat, the slap of water against the hull, and felt the faint, cold spray on his face.

The boy across from him shifted again, accidentally jostling the boat. “I— I’m sorry!” he stammered, eyes wide.

John let out a small sigh. “It’s alright. Just… breathe. Keep still.”

The rain fell harder now, soaking the robes and plastering hair to foreheads. The lake stretched endlessly ahead, dark and vast, but John’s fingers tightened on the book and wand, and his heart thumped fiercely in his chest. He watched his boatmate, who was now attempting to mimic his calm, and John allowed himself a small, silent hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d both make it safely to the other side.

Above, the clouds rumbled, but John focused on the narrow space of the boat, the boy opposite him, and the strange, glittering lights of Hogwarts rising in the distance. It was terrifying and new.

The boats scraped softly against the shore, and John stepped carefully onto the pebbled edge, boots slipping slightly in the slick mud. He and the other first-years were funneled toward the wide, sweeping stone steps that led up to the towering silhouette of Hogwarts. Rain still fell in a steady drizzle, soaking robes and hair, leaving everyone chilled and dripping.

John tugged the book and wand from his pocket, palms cold, and looked down at the slender piece of wood. His fingers flexed around it with a nervous but deliberate precision. Sunlight charm… he thoguht to himself, the words tasting strange on his tongue but familiar from his late-night reading and whispered practice in empty corners.

He raised the wand, murmuring the incantation carefully. A small ball of golden light appeared above the tip, warm and steady, like the sun breaking through clouds. The first glow touched the tips of his dark wavy hair, drying the strands instantly, and John allowed himself a small sigh of relief as warmth spread over his head.

He moved the wand slowly down to his shoulders, robes, and finally hands, the golden light following in soft, curling trails. The other first-years paused on the steps, staring in awe—or perhaps in irritation—at the small, radiant orb moving over John, drying him in a way they hadn’t imagined possible.

Professor McGonagall, overseeing the first-year arrivals, was walking briskly toward the group, her sharp eyes catching the sudden glow. She stopped mid-step, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. The warmth of the small sunlight ball radiated subtly across the steps, reflecting in the stone and bouncing off John’s serious, focused expression.

My word… she thought, narrowing her eyes slightly but with unmistakable admiration. Using the sunlight charm… to dry oneself? I’ve never seen that before.

Her mind raced. Points. Definitely points. She would remember this, she promised herself. Whoever this boy ended up with, that house would earn recognition for ingenuity and initiative.

A few of the other first-years, less impressed by John’s quiet diligence, murmured among themselves.

“Oi! That’s cheating!” one of them hissed, crossing his arms, eyes narrowed. “He’s a nerd!”

Another piped up, voice high and sharp. “Dry us too! Make us not wet!”

John glanced at them from beneath his soaked fringe, the golden light still trailing over his robes, and his jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t reply—he never was quick to speak when confronted—but the warmth from the charm remained steady, serene, a quiet shield of comfort.

McGonagall’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and approving. She allowed herself a tiny smile, barely perceptible, and tucked a mental note away: Whoever this boy becomes… points will be awarded. Creativity, initiative, and calm. A rare combination.

John finally lowered the wand, the sunlight orb dissipating slowly, leaving him warm, dry, and a little more composed than before. Around him, the drizzle continued, the steps glistening wet beneath their boots, but he felt a faint, steady courage building inside—a small, private triumph before the Sorting Ceremony awaited.

Professor McGonagall straightened her robes and clicked her tongue, the sharp sound carrying over the wet, echoing steps. “All first-years, follow me! Keep together, and do not dawdle.” Her voice was firm, commanding, but not unkind; there was an unmistakable edge of expectation beneath it.

The first-years shuffled behind her, stepping carefully up the glistening stone staircase. John’s oversized robes swirled around him with every movement, the sleeves dragging past his hands, but the warmth from the sunlight charm still lingered faintly against his shoulders, comforting and reassuring.

The wind tugged at the students as they ascended, a chilly breeze carrying the scent of the lake and rain, and the dark clouds above seemed to press closer. John’s hands remained tucked into his folds of robe, fingers brushing against the hidden book and wand in his pocket. He kept his head down slightly, observing the steps beneath his feet, careful not to stumble.

“Line up as I direct,” McGonagall instructed. Her sharp eyes swept over the first-years, noting who lingered, who fidgeted, and who moved quietly and deliberately. She paused at the top of the staircase, glancing back at the long, winding line of students trailing behind her.

John glanced briefly at the faces around him. Some of the other first-years whispered, nervously peering at one another; some were already wide-eyed at the distant glow of the Great Hall, lights flickering faintly in the drizzle like stars caught in the stone. A few muttered about the rain, their hair plastered to their foreheads, robes dripping. But John’s attention remained partly on the book in his pocket, partly on the way McGonagall moved with effortless authority.

“Keep moving,” she said sharply, and the first-years obeyed, forming a single, winding line along the broad corridor. The echo of their boots and the soft slap of wet robes against the stone walls created a steady rhythm. John’s stomach tightened slightly, anticipation and nerves mingling in equal measure.

The entrance to the Great Hall opened ahead, vast and dimly lit, the ceiling enchanted to mirror the stormy sky outside. John’s heart skipped. He could see the long tables, stretching far ahead, and the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the polished floor. For a moment, the weight of the day, the loss, the uncertainty, seemed to lift slightly in awe of the space.

McGonagall paused at the doorway, eyes sweeping over the students one last time. “Remember, first-years,” she said, voice firm, “courage, respect, and composure. Now, enter the Great Hall in order, quietly and carefully. The Sorting Ceremony awaits.”

John took a careful step forward, following the line of students, oversized robes swishing around him. His book and wand pressed close to his chest, a private anchor in the strange, glittering new world. The other first-years whispered nervously among themselves, but he kept his focus, scanning the tables and ceiling in awe, heart pounding with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a faint thrill of anticipation.

The doors swung fully open, and the first-years were funneled into the wide, candle-lit hall. John’s eyes widened at the sheer scale: the enchanted ceiling above, reflecting the storm outside; the long tables lined with older students; the gleaming Sorting Hat perched on its stool at the far end. The air smelled faintly of roasting meats and the faint tang of magic, and John’s fingers tightened reflexively around the hidden book.

McGonagall’s gaze met his briefly, sharp and assessing, before she began directing the students toward the Sorting Hat. “Form by the stool. Remember, calm and steady. You will be sorted in alphabetical order. Follow instructions.”

The Sorting Hat stirred as the students gathered. It twitched, shifted slightly, and then opened its mouth in song, its deep, scratchy voice filling the Great Hall.

“Oh, you may not think I’m wise,

Though I’ve seen centuries rise,

Many a mind I’ve peered within,

To sort the hearts, the weak, the kin…”

The hat’s song rambled on, winding and melodic, listing traits, histories, and philosophies of the four houses. It spoke of courage, cunning, loyalty, and learning, each line carrying the weight of tradition and expectation.

John, however, hardly listened. His eyes roamed the vast hall instead, taking in the long tables, the flickering candlelight, the stars twinkling faintly on the enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall was enormous—bigger than he had imagined from any description or sketch. It almost felt unreal.

He counted, quietly in his mind. First-years would be sorted into houses. Each class tended to combine two houses, he remembered from his reading. Around fifteen students per house, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. That meant nearly sixty first-years in total for this year, he estimated.

The Sorting Ceremony moved steadily, names called in order from the registers, last name first. John’s surname began with a D—Deacon—but he had been watching as one by one, students whose names preceded his were called. He fidgeted slightly on the stool, oversized robes swishing around his knees, dark wavy hair falling over his eyes.

The letters “D” passed, and still no one called him. A faint crease appeared between his brows, a soft frown tugging at his lips. Am I being missed? he wondered, though the thought was quiet, tentative, almost imperceptible.

Finally, McGonagall’s sharp, precise voice cut through the quiet murmurs of the hall. “John… Deacon.” The register had the names last-first, so his names were the wrong way around.

John blinked and stood carefully, the extra length of his robes tripping him slightly as he moved toward the stool. He caught whispers as he passed the seated first-years and older students: comments about his long hair, murmurs of curiosity or mild astonishment.

He ignored them, as he always had. Words carried little weight in a room full of strangers. The only weight he felt was the cold, polished stool beneath him as he lowered himself carefully, folding his hands in his lap, keeping the book and wand safe in the deep pocket of his robes.

The Sorting Hat settled over his head with a soft, almost imperceptible shift, and then the familiar voice spoke in his mind, low and ancient, brimming with centuries of wisdom and curiosity.

“Ah… a… unusual,” the Hat murmured, its voice deep, resonant, and echoing directly in his thoughts. “Yes… yes, so many fragments… pieces of memory… so much… loss.”

John flinched slightly, instinctively drawing the book and wand closer in his pocket. He didn’t speak back. He couldn’t.

The Sorting Hat hesitated. “Curious… clever… a desire to know… but scattered, drifting. So much potential… but… oh, there is fear, yes, fear of belonging… fear of connection… without others, your ambition cannot flourish… yet you hunger for it.”

It paused, its brim twitching, as if unsure how to continue. The centuries-old voice, used to making immediate judgments, seemed… unsettled.

“You have loyalty… kindness… patience… but they are mixed with uncertainty, with fragility. I can see flashes of courage, yes… sparks of cleverness, curiosity… yet the mind is fading… pieces lost, slipping away…”

There was a long silence, and then the Sorting Hat’s voice rose slightly, projecting outward for the first time.

“Professor McGonagall!” it called aloud, and the students around John murmured in shock, turning toward the voice emanating from the strange, magical hat. “This one… I cannot place! I cannot determine the house without guidance! His mind is… fragmented… he needs direction, support, someone to see him, to guide him… I cannot choose alone!”

Gasps ran through the hall. Whispers spread like wildfire. The Sorting Hat has never done that before… it’s never spoken to a teacher directly…

John’s face flushed deeply. His hands gripped his oversized robes, the book and wand pressing into his chest. He felt all eyes on him. The weight of the students’ stares, the unspoken scrutiny, pressed down on him. Shame pooled in his stomach, curling tightly around his ribs.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. She stepped forward quickly, her robes swishing with authority, and bent slightly to speak directly to the Sorting Hat.

“You want me to… help?” she asked aloud, though the tone was gentle, careful, commanding.

“Yes!” the Hat replied instantly. “His mind is… lost. I cannot… I cannot discern fully.”

McGonagall hesitated, then made a decision. She removed her own hat—the plain, pointed witch’s hat—and placed the Sorting Hat carefully upon her head, the familiar weight sitting snugly over her own. The hall fell silent, the students craning their necks, whispering, eyes wide.

Never has this been done before, the murmurs floated around the room. The Hat… on McGonagall?

John sat frozen on the stool, head bowed slightly, ears hot, unable to look at anyone. His hands pressed into the folds of his robes, book and wand still secure in the pocket, trying not to tremble.

The Sorting Hat’s voice spoke directly into McGonagall’s mind now, calm and patient but insistent.

“He is… fragile. Pieces of memory are slipping, fading. He hides behind books, knowledge… yet he is not fully present. Loyalty and kindness dominate his instincts, but he fears connection, fears being seen. He cannot achieve ambition without others, yet he desperately wishes to belong. He has the mind to do great things, but he needs guidance. His house alone will not suffice; he requires care, support, structure.”

McGonagall’s gaze hardened, resolve settling over her. He needs someone to notice, to nurture him. Hufflepuff… yes. But I will speak to the head of house. They will help him. He must not be lost in his own fear.

She removed the Sorting Hat from her head and held it carefully in her hands. Her eyes, sharp and commanding, swept over the first-years. John’s gaze remained on the stone floor, the blush still burning in his cheeks.

“John, Deacon,” she said clearly, voice calm but firm. “You will be in… Hufflepuff.”

The words hung in the hall. They were not binding, just an initial decision—enough to place him safely, but with room to revisit if the boy needed it. The other first-years whispered again, some in awe, some curious, but John only exhaled quietly, relief and embarrassment mingling in a tight knot in his chest.

McGonagall made a private note to herself: she would speak to the Hufflepuff head of house immediately after the ceremony. John would need help, guidance, someone who could understand his fragmented mind, and who could ensure he had a place where he could grow safely.

The Sorting Hat, now back on its stool, twitched its brim as if satisfied—or at least relieved. The hall returned to its usual hum, though all eyes remained subtly drawn to the boy whose mind had challenged even the centuries of wisdom held within the enchanted hat.

John lowered himself carefully from the stool, shoulders tight, cheeks still hot, and walked toward the Hufflepuff table. Each step felt both heavy and necessary, a strange combination of exposure and cautious relief.

The first-years sitting along the table leaned forward, craning their necks to get a better look. Most were bright-eyed, energetic, and eager to engage, chattering among themselves as they watched him approach. John’s hair fell into his eyes, shielding him slightly, and he kept his gaze low.

They seemed to assume he was… different. Mute, perhaps. No one heard him speak. No one tried pressing too hard, but they were insistent.

“Hi!” a girl with curly hair said brightly, nudging the other boy next to her. “I’m Lila. What’s your name?”

John didn’t answer. He only slid onto the bench beside her, careful not to knock over his robes.

Another first-year, a boy with round glasses and a wide smile, leaned over. “Don’t be shy! We can explore the castle together, my brother told me the best way to sneak extra pudding—”

Again, no response. John’s hands folded in his lap, resting lightly on the folds of his robes. The whispers continued, curious but cautious.

Nearby, a fifth-year prefect—his wand at the ready, robes impeccable—sat at the table, giving John a gentle, expectant smile. She nudged him lightly. “You’re Hufflepuff now, yes? Don’t worry, everyone’s nervous their first night. Why not try talking to us?”

John shifted slightly, tugging the book from the deep pocket of his robes and opening it on his lap instead. He began to read, eyes scanning the pages intently. The energy around him—the chatter, the whispers, the stares—seemed to recede slightly when he focused on the words.

The other first-years, extroverted and curious, leaned closer. “He’s reading already!” whispered one. “He must be smart! Look at him!”

Another waved at him. “Hey, what’s that you’re reading?”

John only flipped a page and murmured softly to himself, almost inaudibly, lost in the text. The book became his shield, a small island of calm in the sea of curiosity and attention.

Food appeared magically on the long tables: platters of bread, fruit, roasted vegetables, and meats, steaming in the warm air of the hall. Several first-years nudged their trays toward him, smiling. “You’ve got to eat! It’s… it’s the first night, you need energy.”

John glanced at the food for a moment, then pressed a finger to the corner of the book, holding it close. The prefect leaned slightly closer, offering a piece of bread. “It’s alright if you don’t want to eat yet. Just… take your time.”

The other first-years continued whispering excitedly among themselves, watching him as if trying to figure him out. “I bet he’s a genius!” one said. “Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe he’s… special.”

John, for his part, remained largely silent, eyes on the book, lips pressed in a thin line. The chatter around him didn’t reach him in the same way it reached the others. Occasionally he glanced up briefly, noting who was speaking or moving, but his focus stayed on the pages.

Even the whispers, the stares, the rare clatter of a plate or spoon—it all faded to the background as he read, as if the book created a bubble of calm and order that nothing else could penetrate.

For now, he did not speak. He did not need to. The words on the pages, the soft glow of the candlelight, and the rhythm of the hall around him were enough.

Down near the middle of the Great Hall, Freddie leaned casually across the aisle, his wild, fluffy hair falling just enough to shadow his face, robes rumpled in his usual stylishly reckless way. He nudged Mary lightly with his elbow, earning a small, exaggerated eye-roll, and whispered toward Brian May, who sat in Ravenclaw robes across the aisle.

“Brian, honestly,” Freddie said softly, voice dripping with amusement, “have you seen that odd first-year yet?”

Brian adjusted his glasses, tilting his head toward Freddie with a faint smile. “I have. Actually… I met him. The quiet long haired one. He’s… reserved, to say the least. Refused to leave his trunk on the train at first, clinging to it like it was some life raft.”

Freddie’s lips quirked into a grin. “Ah yes… I’ve spoken to him. After that blond boy—Roger, yes?—the one who kept pranking people last year and got moved down a year… he bumped into John, and the boy didn’t even flinch. Didn’t react at all.”

Brian groaned softly, leaning back. “Please don’t tell me you fussed over the poor boy.”

His grin widened into a mock pout. “You know I did! What else was I to do? I mean, honestly… naturally, I had to step in.” He tapped a finger on his chin theatrically. “Anyway, I vouched for Ravenclaw. Or tried to, I suppose. I guess I misjudged.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “So you did… fuss over him?” His tone was exasperated, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if holding back a smile.

Freddie wagged a finger. “Well, yes! But—brace yourself—he spoke!” He leaned closer, whispering theatrically. “He did, truly. Tiny mutters to me, very proper, very polite. Said ‘thank you for being kind.’”

Brian blinked. “He did? Really?” He leaned back, arms crossed, staring down toward the small, silent figure hunched over his book. “Right now he looks… rather mute.”

“He did!” Freddie insisted, nudging Mary with a flourish. “Mary can vouch for me.”

Mary sighed, putting her fork down for emphasis. “I can’t believe you’re at the Hufflepuff table. You’re supposed to be sat with your own house on the first day.”

Freddie tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I am a Slytherin, dear. And—so far—no one has told me off. Clearly, there is much leniency for style, yes?” He brushed a hand through his hair, letting the floppy waves fall into perfect disarray.

Brian raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward, prefect badge glinting under the flickering candlelight. He opened his mouth, clearly about to scold.

The slightly older boy held up a single hand, wagging a finger as if issuing a final, delicate command. “Ah ah, Brizie. We don’t tattle on friends now, do we?” His tone was gentle but firm, playfully admonishing, and Mary rolled her eyes again, muttering under her breath.

Brian hesitated, lips pursed, then let out a soft laugh. “You're lucky I like you."

Freddie grinned, leaning back into his seat, eyes flicking toward John again. The boy’s dark hair hung over his eyes, hands folded over the thick book in his lap. The soft glow from the candles reflected faintly on the pages, illuminating John’s focused expression.

“He’s… different,” Brian said quietly, voice low. “You can see it, can’t you? Something about him… quiet, careful. Observant. But it’s more than that.”

“Exactly!” Freddie whispered, tilting his head, a hand under his chin in exaggerated thought. “He reads, he observes, he doesn’t react unless it’s worth reacting to… but I tell you, Brizie, there’s fire under that calm. Mark my words.”

Mary shook her head, sighing again, but the corner of her lips betrayed a small smile. “You’re hopeless. First day, already scheming for someone else’s attention.”

Freddie gave her a sly grin. “Merely… appreciating talent, dear. One cannot ignore brilliance, even if it is quiet brilliance. And this one,” he added, eyes flicking to John again, “is most certainly brilliant. Just… very, very discreet.”

Brian leaned back in his seat, shaking his head slightly, but his eyes never left the small figure in the corner of the hall. “He’ll be… interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. “If he ever talks.”

Freddie clapped his hands softly, eyes glittering. “He did talk! And that, my friend, is enough for now. Let him read in peace, and we’ll watch the magic happen.”

The three of them watched quietly across the table, observing John—silent, immersed in his book, oblivious to the whispers, the stares, and the unprecedented attention his Sorting Hat episode had generated.

Chapter Text

After the last clatter of cutlery, a hush fell over the Great Hall. The candles seemed to glow a little brighter, and at the far end, Dumbledore rose from his seat. His long robes shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and his half-moon spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He raised a hand, and the murmurs of the students subsided.

“Welcome,” he began, voice gentle but firm, “to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Remember—though the world outside these walls is wide and wonderful, there are places within our grounds that are… restricted. The Forbidden Forest, as you know, is forbidden. Do not wander there. The creatures within are not to be trifled with.”

A few students murmured nervously, glancing at the dark ceiling, imagining shadowed trees stretching endlessly beyond the castle walls.

“And,” he continued, eyes twinkling with faint mischief, “the dungeons, too, can be a perilous place for the unprepared. A maze, indeed. Those who stray without guidance may find themselves wandering endlessly, and learning… patience in ways not intended.”

John frowned, leaning slightly forward in his chair, dark curls brushing his temples. Did he really just use magic to make his eyes twinkle? The thought flitted through his mind with both awe and skepticism, making his frown deepen.

Dumbledore’s voice softened and brightened at the same time. “But, remember—courage, curiosity, and kindness are the greatest spells of all. Let them guide you through this year, and let them shine even in the darkest corners of the world.”

He lowered his hand, and with a few swift motions, returned to his seat, robes flowing gracefully behind him. The Great Hall erupted into quiet whispers again, first-years trading amazed looks.

“First-years, rise,” a prefect’s voice called. John obediently stood, feeling the pull of the oversized robes around his knees. His book and wand remained tucked safely in his pocket, a small anchor in the swell of anticipation and nerves.

The line of first-years followed their guides, fifth-year prefects at their side, toward the Hogwarts basement. The air grew cooler, the polished stone beneath their feet echoing each step. They passed a large painting of a pear—bright green, comically round, staring at them with painted indifference.

“Tickle it,” one prefect said with a grin. “That’s where the kitchens are.”

A first-year eagerly stepped forward, but the prefects immediately stopped them. “Not quite,” one said, shaking a finger. “You don’t want to learn the hard way.”

The line moved on, winding past barrels, stacked tins, and shelves that looked more like storage than an entrance to any magical space. The prefects stopped in front of two barrels, larger than the others, worn smooth from years of use.

“The password,” the prefect instructed, “is tapping on the barrels in the right sequence and saying—loudly—‘Honey Badger.’” They demonstrated once, their hands landing lightly on each barrel.

John’s lips twitched in a faint scoff. Honey Badger, he thought, tugging at the thought in his mind. He’d read about this in his book, surprisingly detailed, mentioning the kitchens and the same password. Same password… unchanged for centuries? He could feel a tiny smile tug at the corner of his lips, amused and skeptical.

The other first-years murmured nervously, some attempting to follow along, tapping the barrels experimentally. A few mistimed their taps, and one unlucky first-year yelped as a small splash of vinegar erupted from a hidden spout, dousing robes and drawing a few gasps and suppressed giggles.

John waited patiently, watching the sequence demonstrated once more. He adjusted his robes slightly, oversized sleeves flopping over his hands, and followed the prefects’ instructions precisely, internalizing the rhythm of the taps. He didn’t laugh at the mishap in front of him; it didn’t feel like his place. He was careful, observant, and ready to get it right.

The line moved forward, and John’s mind flickered briefly to the warmth of the kitchens beyond the barrels, imagining the smell of fresh bread, the soft chatter of house-elves, and the steady calm of a place prepared for those who followed the rules. The thought made him feel marginally safer, a small comfort in a world that still felt immense, strange, and slightly overwhelming.

The moment the door swung open for him, a wave of warmth and soft light washed over him, and he paused, blinking against the contrast to the damp, gray corridors.

The Hufflepuff common room was… different from what he had imagined. Round, low-ceilinged, and cozy, it felt almost like a hobbit’s hole. Burnished copper fittings gleamed faintly in the soft glow of hanging copper lamps, while honey-colored wood formed walls, floorboards, and low shelves laden with books, plants, and curious little trinkets. The scent of earth and fresh herbs lingered, faint but unmistakable, filling the space with calm.

Circular windows dotted the walls, some showing glimpses of the stormy sky outside, and a gentle light filtered through, casting golden patterns across the patchwork quilts draped over very inviting sofas. Beanbags were scattered around for casual sitting, and a few students lounged with mugs of steaming tea or hot chocolate, chatting quietly. The whole room radiated warmth and comfort—a place meant to be lived in, not just walked through.

John’s gaze darted around, noting the details, committing each to memory: the copper lamp above a corner table with potted plants, the shelves of herbology books, the carefully tended indoor plants climbing in corners and across windowsills. Pomona Sprout, he thought after seeing a note pinned on one shelf. Head of house, younger than the other teachers… probably still in her twenties. She loves plants… herbology. Makes sense.

The prefects gestured to the circular doors set into the walls. “The dorms are through here,” one said. “Each door leads to a mini common room for the year. From there, you’ll find three sleeping dorms, each with three students this year. Hufflepuff is surprisingly low in numbers, so you’ll all have space to settle.”

John stepped toward the first dorm door, oversized robes brushing against the polished floor, and hesitated for a moment. The first-year common room beyond the door was small but comfortable, cozy and bright in its own way, with small rugs on the floor and another set of patchwork quilts folded neatly on sofas. The three doors leading to the dorms each bore a small plaque with the name of the student.

He went first to the dorm with the name that should have been his—John, Deacon. The door opened easily. Inside, a small, cozy room with three beds, neatly made, stared back at him. One bed was stacked with clothes, another with books and a plush owl, the third, forth and fifth were empty. He scanned quickly, but there was no sign of his trunk.

His stomach twisted slightly. Not here…

He moved to the next dorm, heart thumping faster. Empty beds, one small chest near the corner, but nothing with his name. Nothing he recognized.

Finally, the third dorm, and again—no trunk. Only five neat beds, each unclaimed by someone named John, Deacon, or anything resembling him.

A flush of panic rose in his chest. His mind raced. First, my name was called wrong… then the Sorting Hat struggled… and now… my trunk is missing. Where is it?

He swallowed hard, fumbling slightly with the folds of his oversized robes. Every step he had taken since boarding the train, every careful move, every attempt to remain unnoticed, seemed to converge into this single, disorienting moment. His heart beat faster, and his fingers curled around the thick fabric of his book inside his pocket.

He glanced back toward the mini common room where the prefects were still guiding the other first-years, but no one seemed to notice his growing distress. What if it got lost in transit? What if… He shook his head, trying to steady himself. He was already anxious, already carrying too many uncertainties: a fading memory of home, the weight of grief, the strange feeling of being so new in this enormous world. And now the one possession that felt like an anchor—the trunk with clothes, books, and small comforts—was missing.

John stepped back into the main common room, eyes darting around at the soft, warm glow, the patchwork quilts, the plants, the inviting corners. He could see a few first-years laughing quietly on the sofas, and the sight made him feel even smaller, more conspicuous.

He swallowed, drawing a shaky breath, pressing a hand over the pocket that held his book and wand. They were small comforts, but they felt like the only solid things in the world right now.

Please… don’t lose me too, he thought quietly, staring at the floorboards and the warm copper light above. Please… just… let me settle somewhere safe.

For a moment, he considered raising his hand to call a prefect over, but the thought of speaking, of drawing attention to himself again, made his throat tighten. Instead, he hunched slightly, tucking the book closer to his chest, and scanned the room once more, trying to find something familiar, anything he could anchor himself to.

And yet, as comforting as the room was, as welcoming as the space seemed, the absence of the trunk—the one piece of his past he could hold onto—made the room feel larger, emptier, and somehow even more daunting.

John had found a quiet corner near one of the round windows in the main common room, oversized robes draping around his knees, dark hair falling in loose waves over his eyes. He stayed there, tucked into the curve of the wall and the soft beanbags, watching as students filtered in from the dorms and the kitchen. Some laughed and chatted quietly, others moved more cautiously, looking around to get a feel for the warm, honey-colored room. The copper lamps above glowed softly, casting gentle light over the low ceiling, shelves of potted plants, and the patchwork quilts draped over sofas. It was late, and yet the common room had a comforting hum of life, a quiet rhythm that contrasted with the overwhelming noise of the castle’s corridors earlier in the day.

John didn’t speak. He didn’t move much, only observing. His hands rested over the deep pocket of his robes, fingers brushing against the book and wand tucked safely inside. Around him, first-years murmured to one another, some whispering about the day, others gossiping about the Sorting Hat ceremony that had left the hall buzzing.

A sudden ripple of talk passed through the room. “Where’s Professor Sprout? She’s late again, isn’t she?” one student whispered to another. A few others nodded, exchanging glances that were a mix of curiosity and impatience.

The chatter hushed as a soft but authoritative voice echoed through the warm, cozy space. “Good evening, everyone.”

Heads turned. A young woman stepped into the glow of the copper lamps, carrying herself with quiet confidence. Her robes were dark green, trimmed with faint gold embroidery, and her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands curling at her temples. Her eyes swept across the room, immediately settling for a fraction of a second on John, huddled in the corner. He instinctively pulled his knees closer, sinking slightly lower into the beanbag as her gaze lingered.

“Ah,” she said warmly, though her voice held a subtle authority, “You all look lovely.” She paused, scanning the group, smiling faintly as a few students giggled nervously at the warmth in her tone. “I am Pomona Sprout, for those of you who don't know. Here at Hogwarts, in the common rooms and in private, you may call me Pomona. But in class… I am Professor Sprout. My job is to teach you, yes, but also to maintain order. I must keep up appearances, after all, despite being a Hufflepuff myself.” A ripple of laughter went through the room at that, light and easy, and a few students smiled broadly at her gentle teasing.

She moved slowly down the circle of first-years, voice low but clear. “I am new to this role myself,” she said softly, “though you will find I am quite fond of plants and people alike. Hogwarts is a large and wonderful place, but it can be overwhelming at first. That is why we have systems in place to help you settle. You may ask for an older-year buddy—someone you can turn to, learn from, and make friends with across houses and years. And older years, please tell me if you wish to be that support for someone. She gestured around the room, eyes twinkling faintly behind her spectacles.

She dismissed the older-year students gently, allowing them to drift back toward the sofas and tables for a few moments. “Now,” she said, voice firm but kind, “first-years, come closer. Everyone, please. And yes… even you in the corner.” Her gaze flicked to John again. He hesitated, then slowly rose, oversized robes brushing the floor as he edged toward the group. Each step felt heavy, measured, and small, but he kept his eyes down, absorbing the warmth and the low, friendly energy of the circle.

Pomona smiled, nodding encouragingly as he joined the other first-years. She reached into a satchel she carried and handed out their timetables, one by one. John’s was last, and when he took it, he noticed immediately: his name was printed backward. John, Deacon? he muttered quietly in his head, lips pressed into a thin line. His heart gave a small, anxious squeeze, but he didn’t say anything aloud. He simply held the parchment carefully, scanning the neatly printed schedule.

“Your timetables will tell you when to go to each class,” Pomona said, gesturing toward the pages. “But don’t worry too much if you forget. You have your buddy, and you will be shown the way. Pay attention, be curious, and ask questions. The castle is… older than you can imagine, and it has a tendency to hide its secrets in the most unexpected places.”

John glanced around at the other first-years, some of whom were laughing quietly, comparing schedules and whispering excitedly. He stayed still, hands wrapped around his timetable, oversized sleeves brushing the edges. A quiet bubble of calm formed around him, aided by the warmth of the room and the steady, gentle presence of Pomona.

“Once you’ve had a moment with your timetable, you may settle in,” Pomona continued. “Take a look around, unpack what you have, and if you feel uncertain or lost, remember—the buddy system is there for you. And I will be checking in with each of you individually in the coming days.”

She gave a final smile, eyes twinkling faintly as she looked over the first-years. “Now, go. Explore, settle, and make yourselves comfortable. Hogwarts is your home for the year.”

The group began to disperse, quietly buzzing with energy and nervous excitement. John returned to his corner, slightly closer to the beanbag he had claimed, keeping the timetable carefully tucked in one hand. The oversized robes continued to swallow him, the dark hair falling over his face, shielding him from direct attention.

Even as other first-years laughed and began to unpack or chat with one another, John stayed largely silent, absorbing the environment: the honey-colored wood, the copper lamps, the patchwork quilts, and the quiet encouragement of Pomona Sprout’s presence. Everything felt warm and safe… but the backward name on the timetable, the missing trunk, the mistakes earlier in the day—all pressed against the edges of his mind, a small, tight knot of unease he wasn’t ready to release just yet.

Hours had passed in quiet solitude. John stayed curled up in his corner of the Hufflepuff common room, oversized robes draping awkwardly around him, dark hair shielding his face. The low, warm light from the copper lamps cast gentle shadows across the round room, highlighting the soft patches of quilts and the green leaves of potted plants scattered about. It was now past one in the morning.

Sleep was elusive. He couldn’t go to the dorms—not knowing which bed belonged to him made every step feel impossible. His trunk was still missing, and the uncertainty gnawed at him like a quiet, insistent storm. The uniform, freshly donned but too large, itched at his skin and made curling up comfortably a challenge. Still, he tried. He tucked his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, attempting to coax his mind into the rhythm of rest.

The castle was largely silent, though the occasional creak of stone and distant murmur of other students moving about reminded him he was not completely alone. The ticking of his thoughts mingled with the distant, gentle sighs of Hogwarts itself.

At three in the morning, a sudden noise—a cautious footstep, a soft shuffle of robes—cut through the quiet. An older student, cloak askew, hair messy from whatever late-night escapade had brought him wandering the halls, stopped short upon seeing John curled in the corner.

The older student’s eyes widened, and for the first time, even his usual cheekiness faltered. He took a careful step forward, lowering his voice. “Hey… what are you doing out here?”

John’s head snapped up instinctively, dark eyes meeting the stranger’s.

“Hang on,” the older student said quickly, voice softer now, more uncertain. “I’ll… I’ll get a head of house.”

John’s brow furrowed slightly, processing the words. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. His hands tightened around the folds of his oversized robes, and the book and wand in his pocket felt like the only tangible anchors in the room.

The student crouched slightly, trying to mask both surprise and embarrassment. “McGonagall alright with you?” he whispered, as if confirming a secret. Then he laughed softly, the sound low but genuine. “She’s prowling around in her cat form tonight, pretending not to notice me because she’s fed up of being awake on the first night.”

John’s gaze sharpened, and he stored the information carefully in his mind. McGonagall is a cat animagus… he noted quietly, folding it away as something useful, something to remember.

The older student straightened, brushing down his robes. He gave John a faint, apologetic smile, as if sensing the weight of the boy’s exhaustion and unease. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’m… I’m going. She’ll sort this out.”

With that, he stepped back toward the door, casting a final glance at John curled in the corner, and then slipped quietly back into the corridors of the castle, leaving only the soft glow of the copper lamps and the gentle rustle of the common room around the boy.

John exhaled softly, pressing his face into his knees again. The knowledge of McGonagall’s cat form lingered in his thoughts, curious and strange, but also grounding in its own way—a small, tangible secret about the wider magical world. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, though sleep remained distant.

He stayed curled there, waiting, listening, mind carefully cataloging everything—the warmth, the shadows, the distant echoes of the castle at night. 

The older student returned moments later, and behind him moved a familiar figure—Professor McGonagall, her robes slightly disheveled from prowling the corridors earlier, her face more serious than John had ever seen it. Her eyes swept the common room, landing immediately on the small figure curled into the corner. For the briefest instant, John felt the weight of her gaze—half worry, half the suspicion of misbehavior.

“Good night,” the older student murmured, giving John a small nod before slipping back into the corridor, carefully avoiding the watchful eyes of McGonagall. He disappeared into the dorms without further incident, leaving John alone with the professor.

McGonagall knelt slightly, adjusting her robes to come closer to John’s level, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the beanbag he’d claimed. “Mr. John,” she said softly, though her voice carried the authority that made it clear she was accustomed to commanding attention, “why are you out of your dorm at this hour? You should be sleeping.”

John looked up at her, dark eyes wide and wary. He didn’t speak at first. She studied him for a moment, her expression shifting subtly—concern blending with exasperation. Is he misbehaving? she thought, unsure whether the boy’s silence was willful or a symptom of something deeper.

After a few long seconds, she repeated, firmer this time, “You need to go to sleep in the dorms. Stop being silly, now.”

John’s voice was barely audible, a soft whisper into the night. “I… can’t.”

McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “Why can’t you? Are you feeling ill, home sick?” Her tone softened slightly, but the underlying assumption was clear: this was a boy being stubborn, a first-year resisting order.

He shook his head, pressing his hands into his robes, trying to keep them from trembling. His throat felt tight, a lump forming as frustration, fear, and exhaustion pressed against his chest. Everything felt like it was going wrong—the wrong name, the missing trunk, the impossible hours, the overwhelming size of the castle, the impossibility of finding a bed to call his own. A quiet, desperate thought flickered through his mind: Maybe I should have stayed home. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here at all.

McGonagall continued, unaware of the depth of his unease. “Mr. John… it is simple. You just go to the dorm. That is all. Sleep in your bed, and all will be well in the morning.”

John’s voice trembled as he muttered, barely audible even to himself: “My… name’s wrong.”

She paused, finally tilting her head, concern sharpening in her eyes. “Your name…?” she repeated, her voice gentler now, curiosity and worry threading through it.

John didn’t answer further, only lowered his gaze, pressing his hands tighter around his knees. The lump in his throat grew, a small, suffocating knot of frustration and helplessness. Everything that was supposed to be familiar—sleeping in a bed, having his trunk nearby, being called correctly—was out of place. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly alone in the warm, inviting room that others found so comforting.

She studied him closely, recognizing finally that this wasn’t ordinary first-year resistance. Something deeper was at work, something that required care, patience, and attention. She softened her tone even further, crouching slightly more so her eyes met his.

“What’s your name then?” she asked gently, her voice careful, measured.

“J-John… Deacon,” he muttered, voice trembling slightly, the stutter betraying how tightly wound he felt inside.

“Oh,” she said, nodding slowly, a soft smile touching her lips to ease the tension. “So it’s been accidentally flipped. No problem, we’ll sort it out. Is there anything else that’s wrong?”

John nodded quickly, pressing his hands tighter against his oversized robes. “My… suitcase… it’s not here.” His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of his panic.

McGonagall’s brow furrowed, a flicker of unease crossing her normally composed features. That’s… unusual, she thought. House-elves were usually meticulous, and a first-year’s trunk disappearing had never been reported to her knowledge. Her frown deepened. “Did you bring it on the train?"

John nodded again, eyes wide, hands gripping the folds of his robes. “I… I saw the house-elves take it.”

“It should be here then,” she said, her voice steady but carrying a hint of tension. She paused, tilting her head slightly as she considered the situation. “It should be here.”

But her uncertainty, subtle though it was, hit John like a wave. His chest tightened. He swallowed hard, feeling panic curl in his stomach. Everything was going wrong—the wrong name, the Sorting Hat struggling with him, and now this, the thing that had always been his anchor in new places, his trunk with familiar clothes, books, and small comforts—gone, at least for the moment.

He pressed himself slightly further into the corner, oversized robes flopping awkwardly around him, and let his gaze drop to the floor. The warmth of the Hufflepuff common room, the soft glow of the copper lamps, the inviting patchwork quilts—all of it felt distant, unreal, overshadowed by the gnawing uncertainty in his chest.

McGonagall knelt a little closer, her sharp eyes softening as she tried to gauge his panic. “It’s alright, John,” she said, her voice calm but firm, a thread of reassurance woven through it. “We’ll find your trunk. You did everything right—you followed instructions, you were careful on the train… nothing here is your fault.”

But John’s thoughts raced faster than words could form. It should be here. It should be simple. But nothing is simple. I don’t even know my bed. My name is wrong. The Sorting Hat… it… it struggled… maybe I shouldn’t be here at all.

He shook his head slightly, a subtle motion, but one that carried the weight of his fear and exhaustion. The lump in his throat grew, pressing painfully as the panic twisted further.

McGonagall’s gaze never left him. She reached out, lightly touching his shoulder—not in a way that commanded, but that grounded him. “We’ll fix this, John. Step by step. First, we’ll get you to your dorm. Then we’ll locate your trunk. Everything else can wait until morning. You’re safe here.”

John looked up at her, the quiet desperation in his dark eyes meeting the steady calm of her own. His lips parted slightly, almost to speak, but no words came. He simply nodded, a tiny, fragile motion of trust—and relief that someone understood, even if only a little.

She exhaled softly, straightened slightly, and gave him a gentle nod. “Alright, then. Let’s go find your bed. It’s late, and you need to rest. Together, we’ll make sure you have your things and a proper place to sleep. Can you do that for me?”

John swallowed hard, clutching his book and wand a little tighter, but he managed a faint, almost imperceptible nod. He rose slowly, oversized robes swishing around his ankles, and followed her cautiously toward the dorms.

McGonagall led John from the main Hufflepuff common room, her robes brushing lightly against the polished stone walls. The glow from the low copper lamps above illuminated the way, casting a warm, golden light across the curved steps. John followed closely, oversized robes brushing around his knees, book and wand tucked safely into his pocket, movements careful, tentative.

“You’ll find your dorms through these doors,” McGonagall said despite John already knowing that fact. Her voice was soft but firm, the tone carefully measured to soothe without patronizing. “Now… I understand it may have been confusing with the extra beds. They’re usually five per dorm, but this year we only have nine hufflepuff first-years. The extras will vanish by tomorrow. I’m sorry it made it harder for you to identify which bed is yours.”

John’s eyes widened slightly at the thought—extra beds vanishing? He nodded faintly, still silent, but pressed his hands tighter over his book. The idea was curious, though hardly comforting in the moment.

They stopped in front of the first circular door, polished wood curving smoothly around the arch. McGonagall straightened and looked down at him. “Now, John, you can pick any of the three free beds. Two are already occupied.” She gestured toward the small, cozy room beyond the door. “Remember, it’s usually three students per dorm for first-years, but as I said, the extra beds are standard… just left over from previous years. Don’t worry about them. They’re not meant to be used this year.”

John glanced inside. The room was small but inviting: three neatly made beds on one side, each with patchwork quilts folded over the edges, a small trunk at the foot of each, and a little space to move around. Against the opposite wall were two extra beds, unoccupied, their quilts perfectly folded. A small rug covered the floor, and the low, warm light cast soft shadows across the space.

Two of the beds were already taken. 

McGonagall crouched slightly again, meeting John’s eyes. “Go ahead,” she said gently. “Pick one of the free beds. Any of them will do. It doesn’t matter which. You’ll have space to make it your own.”

John shifted, oversized robes flopping around his legs, eyes flicking from bed to bed. The two extras in the corner seemed… strange, too large for the room, the quilts overhanging the edges in a way that made them look imposing. His gaze settled finally on the bed nearest the window. Carefully, he stepped forward, hands tucked over the book and wand in his pocket, and lowered himself onto the mattress, pressing the quilt lightly around him.

McGonagall’s lips curved in a small, approving smile. “Good. That’s perfect. You’ve chosen wisely.” She straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll make sure the extra beds are dealt with tomorrow so it doesn’t confuse anyone. For tonight… this will be your space. Safe, comfortable, and just for you.”

John nodded faintly, still silent, eyes tracing the warm, cozy lines of the room—the low ceiling, the soft rugs, the patchwork quilts. It was small, but it was his corner of the world here.

McGonagall glanced at the other two sleeping first-years, then back at him. “If you need anything tonight, don’t hesitate to ask. And… we’ll locate your trunk as soon as possible. Everything will be sorted, I promise. For now, try to rest. The day was long, and tomorrow will be full of new things.”

John shifted slightly, pulling the quilt over his knees, and tucked the book a little closer into his oversized robes. The warmth of the small dorm, the quiet presence of McGonagall nearby, and the knowledge that this bed was his—even without his trunk—brought a faint sense of relief, however small.

He let himself sink slightly into the mattress, dark eyes scanning the low ceiling, the soft glow of the lamps, and the faint green leaves of potted plants on the small windowsill. The common room felt distant now, replaced by the quiet promise of a safe, contained space.

By four o’clock in the morning, the corridors of Hogwarts were silent, empty except for the occasional creak of old stone and the faint whisper of drafts winding through the castle. In the warmth of the staff room, however, two witches were already awake.

Professor McGonagall sat stiffly at the large wooden table, robes draped neatly over her chair though slightly disheveled from her midnight patrol. Her face was tired, the sharp lines of exhaustion softened only by concern. Across from her, Pomona Sprout yawned, stretching her arms above her head. Her nightclothes were soft and muted—a nightdress that mirrored her robes by day—and a small nightcap sat atop her curly hair, slipping slightly as she moved.

“Good grief,” Pomona muttered, rubbing her eyes and letting out another yawn, “it’s too early for anyone to be awake, much less you in full regalia, Minerva.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched in a faint, weary smile. “I’m afraid it was unavoidable. I found the same first year I told you about earlier outside the dorms. I had to check, Pomona. He… he’s not behaving like a typical first-year. There’s more at play here.”

Pomona’s eyes narrowed slightly, though softened by concern. “I know, Minerva. I saw his file after dinner. Quiet, observant… but he seems to be struggling more than usual. Did you bring him to bed at least?”

“I did,” McGonagall said, adjusting her robes, “and I managed to guide him to one of the first-year dorms, but his trunk is missing. The boy’s name is actually John Deacon, not Deacon John. It’s backwards on the register.” She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know how it happened, but… it complicates matters.”

Pomona nodded, tugging her nightcap slightly to one side. “Poor boy. That alone could make him feel adrift. And with a missing trunk…” She shook her head slowly. Her eyes softened further. “I’ll make sure he has support in Hufflepuff. He’s quiet, but observant—he notices things. That’s why he’s not speaking much. He’s thinking… trying to work it out alone.”

A soft whooshing sound preceded the entrance of Dumbledore. The headmaster stepped quietly into the room, robes pale and flowing, spectacles slightly askew. Even in his nightwear, a faint glow of authority clung to him, though his tired expression betrayed the early hour.

“I see you’ve both been roused,” Dumbledore said gently, his voice carrying the soft echo of weariness. “I was awakened by your Patronus, Minerva. I trust it is… urgent?”

McGonagall inclined her head. “It was necessary, Albus. The first-year… John Deacon (his name was wrong on the register) … was outside the dorms at past one in the morning. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find his bed, and his trunk is missing.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, adjusting his spectacles. “Indeed. And the Sorting Hat?"

“It… struggled,” McGonagall admitted, pressing her hands together on the table. “It could not place him without guidance. I have never encountered this before. He is… fragmented, in some way. Pieces of ambition, desire to learn, and a fear of connection but without memories, he was hard to place. I spoke to Pomona after dinner. We’ll support him, but I wanted you to be aware.”

Dumbledore’s eyes glimmered behind his half-moon glasses, a faint crease of concern crossing his face. “Interesting. The Sorting Hat rarely fails. We will need to watch him closely.”

Pomona glanced between them. “And his trunk. If it’s missing, he’ll feel… untethered. It could exacerbate his anxiety.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Let us call a house-elf. Perhaps they know where it is.”

The elf appeared almost immediately, bowing low, ears twitching, eyes wide.

“Ah… yes,” Dumbledore began gently, “we require information regarding the first-year, John Deacon’s trunk. Can you tell us where it is?”

The house-elf hesitated. Its ears flattened slightly, and a faint rustle of tension ran through the room, as if the castle itself bristled at the question. “Trunk… yes… perhaps…” it muttered, voice cryptic, wringing its small hands.

Dumbledore inclined his head, eyes sharp but calm. “You will listen to me. I am the headmaster. You will tell us where this trunk is.”

The house-elf’s eyes widened, and it shook its head. “No… cannot… master does not rule… not the master… bound to the castle… the school…” Its voice wavered, small and urgent, as if invoking some invisible boundary.

Pomona exchanged a glance with McGonagall, both realizing the house-elf’s loyalty was not to Dumbledore, not even to their authority, but to Hogwarts itself—a living entity, nearly, that insisted on following its own rules.

Dumbledore’s voice softened, eyes narrowing, tone patient yet unyielding. “Hogwarts will listen, I promise you. But you are bound to serve the school. You may speak, and it will be safe. Tell us what you know about this first-year’s trunk.”

The house-elf shifted nervously under the combined gazes of the three. Its large, expressive eyes flicked from one face to another, as if weighing who held the true authority. The faint tension in the room felt almost tangible, a silent thrum echoing off the wooden walls.

“O-okay… trunk,” the elf whispered finally, its voice trembling. “It… moved… not usual… not usual for… no one like… last… last time…” Its words came in a rush, fragmentary, almost as if the elf were afraid of speaking too clearly.

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed, peering at the tiny figure with calm patience. “What do you mean, not usual?” His voice was gentle, coaxing, yet firm. “Explain yourself. There is nothing to fear here. Hogwarts will hear and allow the truth.”

The elf’s hands wrung together. “Trunk… moved… placed… special room… very old… very old… not used… centuries…” Its ears flicked nervously, and it leaned back slightly as if bracing for reprimand.

Pomona frowned, leaning forward slightly, curiosity piqued. “A room that hasn’t been used in centuries? Are you saying… it’s gone to a room no student has occupied in generations?”

The house-elf nodded rapidly, shivering slightly. “Yes… special… for… special… not only one… four… four… all… four houses… not for centuries… never again… until now…”

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. “All four houses?” she murmured, exchanging a quick glance with Dumbledore. “That would… explain why the Sorting Hat struggled. Hogwarts itself has placed him across all houses. That is… extraordinary.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly, a mixture of amusement and concern dancing in the half-moon spectacles. “Extraordinary indeed. The castle has always possessed its own… judgment. It is deciding, in its own way, that John is to experience all aspects of Hogwarts, even if we have never seen such a situation in over three centuries.”

The house-elf’s small voice piped up again, hesitant but certain. “Yes… Trunk… wait… wait for safe… keys… not… not open… only with… only with… careful… careful… four parts…”

Pomona’s brow furrowed. “So the trunk is there, in this ancient, long-unused room… but it cannot be simply retrieved. The school will only allow access under specific conditions.”

McGonagall sighed softly, hands pressed together. “This explains everything. The backward name, the Sorting Hat’s indecision, his unease—all of it. The castle itself has intervened to ensure his path is… precise, though difficult for him at first.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, expression thoughtful. “We must handle this delicately. John is already overwhelmed. Any direct attempt to retrieve the trunk must be guided, safe, and explained in a way he can understand. The castle will not be coerced, not even by its me.”

Pomona nodded, tugging her nightcap slightly. “Then we act cautiously. McGonagall, you will continue to oversee him tonight and into tomorrow. I will ensure he has a supportive first-year buddy if he desires one, and I can make arrangements to accompany him when the time comes. Dumbledore, your presence may be required only to reassure the house-elf—its loyalty is to Hogwarts, not to any of us.”

The house-elf twitched, ears flicking at the mention of Dumbledore, yet seemed to understand that its role in this delicate situation had not been dismissed. It remained bound to the castle’s will, but not uncooperative—simply cautious, protective of a tradition centuries old.

McGonagall leaned slightly forward, resting a hand lightly on the table. “We need to plan the introduction carefully. John is quiet, cautious, and extremely observant. The castle itself has chosen a path that has not been walked for three hundred years. We must ensure he feels safe, not only physically, but emotionally, as he navigates this.”

Dumbledore’s gaze softened, eyes twinkling behind the glasses even as exhaustion showed. “Indeed. This boy will grow in ways that no first-year has in centuries. Let us respect the castle’s design, and his unique placement. Hogwarts has chosen, but we must guide. Step by step.”

Pomona gave a small nod. “Then we let him settle for tonight, keep him safe, and prepare him gently for tomorrow. The trunk… and the special room… can wait until he is ready. Whatever that means."

Chapter Text

John blinked awake groggily, his neck stiff from sleeping curled up in his uniform. The patchwork quilt had slipped half off during the night, and his body felt too warm and itchy in the heavy fabric.

“Oi, Deacon. You alive?”

The voice belonged to one of the two other boys in the dorm, already sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The other was tugging on his socks, hair sticking up in all directions. Both paused, staring at John with faint curiosity—and, if John was honest, a little judgment—at the fact that he’d gone to sleep fully dressed.

“You slept in your robes?” one of them asked incredulously.

John said nothing. He sat up slowly, folding his arms over his chest as if he could shrink himself into the corner of his bed. His cheeks warmed under their stares, but he didn’t move to explain.

“Weird,” the sock-pulling boy muttered, though not cruelly—just baffled. “You are Deacon, right?”

John gave the smallest of nods, eyes flicking down to the floor. They still had it wrong. He was too tired to correct them.

The first boy leaned back on his hands. “So… my brother told me the dorms are supposed to be completely separate for boys and girls. Like, locked off, proper towers. But—” He gestured vaguely at the round, cozy space, “—it’s not like that here.”

“Yeah,” the other agreed. “I swear I saw girls’ doors just down the other hall. Doesn’t seem right. Bit odd, isn’t it?”

John reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the familiar edges of a small, well-worn book. His heart steadied slightly as he pulled it free and flipped to the page he already knew existed. Without a word, he held it out to them, open to the section on Hufflepuff dormitories.

The boys blinked at him. Then one leaned closer, reading aloud haltingly: “Unlike other houses, Hufflepuff does not maintain a strict architectural separation of towers or wings. However, magical safeguards ensure privacy: boys are barred from entering or seeing into girls’ dormitories, but girls may enter boys’ dormitories if permitted. This tradition stems from—”

He trailed off, eyes widening. “Wait. So we’re not imagining it? It really is different here?”

The other boy whistled softly. “So girls can come in here but we can’t go in there? That’s… a bit dodgy.”

John reclaimed the book and let it rest in his lap, thumbing the edge of the page. He didn’t say it, but the slight lift of his chin was almost smug, as if to say See? I checked. I knew.

The first boy gave him a long look. “You don’t talk much, do you, Deacon?”

John shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly but not quite turning into a smile.

“Fair enough,” the boy said, stretching. “Guess we’ll just have to get used to you reading at us instead of talking.”

The other laughed, pulling on his shoes. “Could be worse. At least he knows stuff. I didn’t even know what half the feasts last night were called.”

They fell into chatter about their older siblings and what classes might be like, their voices filling the little dorm room in a warm, awkward, first-day way. John stayed quiet, stroking the spine of his book, the knot in his chest loosening just a fraction.

The three of them shuffled out of the dormitory into the cozy little year–common space, then through the round door into the larger Hufflepuff common room. The scent of damp plants and warm copper still hung in the air from the night before. The two boys chatted idly about what breakfast might be like, how much they’d miss home bread, if the kitchens would serve sausages. John trailed a step behind, clutching his book to his chest.

As they climbed the stairs toward the Entrance Hall and the bright clamor of morning voices grew closer, one of the boys suddenly slowed.

“Hang on,” he said, frowning. “We never told you our names, did we?”

John blinked, caught off guard.

The sock–haired one grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right—sorry about that. I’m Colin Thatcher. My brother’s a fourth–year Gryffindor. Always forgets I exist, so, you know. I’ll just… make myself known.”

The other gave John a crooked smile. “And I’m Stephen Abbott. My sister's a couple years above us.”

Both boys looked at John expectantly. He could feel the weight of it—the pause where he was meant to speak. His throat tightened.

He mouthed it first, barely audible: “…John.”

“What was that?” Stephen leaned in, genuinely trying to catch it, not mocking.

“John,” he managed again, a little louder this time. “John Deacon.”

Colin nodded firmly, as though stamping it into place. “John Deacon. Right. Not Deacon as your first, then.”

John shook his head.

“Well, nice to properly meet you, John,” Stephen said with a warm grin. “Let’s get some food in us before classes eat us alive, yeah?”

The three of them stepped into the Great Hall together, light streaming down from the enchanted ceiling above. John kept his book close, but for the first time since arriving, the weight of his name felt a little lighter.

The Great Hall was already buzzing when the three Hufflepuff boys entered, the enchanted ceiling above awash with a pale grey morning sky, clouds dragging low as though painted there with deliberate strokes. Platters of steaming food were appearing down the long tables—toast, rashers of bacon, steaming porridge bowls, heaps of scrambled eggs—and students of every house were crowding in, their voices echoing against the stone walls in a chaos of chatter.

John’s stomach clenched. The smells were strong, too strong—grease and butter, syrup and sausage. His mouth stayed dry, and his steps slowed even as Colin and Stephen ploughed cheerfully ahead toward the Hufflepuff table.

They found places halfway down. Colin plopped himself onto the bench, instantly piling two slices of toast onto his plate and spreading them with marmalade. Stephen poured pumpkin juice into three goblets, nudging one toward John.

“Go on,” Stephen said kindly. “Eat something before lessons.”

John sat down, stiff-backed. His fingers curled around the edge of the table, but he made no move toward the platters. The food might as well have been blocks of stone for all the ease he felt in reaching for it. He could hear Colin chewing happily beside him, the scrape of knife on plate, the chatter of other Hufflepuffs talking about their journeys on the boats last night.

Stephen noticed first. “You’re not hungry?”

He gave the smallest of shakes with his head, eyes darting down toward the table surface, fixed on the wood grain as though it could swallow him up.

Colin swallowed noisily and glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Not even toast? C’mon, it’s just toast. No one can hate toast.” He tried to grin, joking, but John didn’t even lift his eyes.

Further down the table, older Hufflepuffs had started whispering. First–years were always a curiosity, but John was something more—the boy who made the Sorting Hat falter. Word had already passed around. The boy who had sat in silence, who’d forced Professor McGonagall to intervene, who was maybe even cursed. He could feel eyes prickling along the back of his neck like hot pins.

And sure enough, up at the High Table, two pairs of eyes found him too.

Professor Sprout had arrived earlier than most of the Heads of House, her curly hair tucked under a neat cap, robes slightly mismatched in earthy tones. She was speaking with a seventh–year prefect but her gaze kept flicking, almost unconsciously, toward John. She remembered McGonagall’s words from the night before.

McGonagall herself was seated beside her, lips pressed thin, a cup of tea untouched at her side. She had told herself she would not hover—but she couldn’t help it. The boy was pale, thin, eyes shadowed, shoulders hunched as though he were trying to disappear into the bench. He hadn’t touched a crumb.

“Eat,” Colin urged again, nudging the platter of eggs closer. A few crumbs of toast tumbled onto John’s empty plate.

John flinched back. His hand darted to his robe pocket, to the familiar rectangle of his book. He slid it out and opened it halfway, burying his nose in the pages. The smell of ink and parchment was safer, easier, than the scent of sausages.

Stephen sighed but didn’t push. Instead he turned to Colin and began chatting about which electives their siblings had chosen, letting the subject drop as if to shield John from further staring. But that didn’t stop the murmurs around them.

“Is that him?” a second–year whispered down the table. “The one the Hat couldn’t place?”

“Looks it. Didn’t say a word last night either. Creepy, isn’t it?”

John’s ears burned. He wished the book were wide enough to hide his whole face.

At the High Table, Pomona leaned slightly toward McGonagall. “He won’t eat,” she murmured quietly.

“I see it,” McGonagall said, her tone clipped. But inside, worry twisted tighter. First his name wrong, then his trunk missing, then the Sorting—now this. If he cannot even manage a meal…

“Should we—?” Pomona started.

“Not here,” she interrupted gently but firmly. Her eyes narrowed as a trio of Ravenclaws down the aisle craned their necks openly to look at the boy. “The last thing he needs is to be singled out further.”

Still, her gaze didn’t leave him. Every minute that passed without him lifting fork or spoon added to the stone in her stomach.

Down at the table, Colin muttered in an undertone to Stephen, “Do you think he can’t eat? Like— like he’s sick?”

John heard that. His throat closed further, his shoulders hunched tighter. He wanted to say no, I’m fine, but the words stuck behind his teeth. If he tried, he thought, his voice would crack and betray him.

So he only turned another page of his book. His hands trembled slightly on the parchment.

And all the while, from the head table, Sprout and McGonagall kept watching. One with maternal worry in her young face, the other with sharp–eyed calculation, both already making silent plans to step in.

The chatter in the Great Hall rose higher as more students finished their meals and began drifting out, some eager to explore, others already fretting about their first lessons. Plates refilled themselves, dishes vanished, and owls swooped overhead in a flurry of wings to drop the first morning post.

John stayed small in the middle of it all, shrinking against the bench, his book open in front of him like a shield. He hadn’t eaten. Not a single bite.

Pomona Sprout noticed when the last of the first-years shuffled from the benches, when Colin and Stephen both gave John a nudge and stood uncertainly, waiting to see if he would follow. He didn’t. He stared at the wood grain again, book clutched tight.

Pomona pushed her chair back and rose. She crossed the Hall, the hem of her robes brushing the flagstones, and crouched slightly so she wasn’t towering over him. McGonagall followed, slower, hands clasped in front of her, expression guarded but eyes sharp.

“John?” Pomona said softly, careful not to use Deacon as the register insisted. “Come with me for a moment, won’t you?”

His head jerked up, startled. Eyes darted between the two professors, then down at his book again. He didn’t move.

McGonagall’s voice cut through, firm but not unkind. “Mr. Deacon.” She emphasized the name correctly this time, and saw him flinch in recognition. “We only wish to speak. Nothing more.”

Colin hovered awkwardly a few paces away, glancing between his new housemate and the teachers. “Uh… do you want us to wait, Deacon?” he asked.

John shook his head so quickly it was nearly a twitch.

“Alright.” Colin caught Stephen’s sleeve. “We’ll go ahead then. See you later.”

The two boys disappeared with the crowd, leaving John alone with Pomona and McGonagall.

Pomona offered her hand out—not to grab, simply to offer. “Walk with us. Just to the antechamber,” she coaxed. “It’s quieter there.”

Hesitation knotted John’s brow. His knuckles whitened around the book, but after a long pause, he slid off the bench, clutching the book to his chest, and followed them with small, stiff steps.

They led him into a side room off the Hall, where the murmur of voices dulled to a faint echo. A single stained-glass window spilled golden light onto the stone floor. It was emptier, quieter.

“Better?” Pomona asked gently.

John gave the faintest nod.

McGonagall studied him closely. “You did not eat.” It wasn’t a question.

John’s shoulders rose and fell, defensive. He didn’t answer.

Pomona stepped in before the silence grew sharp. “That’s alright. Sometimes the first morning is overwhelming. Too many faces, too much noise, too many smells.” She gave him a little smile, warm but not prying. “There are other times in the day to eat, and the kitchens are never far.”

John shifted on his feet. His throat bobbed, but he still didn’t speak.

McGonagall’s tone softened—not her usual crispness, but something more deliberate, careful. “Mr. Deacon, you are not in trouble. But it is our duty to ensure you are well. You understand?”

Finally, after a long pause, he muttered, voice thin: “Yes.”

It was the first word either had heard him say that morning, and it was enough for now.

Pomona exchanged a glance with McGonagall, both silently acknowledging the same thought: they would have to tread carefully with this one.

Pomona folded her hands in front of her, crouching a little so she wasn’t looking down at him. “John,” she began, voice quiet enough that the room itself seemed to lean in, “last night I told you and the others about our house’s little buddy system. First-years sometimes find it helpful to have an older student check in, show them the ropes, answer questions. It can make the castle feel a little less… enormous.”

John hugged his book tighter, knuckles pale. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor.

“You would not have to speak much,” Pomona added, gentle, as if she could see how the silence weighed heavy on him. “It isn’t about forcing conversation. Just… knowing someone is there.”

McGonagall, arms folded, studied his reaction carefully, though her face softened with understanding. “Miss Sprout is correct. You are not obliged, Mr. Deacon. But in circumstances such as yours, additional support might be prudent.”

John swallowed, the lump in his throat rising again. He shook his head quickly, the movement sharp, final.

Pomona tilted her head. “No?”

A whisper escaped him, hoarse but clear enough: “Don’t want it, sorry.”

There was no stubbornness in his tone, no childish defiance. Just fear. Fear of being watched too closely, perhaps, or of failing someone who tried to help.

Pomona’s heart tugged. She nodded softly. “That’s alright. No one will push you.” She let a smile touch her lips. “If you change your mind, my door is open, day or night. You only need knock. Or you can send word through the plants—” she tapped her sleeve where a sprig of ivy peeked out “—I always listen.”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “You may return to your classmates, Mr. Deacon. Classes will begin soon. But you should eat something before the day is through.”

John clutched his book and nodded faintly. He didn’t move until Pomona touched his shoulder in a feather-light pat, giving him permission to slip past them. He left the room quickly, almost darting, as though afraid if he lingered he might be caught in their kindness.

Pomona let out a long sigh when the door shut behind him. “Poor boy.”

McGonagall adjusted her glasses, lips thin. “He will be a challenge.”

“And challenges,” Pomona said softly, “are why we’re here.”

John didn’t want to be swallowed in the noisy crowd, voices bouncing against the stone walls until they became a roar in his head. Instead, he slid a hand into his robe pocket, tugged out the battered book that had already become his lifeline.

He flipped it open, fingers brushing to the chapter he knew was there. Across the yellowing page was a sketch-map, faintly inked, with the staircases half-finished like they had been drawn in a hurry. Beside them were tiny notations in cramped handwriting. “This stair skips the third floor—beware the trick step.” “Hidden door behind tapestry, useful shortcut to east wing.”

John ran his thumb over one note, the one about the tapestry. He knew where they were meant to be going — Charms, down on the second floor. The prefects had explained, but they were already gone ahead, the crowd pulling them like a current. If he tried to keep up, he’d be jostled, shoved, and maybe even laughed at again. His chest tightened at the thought.

He found the little dot on the map where the Hufflepuff basement connected to the first corridor above. Then traced the shortcut: up one narrow staircase, left past a suit of armor, and behind the tapestry of a woman feeding a goose. That would lead him to a corridor closer to Flitwick’s classroom.

He pressed the book to his chest, whispering under his breath like a prayer. “Don’t get lost. Don’t get lost.”

The staircase creaked under his shoes, and for a heart-stopping moment it shifted. John froze, eyes widening, but the book had warned him: “When it moves, wait. Don’t panic. It will settle again.” He counted to ten under his breath, then stepped onto the landing as soon as it aligned with another hallway.

Left past the armor. The hollow clank of his own footsteps made him wince, so he began stepping lightly, almost tiptoeing, wand hand brushing the book every few seconds for reassurance.

At last, he found the tapestry. The goose in it gave a disgruntled honk as though to test him. John hesitated, then pushed his palm into the folds of fabric. To his relief, the map had been right. The cloth gave way, revealing a narrow, hidden passage lit by the glow of torches that seemed to burn low and quiet.

The shortcut spat him out at a corridor filled with voices. The other Hufflepuffs were only just arriving, some Ravenclaws in their blue edging in from another hall. John pressed himself against the wall and let them pass, silent, unnoticed, his book back in his pocket.

To everyone else, he’d simply appeared at the right classroom at the right time. But to John, it was victory.

The Charms classroom was high-ceilinged, with sunlight pouring through arched windows. A dozen desks had been lined with neat piles of quills, parchment, and on each desk, a single white feather. The Ravenclaws sat upright, eager, already flipping open their books. The Hufflepuffs slouched a little more, some whispering nervously about whether their wand work would even function on the first day.

Professor Flitwick stood at the front, perched atop a high stack of books to see over his desk. His round face beamed with enthusiasm as he clapped his tiny hands.

“Welcome, welcome! Today, a foundational charm — one you will practice, refine, and, I daresay, perhaps even enjoy.” He tapped the feather nearest to him. “The Levitation Charm. Wingardium Leviosa!” His wand traced the swish-and-flick motion so quickly it almost blurred. The feather soared up gracefully, spun once, and drifted gently back down.

A ripple of excitement moved through the room. Flitwick hopped down from his pile of books and bustled between desks, urging them to copy his wand movement and pronunciation. “Swish and flick! Enunciate clearly — Wing-gar-dium Levio-sa!”

Pairs of students leaned toward one another, practicing. Feathers bobbed uselessly or didn’t budge at all. One Ravenclaw’s feather caught fire, prompting shrieks and laughter until Flitwick doused it with a flick of his own wand.

John sat very still. His feather lay untouched on the desk. His wand was in his hand, but it rested loosely, pointed at the wood grain instead of the feather. His stomach churned. He could feel Flitwick’s eyes darting around the room, checking progress. John hunched further, hoping the professor would miss him.

But of course, he didn’t.

“Mr… John?” Flitwick piped, pausing at the sight of his untouched feather. “Why are you not attempting the charm?”

Dozens of eyes turned. John’s throat closed. He froze in his seat, wand clutched tight, words caught somewhere between his chest and lips. His heart thumped so hard he thought everyone must hear it.

“I—I—” he stammered, voice barely audible.

Flitwick frowned, impatient. “You must try! It won’t work on its own.”

John’s eyes widened, startled like a deer under torchlight. The feather on his desk twitched. Without him moving his wand or uttering a word, it shivered, lifted an inch into the air — then fell flat again.

The classroom went silent.

Flitwick blinked, mouth slightly open. “Well… that… is not exactly how it should work.” He leaned closer, his usual cheer briefly replaced by keen suspicion. “You didn’t cast anything. You didn’t even move your wand.”

A Ravenclaw boy hissed under his breath, “That’s not normal.” A few Hufflepuffs craned their necks, trying to see John’s desk more clearly. John shrank under the weight of the stares, clutching his wand so tightly his knuckles blanched.

Flitwick straightened, his expression unreadable. “Hm. Fascinating. We’ll… return to this. For now, please do attempt it properly, Mr. John. Magic without focus is… unreliable.”

The lesson carried on, laughter and groans resuming as more feathers bobbed and fell. But John’s own remained stubbornly still, except for that single, unexplainable twitch. His cheeks burned hot, and he didn’t raise his head again.

The classroom had finally emptied. Feathers rested on desks, some still wobbling slightly from over-eager attempts, while the sunlight slanted through the high windows and pooled in golden patches across the floor. John was gathering his book and wand, his movements deliberate, careful not to attract attention.

“Mr. Deacon,” a high-pitched, eager voice squeaked behind him. Flitwick bounced forward, eyes sparkling, wand tucked under his arm. “May I have a word?”

John froze, shoulders stiffening. His chest tightened. He hated extra attention. He swallowed, nodded faintly, and allowed the professor to lead him to a quiet corner of the room.

Flitwick leaned down slightly, peering at him with those intense, expectant eyes. “Remarkable, John. Truly remarkable. You… you performed the Levitation Charm initially without a spoken incantation, and your wand hardly moved. That is… extraordinary. Only very powerful wizards—or witches—are capable of such subtle magic.”

John’s eyes widened, his fingers tightening around his wand. He shifted on his feet, wanting nothing more than to escape the attention. His mind raced, analyzing the moment. Too much attention. Make it look harder next time. Pretend it’s difficult. He would not give them a hint of ease again.

“I—” he muttered softly, voice low and hesitant, “It was… a gust of wind.”

Flitwick blinked, startled. Then he chuckled, tiny but sincere. “A gust of wind? You mean to say… you attribute it to natural forces?” He tilted his head. “I see. Humility… or cunning. Clever boy. But mark my words, you did it. That feather responded to your intent. Not the wind. Not the air currents. You. That is a gift, even if you wish to deny it.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line. He kept his eyes down, muttering nothing more, letting the words roll past. He made a mental note: Pretend it’s harder next time. I don't want attention.

Flitwick straightened, hands clasped behind his back, still watching him with a mix of excitement and scrutiny. “Very well. Continue practicing at your own pace. You may surprise yourself further. But I warn you—don’t hide your talent completely. That, too, will only make things more difficult.”

John nodded once, quietly, almost imperceptibly, and tucked his book under his arm. He offered nothing else, no response, and turned to leave.

As he walked out of the classroom, he whispered to himself under his breath, almost like a shield, “Next time… harder. Pretend it’s hard.”

Flitwick watched him go, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. A cautious mind hiding formidable power… this one will be extraordinary indeed.

The stone corridors of Hogwarts echoed with the shuffle. John moved quietly, tracing the route with his mental map, short-cuts memorized from the sketch in his book. The first lesson had left him a little behind, partly because he had lingered with Flitwick, partly because he avoided the crowd, partly because he had a tendency to pause and notice the little things—the faint smell of soot from the fireplaces, the way the sun struck the armor in the corridor, the subtle echoes of distant footsteps.

But by the time he reached the Potions classroom, he was early. Doors carved from dark oak loomed, heavy with brass fittings. The large windows revealed the sprawling black lake beyond, clouds reflected in its rippling surface. A handful of first-years were trickling in, some already nervously whispering to one another. A few Gryffindor boys, all first-years, were strutting in, heads high, brimming with confidence despite being new to the school. One had a shock of blond hair and a perpetual smirk.

John slipped inside quietly, pressing himself against the far side of the room. He was aware of being early, aware of his book still resting in his Hufflepuff common room, still safely tucked in his robe pocket. Without it, he felt the room in a slightly different way: he would have to rely on observation, memory, and instinct today.

Professor Slughorn appeared, emerging from a side door with a broad, slightly smug smile. His robes were impossibly ornate, a swirl of deep purples and golds. “Ah! Ah! How delightful to see first-years punctual!” he chirped, glancing at John’s corner with a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “And… who do we have here? The one who stumped the sorting hat?"

John kept his gaze on the empty cauldron before him, hands folded neatly on the tabletop. He did not respond.

“Very well, then,” Slughorn continued, clapping his hands together. “Today we will begin with theory. Potion-making is not just about mixing ingredients. It is an art, a symphony of timing, temperature, and intention. Every subtle detail matters. Take notes, observe, and remember: success is as much in the mind as in the wand.”

The Gryffindor boys were practically vibrating with excitement, leaning toward one another to whisper guesses about which ingredients might bubble or explode. One muttered, “Bet it’s something with gillyweed or powdered dragon claw. First-year potions are boring though.”

John observed quietly, brow furrowed. He had no book to consult, no reference beyond what he remembered from fleeting glances at books in Diagon Alley. His notebook sat empty in his bag, waiting for him to write later. Still, his eyes moved over the ingredients, cauldrons, and labels with the quiet precision of someone cataloging each detail mentally.

Slughorn swept past the first-years, stopping briefly beside each desk. He leaned closer to John, lowering his voice so only he could hear. “Ah… yes, yes… fascinating… you are… different.” His eyes twinkled with the kind of deliberate calculation only Slughorn could manage. “Most first-years stumble over the basics. But you… hmm… already observing closely. Note-taking? Or perhaps you rely on something else?”

John blinked up at him, unsure if he should respond. Slughorn’s scrutiny was uncomfortable, a heat rising under his skin. He muttered under his breath: “I’m just… watching.”

Slughorn nodded approvingly, but in a very subtle, almost invisible way. “Of course, of course. Observation is the first step to mastery. Very good. Very… good indeed.” His hand brushed lightly over a bottle of powdered root he had just set down, as though guiding John’s eyes toward it. A small, encouraging smile played at the edge of his lips. “We have many talented students, yes, yes, yes… but some… ah… some… possess a certain… uniqueness. That is always worth noticing.”

He moved away before John could process whether he had meant the remark for him personally or not. Slughorn’s attention wandered to the other students, chatting warmly with them, asking them subtle questions about their family history, their previous magical exposure, noting reactions with a calculating eye.

John felt the warmth of observation keenly, the awareness that someone might see past his silence, past his quietness. He clenched his hands briefly, the back of his mind noting that Slughorn’s manner suggested interest, perhaps even… manipulation. John didn’t like being the focus, and yet, the way Slughorn kept circling, carefully—never forcing attention, only nudging it—was oddly compelling.

The lesson progressed. Slughorn began explaining the theory of potion ingredients, explaining how some react only under precise conditions, some respond to mood or intent. John kept silent, jotting mental notes, eyes following the demonstration closely. Every other first-year attempted minor stirrings with wands at the cauldrons, spilling powder, bubbling mixtures unevenly. John’s cauldron remained untouched. He observed quietly, letting the mistakes of others teach him.

At one point, a Gryffindor boy smirked, nudged his neighbor, and whispered, “Bet he can’t even get it to bubble.” John’s gaze flicked up, calm but piercing, and the boy faltered under the intensity.

Slughorn, meanwhile, paused beside John again. “Ah… yes, yes, you see? You are remarkable. Do not speak if it is uncomfortable. Actions speak louder, sometimes far louder than words, eh? Very good. Very good indeed.” He stepped back, smiling broadly at the class at large, masking the quiet interest he had taken. “First-years, observe your neighbor’s technique! Watch and learn!”

John’s eyes never left the ingredients, his mind cataloging, planning, and silently noting that attention is not what he wants.

And somewhere behind the polished, overly confident smile of Slughorn, a plan began forming. The boy with the odd Sorting Hat incident, the silent one who could move feathers and observe without speaking… perhaps he would be very useful in the right circles. But Slughorn would have to be patient. Very, very patient.

The bell for break rang softly through the stone halls, but John barely noticed. Colin and Stephen hurried over, their voices bubbly.

“Come on, John! Let’s see the castle!” Colin urged, grabbing his sleeve. “We can show you the shortcuts—there’s a corridor with floating candles and a secret stair that leads right to the owlery!”

John hesitated, fingers tightening around the strap of his robe. He shook his head. “I… I’ll go on my own,” he muttered, quietly.

The boys exchanged a quick, confused glance, but nodded reluctantly. “Alright, suit yourself… but don’t get lost!” Stephen called, and they were gone in a flurry of robes.

John stepped into the quieter corridors. The castle seemed different when he walked alone—less noisy, less jostled, almost as if it were aware of him. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone, and though the air was still, he felt a gentle push guiding him forward, almost like a whisper of wind that wasn’t there.

He rounded a corner and found a portrait—a lively, talkative woman in a crimson gown, her eyes sparkling mischievously. “Ah! A new student, yes?” she said, her painted lips curling. “Do you know where you are, child? These corridors can be… tricky for the uninitiated.”

John leaned against the wall, keeping his voice low. “I’m exploring.”

“Ah, wise,” the portrait said approvingly. “Few first-years wander so thoughtfully. Let me tell you a secret or two—though not everything, mind, that would spoil the fun.” She prattled for several minutes, telling him of hidden staircases, enchanted windows, and passages that led to forgotten corners. John listened, nodding, absorbing each detail without speaking more than a soft acknowledgment.

When he turned to leave, he found himself facing a section of wall that seemed different from the others. A subtle seam, almost imperceptible, ran vertically. John frowned and stepped closer. As he did, the stone seemed to respond to him. The seam widened slowly, splitting apart, revealing a narrow gap.

He paused. The hallway was empty, silent, the shadows stretching long in the muted light. A curious force—almost like wind—nudged him forward. He swallowed and let it guide him, climbing the stairs beyond the gap. They spiraled upward, narrow and twisting, until he reached a heavy wooden door.

The door seemed enormous at first, towering above him. But as he stepped closer, the door subtly adjusted itself, shrinking just enough that it now hovered a fraction above his head. It’s fine. It’s meant for me, John thought, recognizing without knowing why.

His hand hovered over the wood. As soon as his fingers brushed the surface, a soft golden glow spread across his palm. The door clicked and swung open silently, revealing a chamber that seemed untouched by time.

Inside, a large round table dominated the center of the room. Four chairs were arranged neatly around it. Upon each were goblets—two gold, two silver—each lined with a faint shimmer of red, blue, green, or yellow. The colors were subtle but unmistakable. John’s heart skipped. This must be… where the Founders met. The very air of the room felt alive, ancient, reverent.

He didn’t move immediately. Instead, he slowly stepped forward, eyes scanning every detail. Bookshelves lined the walls, jars of strange ingredients tucked in corners, and near the far wall, almost blending with shadows, sat a familiar shape.

His jaw dropped.

There, in the corner, stood his trunk. The one that had been missing since the Sorting. The leather gleamed under the soft light of the room. He blinked, stepping closer, hardly daring to breathe.

It wasn’t just that the trunk was here—it was right where it should be. As if the castle had known exactly where to place it for him. The thought made his chest tighten with a mixture of awe and disbelief.

He knelt beside it, fingers brushing the leather. The lock was intact, familiar. For the first time since arriving, John felt a tiny thread of relief curl through him. This was… safe.

As he straightened, eyes sweeping the room again, he realized something else: the room wasn’t just a storage space. It hummed with history, with quiet power. Four goblets. Four seats. Four symbols of house unity. And somehow, amidst all that, the castle had led him here alone.

John exhaled slowly, still staring. Hogwarts… you’re alive, he thought, shaking his head at the thought. Then, very softly, almost to himself: “Finally… my things.”

As John knelt by his trunk, brushing his hand across the worn leather, a soft rustle of fabric and the faint scent of lavender made him look up. A portrait, tucked neatly above a low bookshelf, shifted slightly. The woman depicted wore a warm, honey-colored gown, her hair braided and coiled atop her head. Her eyes were bright, wise, and gentle.

“Ah,” she said, voice mellow but carrying across the quiet room, “so you have found your way here, child. Not many are led by instinct alone.”

John froze, clutching his book a little closer. “H…hello?” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

“Do not be afraid,” the portrait said, tilting her head. “I am Helga Hufflepuff. This place… it remembers its founders. Its purpose endures.” She gestured vaguely toward the table, the goblets glinting faintly in the soft light. “You… you are unusual, even among first-years. The Sorting Hat has already whispered to the wise."

John’s brow furrowed, unsure whether to ask a question. He tugged the book from his pocket and opened it. The words on the page blurred as he tried to connect them with the portrait’s voice.

Helga’s gaze softened, though the eyes seemed to peer far beyond the walls of this room. “One day,” she said, voice low and full of weight, “the four will gather. Each one carrying the essence of a house, a spark of what was first made. It is the child who belongs everywhere who will bring them together… though that day is not yet. For now, learn, observe, and grow.” She spoke of a prophecy.

John’s fingers twitched over his book. He didn’t understand the full meaning, didn’t even know who the others were, and yet something in her words resonated—a gentle, curious tug in his chest. He leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the room settle around him.

The portrait smiled, a mixture of encouragement and quiet sadness. “You will find your place, little one. And though the castle tests you, guides you, and sometimes hides from you, know this: you are not here by accident.”

John’s jaw tightened. He swallowed, nodding faintly, almost to himself. The room felt warmer somehow, as though the stone walls themselves had breathed, approving of his presence.

He let the trunk remain closed for now, standing to take in the round table again, the goblets shimmering in the soft glow. Red, blue, yellow, green—the colors of the houses, all reflected here, all in balance. A strange certainty prickled at the edges of his mind, a whisper that perhaps the portrait had been right: he belonged… but not just to Hufflepuff.

As he backed toward the door, retracing his steps to the hall outside, Helga’s final words drifted after him: “Patience, child. One day, all the pieces will align. Until then, remember what you can, and guard your heart. There are forces both gentle and fierce waiting to test you.”

John’s pulse quickened slightly, and though he didn’t speak, he made a silent promise. I will be ready.

“Can I meet him, Helga? Oh please!”

Salazar Slytherin’s portrait swung forward, robes rippling in painted motion, leaning eagerly toward John’s direction. His expression was animated, almost childlike in its enthusiasm.

“He’s right in front of you, Salazar,” Helga said gently, her hands folded over her painted chest, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Salazar’s eyes widened. “Ohhh! He’s adorable! Look at him! Helga, he must be an autumn colour palette—look at that warm hair! Yes, yes, golden auburn, russet, like leaves in September!”

John’s pulse quickened, a blush spreading over his cheeks. He glanced around, hoping the voices weren’t too loud in case someone from the corridor could hear.

“And oh! Those eyes!” Salazar continued, leaning even closer to the edge of the frame. “Ooo, ooo, green! No… blue… no… amber! Little one, little one, what colour are your eyes?”

John’s lips pressed together. “Erm… grey-green,” he muttered softly, unsure whether he was supposed to answer.

“Grey-green!” Salazar clapped his hands excitedly, practically bouncing in his frame. “Ohhh, changing depending on the lighting and what’s around you! Helga, he’s perfect! Absolutely perfect for our little protégé! His eyes… they reflect our colours! Each one of us! The warmth, the cunning, the ambition, the loyalty… everything!”

Helga’s smile deepened, her voice soft but firm. “Yes, Salazar. Observe, but do not overwhelm. He is young, and the castle guides him as it must. His time will come.”

“Time, pah!” Salazar waved a painted hand dismissively. “His time is now! Look at him, the perfect balance—autumn warmth, reflective eyes, and that quiet, careful mind. He will do great things, Helga! I just know it!”

Helga’s gaze softened further. “Yes… he is unusual, that is certain. But patience, Salazar. We must allow him to discover himself, to grow in safety. The castle… it watches over him, as we do. And the others… they will find their place too.”

“Others! Ohhh, yes!” Salazar spun slightly in excitement, leaning closer to the table where the goblets shimmered. “I can see it! Four! Four lights, four children, all of them connected! Our little quartet! And this one… this one will gather them together. Just look at him, Helga, look at him! He carries a world of potential right in his hands!”

John’s jaw dropped slightly, clutching his book tighter. He had no idea what they meant by “the others” or the “quartet,” but the warmth of the room, the reverent tone of Helga, and the bright excitement of Salazar made his chest feel both heavy and light at the same time.

“You must not be frightened, child,” Helga said softly, her voice like a warm blanket. “The castle will guide you, and your heart will learn. You are… special. And your journey has only just begun.”

Salazar practically hummed in agreement, leaning toward the table once more. “And I cannot wait! I cannot! The perfect little protégé, and look—our colours, our essence, reflected in him. Truly, Helga… he will bring the others together.”

John’s fingers tightened around his book again. He swallowed, heart hammering. He didn’t fully understand, but somehow… somehow he felt the weight of their words, and the faintest spark of purpose, like a whisper from the castle itself.

He barely noticed as the room seemed to glow ever so slightly, the goblets catching stray light and shimmering, each one echoing a subtle hue of red, blue, green, and yellow—just as Salazar had said.

And in that quiet, ancient room, John realized… he had been found.

There was something in Salazar—the sharpness of his cheekbones, the confidence in his movements—that made John’s chest tighten. It reminded him of that boy from the train, the tall Slytherin who had patted down his uniform with a smirk and an ease that made John feel small and awkward. Freddie… yes, he thought that’s what the boy’s friend had called him.

“Freddie…” John whispered without meaning to, the name slipping out like a breath.

Salazar paused mid-ramble. For a split second, he looked utterly nonplussed. Then, to John’s shock, a bubbling sound of laughter escaped his painted lips. A giggle.

“Did you just giggle?” came a booming, amused voice from another portrait. A large, broad-shouldered man with fiery hair and a grin of pure mischief leaned forward in his frame.

“Godric,” Helga sighed, rubbing her temples. “We said we wouldn’t all surround the poor boy at once.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Godric replied, utterly unapologetic as he leaned his sword against his shoulder like a walking stick. “But Salazar giggling? It’s a spectacle. Once in a century, I’d wager.”

“Hey!” Salazar snapped, straightening his robes indignantly. “It was a dignified chuckle, not a—”

“A giggle,” Godric interrupted with a smirk. “Like a schoolgirl with a crush.”

“You—!”

“Gentlemen,” Helga cut in firmly, “must you always squabble in front of children?”

From a tall, elegant frame draped with silvery-blue, another figure stirred. Rowena Ravenclaw leaned forward, eyes sharp and steady, her hand resting thoughtfully against her chin. Her voice was soft, but it cut through the noise with surgical precision.

“He’s having a panic attack."

The bickering froze.

John’s chest was rising and falling far too fast, his fingers clutched so tightly around his book they ached. His vision had blurred, not with tears, but with the dizziness of shallow breaths. Too much attention, too many voices, too much expectation.

“Oh, dear child,” Helga murmured, her warm face etched with worry. “It’s alright, you’re safe. Breathe slowly. In… and out… with me now.” She raised her hand in her portrait, demonstrating a calm, slow breath, her eyes gentle and steady.

Salazar looked rattled, his earlier theatrics stripped away. He pressed his hand to the edge of his frame as though he could step closer. “We didn’t mean to startle you. Truly. You’re not… you’re not in danger. You’re in our keeping, little one.”

Rowena’s eyes softened ever so slightly, though her tone remained cool. “Panic is the mind’s way of drowning itself. Anchor him—something familiar. Something simple.”

Godric tilted his head, his booming confidence dimmed. “He needs grounding.” Then, his grin softened into something almost kind. “Hey, lad. What was that name you whispered? Freddie, was it? A friend already, eh? Think of him. Hold on to him.”

The four founders, so rarely in agreement, all turned their eyes—bright, painted, ancient—toward John, each one waiting, steady, as the boy’s shallow breaths hitched and trembled in the quiet of the chamber.

John’s fingers dug into the worn leather of his book as though it might hold him upright. His throat was tight, breaths too fast, too shallow, and he couldn’t get enough air. He pressed the book to his chest, eyes darting from one frame to another. Too many voices, too many eyes, too many expectations.

“Breathe with me, child, just here—” Helga demonstrated again, calm and slow, though John’s chest only heaved faster, his head buzzing.

Salazar leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was smooth and hushed. “No one here will harm you. You’re not under scrutiny. You’re only… meeting us. That’s all. Nothing more.” His words were meant to soothe, but the weight of them only pressed heavier on John’s chest.

Rowena’s gaze sharpened, not unkind but piercing. “He’s slipping further in. Do not flood him with more words. You’ll only crowd him.”

Godric, uncharacteristically subdued, crouched in his painted frame. “Alright, lad. Forget us then—think of your Freddie, eh? Picture him laughing at you for panicking over a bunch of stuffy old portraits. He’d roll his eyes, wouldn’t he?”

John’s breath hitched. Freddie’s face—sharp smile, clever eyes—flashed across his mind. For half a second, it steadied him. But then he remembered the way Freddie had reached out to straighten his uniform, that casual confidence, and the heat of shame bloomed in his chest.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be their “protégé.” He couldn’t even manage the first day of school. He couldn’t even eat breakfast.

The walls of the chamber felt like they were closing in.

“I—I can’t—” John croaked, the first word he’d managed to force out. His voice broke, thin and strangled.

Helga’s painted hands reached out as though she could cradle him. “You can, sweetheart. One breath at a time. We’ll take care of you—”

“No—!” John rasped, shaking his head hard enough to make his hair fall into his face. The sound tore out of him, raw and desperate.

Before any of them could say another word, he bolted.

His book clutched tight in one hand, he stumbled backwards, turned, and ran for the door. The heavy stone groaned open at his touch, almost as if it wanted to hold him back, but his panic propelled him through. His shoes slapped against the floor as he fled down the hidden stair, breaths ragged, vision blurring.

Behind him, the chamber fell into startled silence.

“Helga,” Godric muttered, running a hand through his painted hair. “We frightened him.”

“You frightened him,” she corrected, though her voice trembled with worry.

Rowena folded her hands tightly, her gaze following the empty space where John had stood. “No. It is not fright of us, not wholly. He carries a wound already. Our presence pressed on it.”

Salazar’s eyes narrowed, not with malice but something closer to guilt. “And yet he came here. The castle brought him here.”

“And left his trunk here,” Rowena added softly.

Helga pressed her lips together. “He’s a child. He needs kindness more than riddles or quarrels.”

“Then we will learn to give him that,” Salazar said firmly, for once finding no humour in the matter.

Chapter Text

Roger kicked the toe of his trunk until it scraped up to the empty bedframe. He’d already made an arse of himself last night, stumbling half-asleep into the wrong dormitory, collapsing on the first mattress he found. Woke up with the smell of someone else’s socks in his nose and two confused third-years staring at him like he’d sprouted extra heads. Brilliant. First proper night as a second-year and he’d already set the tone.

Now, with everyone at break, he was determined to do things properly. The four-poster creaked as he yanked the hangings open and started pulling his things out of the trunk: shirts rolled in messy bundles, a set of spare drumsticks that clattered onto the floor, a bundle of parchment he probably wouldn’t touch until he absolutely had to.

Arthur Weasley sat cross-legged on his own bed, watching. Not in a mean way, just… curious. He’d been watching Roger since they’d been thrown into the same dorm yesterday. He’d even tried chatting during breakfast, some cheerful nonsense about Quidditch and exploding snap. Roger hadn’t shut him down, exactly—just let Arthur talk himself hoarse while he nodded once in a while.

Now the silence between them stretched out, broken only by the scrape of drawers sliding open and Roger’s impatient huffs as his socks tangled in each other.

“You’re not as messy as you look,” Arthur said finally, leaning on his elbows.

Roger glanced over his shoulder, one brow cocked. “Cheers. Suppose that’s a compliment?”

Arthur grinned. “I meant it to be.”

Roger shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. He shoved another stack of clothes into the drawer and pretended not to notice how Arthur kept sneaking glances like he was trying to figure him out.

The fourth bed, empty now, belonged to a pair of boys who Roger already knew he’d steer clear of. They moved together like shadows, spoke in low mutters only the other could hear, and barely acknowledged anyone else existed. Roger had watched them at meals—eyes darting, smirks sharp. Not his type of company.

Arthur, though… Arthur was almost too easy. Friendly in that guileless way Roger wasn’t used to. Roger had seen him wave across the hall to a girl with red hair—Molly, apparently, a Gryffindor in their year. Arthur’s face had gone redder than his jumper when she waved back. Roger had smirked into his pumpkin juice.

“Why’d they put you back a year, then?” Arthur asked, tone careful. He wasn’t prying, not really—just curious, like always.

Roger stiffened, fingers tightening around a rolled-up t-shirt. He didn’t answer right away. He hated the question. Everyone wanted to know, and none of them got the truth.

Arthur must’ve sensed the wall slam down, because he raised his hands. “Sorry. None of my business. Just wondered.”

Roger shoved the shirt into the drawer with more force than necessary. “Exactly.”

For a beat the air was tense. But Arthur only shrugged, still smiling, like he hadn’t been brushed off.

Roger closed the drawer with a snap, finally looking him in the eye. “You always stare this much, Weasley?”

Arthur grinned sheepishly. “Only at people I think might be worth it.”

Roger snorted, shaking his head. “You’re daft.” But there was no bite in it.

Arthur leaned forward, eyes bright. "So, what do you like to do in your spare time?”

He shrugged, stuffing a pair of trousers into the drawer. “Pranks, I guess.”

Arthur’s face lit up like a lantern. “So that’s why you got taken down a year? Wait—hang on—are you the bloke who…?” His voice dropped conspiratorially, glancing at the door before grinning wide. “Who hexed all our quills last spring so they’d only write rude words? That was legendary.”

Roger froze mid-motion, then smirked. He hadn’t expected that one to still be floating around. “Depends what you heard they wrote.”

Arthur snorted. “Someone tried writing a Potions essay and it just kept spelling ‘Dungbrain’ over and over. Took Slughorn half a lesson to figure it out. He laughed so hard he nearly let them off.”

The blond gave a low chuckle, eyes glinting. “That was me, yeah. Word got out faster than I expected.”

Arthur slapped his knee. “Knew it! Half the year still talks about it. Thought it was brilliant.”

Roger leaned back against the bedframe, folding his arms. “Didn’t feel so brilliant when McGonagall had me polishing trophies for weeks.”

Arthur grinned. “Worth it, though?”

Roger smirked, just a little. “…Maybe.”

“What else do you do then, like… at home?”

Roger’s expression flickered, a sharp momentary hardness that didn’t escape Arthur’s notice. For a heartbeat, his jaw tightened, eyes distant—as if recalling a memory he didn’t want to name. Then, just as quickly, his shoulders relaxed and the edge softened.

“Drumming,” he said quietly.

Arthur tilted his head. “Drumming? What’s that?”

Roger’s lips twitched into the smallest smirk. “Are you kidding? You don’t know what that is?”

His grin was sheepish. “I’m a pureblood. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t. Muggle things… they intrigue me. Next year, I’m definitely taking Muggle Studies.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “…Ah. I'm half-blood. Drumming is basically making rhythm with sticks or your hands—on drums or surfaces, whatever’s handy. You hit, tap, rattle, bang, make noise that’s… music. But it’s precise, repetitive. Almost meditative. Makes you think and feel at the same time. You play, you improvise, you get lost in it. Can be loud, can be soft, but it’s… yours.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, fascinated. “That sounds… incredible. And muggle? That’s all muggle stuff, isn’t it?”

Roger nodded slowly, shrugging. “Yeah. My dad had a set. When I was little I… I’d spend hours on it. Beat patterns, rhythms, learning to coordinate hands, feet… trying to be louder than the neighbors sometimes. Not much else to do sometimes.” His tone was clipped at first, then softened, almost wistful.

He blinked, leaning back slightly. “Sounds… kind of amazing. I never thought about how something like that could be… like meditation. Focus, expression, all in one.”

Roger gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, picking up another item to put in his drawer. “Yeah… that, and it’s the one thing that’s mine. Nobody can mess with it.”

Arthur nodded slowly, as if the weight of that small confession sank into him. “I get that,” he said quietly.

The blond didn’t respond, but there was a faint ease in the tension that had briefly shadowed his face.

“So,” Roger said, rolling a pair of socks between his hands, “how’s the family these days? I mean… I know one of your brothers.” He tapped his chin, trying to recall the names.

Arthur grinned. “Oh, you mean Lancelot and Gwaine?”

Roger smirked immediately. “Right. Lancelot’s in my original year, right? Third year. And Gwaine’s a fifth year? Your parents really went for the knights of the round table thing, huh?”

Arthur laughed, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah… dad’s obsessed with Arthurian legends. Honestly, it’s a bit much sometimes.”

Roger leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. “If they have another kid… will it be called Percival?”

He snorted, leaning back against his bed. “Probably. Or maybe Morgana for a girl. Honestly, dad wouldn’t blink.”

Roger laughed softly, the sound rare and a little private. It felt good to tease someone without worrying about being judged. He paused, then glanced at Arthur. “So… what’s your deal, really? What do you actually like doing besides pretending to be curious about Gryffindor mischief?”

Arthur tilted his head thoughtfully. “Hmm… I dunno. I like exploring. Reading. I’ve tried chess, some Quidditch practice. Mostly I like learning how stuff works—magic, Muggle stuff… doesn’t matter. I just like figuring things out.”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “You mean like poking around in things you’re not supposed to?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. But… not like causing chaos. More like… understanding.”

Roger made a low whistle. “Huh. Not bad. I can respect that. Beats me just smashing quills for fun.”

“Fair enough. Though… I gotta say, I’ve heard tales about your… exploits. It's… impressive, in a terrifying way.”

Roger’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “Impressive? I prefer ‘artistic’.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Right… artistic. Uh-huh.”

There was a comfortable pause, filled with the quiet sounds of the castle—the soft echo of distant footsteps, the occasional thrum of someone moving in the hall. Roger flipped open the small book he’d been keeping by his bed, thumb tracing the edge of the pages as though grounding himself in something tangible.

“Arthur,” he asked suddenly, eyes narrowed with curiosity, “your brothers—are they… like you? All bright, cheerful, chatty sorts?”

Arthur thought for a moment, his grin fading slightly as he remembered. “Lancelot? Yeah, he’s got that charm, always polite, popular. Gwaine… more serious, clever, a bit intimidating if you don’t know him. But they’re good people. I’m… different. I guess I don’t fit neatly in their shadow.”

Roger snorted. “You don’t need to. Better to stand out than be a copy of someone else.”

Arthur’s grin returned, softer now. “I guess. You really have a way with words, Roger. I can see why people notice you.”

The blond shrugged, looking away, but a faint warmth touched his chest. “People notice. Doesn’t mean they like you.”

He leaned forward, earnest. “Well, I do. And it’s good having someone like you in my year… at least someone I understand a little.”

Roger smirked again, softening. “Guess we’ll see how long that lasts, Weasley.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

The two of them settled into a quiet rhythm, Roger arranging his things in drawers with more care than he’d expected, Arthur offering occasional advice or insight, neither one fully aware of how quickly the first morning of break had slipped past.

John’s legs burned as he ran, lungs heaving and throat tight, heart hammering so violently it felt as though it would leap straight from his chest. Every corridor of Hogwarts seemed unfamiliar, twisting and dark, yet somehow, somehow, he knew the castle itself was guiding him. Just keep moving… just keep moving…

Then—abruptly—he collided with a solid wall of muscle and flaming hair.

“AH!” John cried out, tumbling backward onto his bum as a twin of giants stared down at him, equally shocked. Papers fluttered, and his book, the one thing he had clutched like a lifeline, skidded across the stone floor, landing open. The map inside was revealed—lines in gold ink shimmering faintly under the torchlight, clearly marking passages John didn’t even know existed, while regular corridors were traced in black.

The twins froze for a moment, mouths open. “A first-year… in a secret corridor?” Gideon’s voice was incredulous, leaning closer to examine the boy. Fabian crouched down immediately, hand hovering over John as though he might break if touched too abruptly.

John’s chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. His eyes darted to the floor, to the sides, anywhere but their faces. He curled slightly, trying to make himself smaller, his hands trembling against his knees.

Fabian’s voice broke the silence, gentle but firm. “Hey… hey, it’s alright, mate. Breathe with me, okay?” He reached out carefully, guiding John upright so he could sit properly instead of half-reclining like a toppled ragdoll. John’s wide, panicked eyes followed Fabian’s hands but he didn’t flinch. He simply stared, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Gideon, taller, lankier, already leaning over the open book, ignored the immediate chaos for a moment. His fingers traced the lines of gold and black ink, fascination lighting his sharp features. “Wait… this map…” His voice dropped to a hushed whisper, excitement barely restrained. “These gold lines… secret passages, hidden corridors… some of these haven’t been documented in centuries.”

Fabian glanced up from John. “Gideon… focus. The kid’s having a panic attack. Don’t ignore him.”

“Are you… mute?” Gideon asked, finally looking at John. His voice was curious, not accusatory, but steady.

John shook his head vigorously, breathing deep, gasping in and out as his chest rose and fell.

Fabian raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips despite the tension. “Well, that’s a funny way of answering that question—without speaking,” he said, kneeling beside John and lightly touching his shoulder to steady him. John flinched slightly at the contact, staring at where Fabian’s hand rested.

“Breathe with me,” Fabian murmured again, moving slowly in rhythm, showing John how to inhale and exhale. John’s trembling fingers clutched the hem of his robe, but he tried. A few shaky breaths later, his chest rose and fell a little more steadily.

Gideon, meanwhile, was absorbed by the map. He leaned closer, tracing a corridor that wound beneath the castle, splitting and intersecting with another hidden staircase. “This… this is incredible. Some of these tunnels even connect to the dungeons near Slytherin and Hufflepuff. How did someone your age even know about this?”

Green eyes flicked toward the gold lines, fingers twitching, but he stayed silent, still trying to recover from the panic. The castle still hummed faintly around him, a gentle warmth pressing at the edges of his awareness, almost reassuringly.

Fabian noticed him watching the map. “You… you made this?” His voice was curious now, softer, more careful. “Or… you just found it?”

John shook his head, still breathing slowly, trying to stabilize. He pointed weakly at the book, then at himself, as though saying, I found it.

Gideon’s eyes widened. “Found it… in a resale shop, maybe?” He glanced at Fabian, then back to John. “This is… not just any map. Some of these passages haven’t been used in centuries. You—how did you even get this?”

John’s lips twitched slightly, the faintest twitch of a smile—or maybe a grimace—forming, but he didn’t speak. He simply watched Gideon’s fascination with the map while Fabian continued helping him sit properly, both twins careful not to crowd him, allowing the room to hold him.

The golden ink shimmered faintly, almost like the passages themselves were aware of the boy, like the castle itself had allowed him this secret glimpse. And John, still trembling slightly, felt that subtle, uncanny pull again—Hogwarts guiding him, showing him the hidden corners where he could breathe and be alone, and yet, for the first time, not entirely alone.

Gideon whispered again, awe in his voice. “This… this could be a record of every secret route in the castle. Every hidden stair, every disused passage, even the tunnels under the lake.”

Fabian glanced from the map to John. “Don’t worry, mate. You’re safe here. These corridors? Even the castle’s a friend. Just… breathe. We’re not going anywhere.”

John finally let his shoulders slump, chest rising and falling more evenly. 

Fabian crouched low, his hand sliding under John’s arms as if he were made of paper. “Alright, mate,” he said gently, “let’s get you up on your feet.”

Gideon mirrored him on the other side, and together they lifted John with the lightest touch, moving him as though he weighed nothing at all—like a feather caught between their hands. John’s feet barely touched the stone floor, his body swaying slightly as the twins adjusted their grip to balance him.

“There we go… nice and steady,” Fabian murmured. He patted John lightly on the head, a quick, almost affectionate motion, and John blinked rapidly, ducking instinctively, though he didn’t pull away. The warmth of the gesture made his chest tighten, but it was… not unpleasant.

Gideon grinned down at him. “Alright, now, introductions. I’m Gideon Prewett,” he said, tone gentle but playful. “And this thug next to me is my brother Fabian. Don’t let the size fool you—we’re harmless, mostly.”

Fabian tipped an imaginary hat. “Hello. Welcome to Hogwarts… if running into secret corridors counts as a proper welcome.”

John’s lips twitched. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod was all he offered. He still wasn’t speaking, but the tense curl in his shoulders had loosened just a fraction.

Gideon’s sharp eyes flicked to John’s oversized robes, which swallowed him almost entirely. “Ah. Right.” He muttered something under his breath and flicked his wand lightly.

Instantly, John felt the weight of his robes shift, the fabric snugging gently against him as if it had been tailored just for his frame. He looked down, eyes wide. The sleeves no longer trailed past his fingers, the hem no longer scraped the floor. Everything fit comfortably—just as it should.

Gideon held up his hand, showing the wand tip. “I’m sorry, mate. This charm will wear off in twenty-four hours, though. After that, we’ll need to either fix the robes properly or you’ll go back to… well, oversized cloak syndrome.”

John blinked again, staring at the fabric hugging him now. He could feel the difference, the strange but pleasant comfort, and he shuffled his feet experimentally.

Fabian crouched slightly, patting John on the shoulder again. “See? Not so bad. And, uh… don’t worry. We won’t let you get lost again. Not while we’re around.”

Green eyes flicked between the two twins, finally meeting Fabian’s for a brief instant before darting away. His chest still rose rapidly, but the intensity had eased. He allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod to acknowledge the introductions and the kindness.

Gideon leaned slightly closer, eyes curious, a grin tugging at his face. “What’s your name, then?”

“John Deacon,” he muttered softly, still breathing a little unevenly.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “You’re the little one who managed to make the Sorting Hat go all weird. Shame we didn’t see it ourselves—we were… er… busy stealing from the potion stock.” He elbowed Fabian with a sheepish grin.

Fabian chuckled, eyes glinting. “So you got placed in Hufflepuff then?”

John gave a small nod, eyes flicking between them, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his lips.

Gideon’s fingers twitched, wand held lazily. “Fabian… should we grow long hair?”

Fabian’s eyes gleamed. “I think I like the mysterious look he has. Fred and Brian have it, why not us too?”

Before John could respond, or protest, a flick of their wands sent a streak of magic curling through the air. Hair along their heads sprouted rapidly, curling and knotting as it lengthened. Almost instantly it brushed past their shoulders, then their mid-backs. The twins froze, wide-eyed.

“Uh… I think maybe we overdid it?” Fabian’s voice cracked slightly as he tugged at a strand, but it only seemed to grow longer, curling around his hands.

Gideon leaned back, aghast, trying to flick at a strand that had grown down to his elbows, only for it to snake further. “This is… this is too much… I—”

John’s lips twitched, then he laughed—a quiet, melodic sound at first, muffled as he pressed a hand over his mouth to hide it. The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement, though he still kept his body slightly tense, unsure if he could fully relax around these larger-than-life fifth-years.

Fabian finally turned toward him, running a hand through the rapidly growing hair and laughing despite himself. “Well… at least he thinks it’s funny.”

Gideon groaned, tugging at a particularly stubborn curl. “We look like some enchanted forest creatures now. Some enchanted forest creatures!”

John’s hand dropped from his face, the laugh escaping fully this time. It was light, almost musical, a spark of joy amid all the panic and confusion of the morning. He let himself watch the twins wrestle with their hair, and for a moment, he felt… not so small. Not so invisible.

Fabian shook his head, letting out a resigned sigh. “Alright… we’ll figure this out before breakfast. Maybe… a reversing charm? Or scissors? Possibly a pair of scissors.”

Gideon groaned again, his long hair falling into his eyes as he blinked rapidly. “We’ll need a small army of house elves to untangle this.”

The youngest snorted quietly, hiding his grin behind his hand again, warmth spreading in his chest.

John raised his wand just slightly, the tip quivering, and whispered, “Diffindo.”

Fabian and Gideon instinctively stepped back, hands raised in half-surprise, half-defensive instinct. They were fifth-years, sure—but a first-year, and one who just wielded a cutting charm on their hair? That deserved a little caution.

In a blink, the curls of their hair snapped shorter, falling in fiery red heaps to the stone floor. The weight of the hair lifted slightly as it settled, bouncing gently thanks to its natural curl. Both twins gaped in unison—shoulder-length curls now hung exactly as long as John’s hair, somewhere between shoulder and armpit.

John tilted his head, scrutinizing them, and then flicked his wand again. More hair fell, just enough to even out the lengths and shape. The floor soon bore a small mountain of flaming locks.

“Perfect,” John muttered, eyes crinkling with faint amusement.

Gideon ran a hand through his own hair, eyes glinting. “Hey… does it look as good on me as it does on you?”

“Only if it looks as good on you as it does on me,” Fabian answered, giving Gideon a sly grin.

“No! I bet mine looks better,” he shot back.

“How dare you? We are twins!” Fabian barked, pointing a finger at Gideon, voice rising in mock outrage.

John, for the first time speaking in more than a mutter, leaned in slightly, eyes serious, analyzing. “Your hair curls right, yours curls left.”

“It does?!” Both twins exclaimed simultaneously, mouths dropping.

“Means your crowns are different,” John explained matter-of-factly, eyes flicking between their heads like he was inspecting a scientific sample.

“Crowns?” Fabian echoed, frowning in confusion.

“You know? The swirl at the top of your head where the hair naturally spirals,” John clarified, voice quiet but steady.

Fabian and Gideon stared at him, trying to process that a first-year was explaining the anatomy of hair growth to them.

“What are you? A hairdresser?” Gideon finally demanded, half-annoyed, half-amazed.

He shrugged lightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I… notice things.”

Fabian leaned forward, examining his twin's hair more closely, a rare grin forming. “Well… I’ve got to admit, little one, you’ve got an eye for detail. And it does look good. You’ve got a steady hand too.”

Gideon huffed but gave a grudging nod. “Fine. I’ll give you this one. But don’t think this means you get to boss us around.”

John’s smile widened faintly, more confident now, though still gentle. “I’m not bossing… just… noticing.”

Fabian clapped him on the shoulder lightly, still smiling. “Noted. Very… impressive. And useful, apparently.”

The floor was now littered with curls, and the air smelled faintly of clean, freshly cut hair. The twins exchanged a glance—part awe, part disbelief—and John tucked his wand back into his sleeve, content with his handiwork.

“How do you know that spell? That’s a spell you learn at the end of first year!”

John shrugged lightly, almost nonchalantly. “If you read it, you know it, right?”

Gideon blinked, incredulous. “No! You don’t just know it! How is one supposed to get the wand movement perfect the first try? You have no idea how long I took to learn it. Days! Hours! Weeks! I nearly hexed myself more times than I can count.”

Fabian groaned, brushing a stray curl from his eyes. “And you just… whispered it, waved your wand, and boom—hair cut exactly how you wanted? That’s insane. You’re like… some kind of wizard prodigy or something. First-year wizard prodigy!”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Maybe.”

Gideon threw his hands in the air. “Maybe? Maybe?! I spent weeks practicing that spell. Weeks! And you… what? Just read it and did it? That’s cheating.”

Fabian laughed, though carefully this time, still mindful of John’s sensitivity. “I mean… it’s kind of brilliant. And terrifying. You’ve got skill, little one.”

“Observation. That’s all.”

Gideon muttered under his breath, running a hand through his now-perfectly cut hair. “Observation doesn’t make your hand move perfectly on the first try…”

“Apparently for him it does,” Fabian said, glancing at John with admiration. “We might have to watch this kid closely… wouldn’t want him accidentally dismantling Hogwarts before breakfast.”

John just blinked at them, expression calm, letting the twins’ chatter wash over him. 

Fabian frowned, concern flickering across his face. “Hey… why were you having a panic attack?”

He didn’t answer. He just shook his head, his gaze downcast, and started to turn away.

But before he could get far, the twins moved as if by instinct, skidding lightly to block his path. Their movements were fluid, protective, almost seamless, so he found himself hemmed in, unable to just vanish down the corridor.

“You’re… like pillars,” John muttered under his breath, stepping sideways to navigate around them. He kept his voice low, almost a comment to himself, and continued moving down the hallway, the echo of his footsteps mingling with the quiet hum of the castle.

Gideon exchanged a glance with Fabian, both of them a little taken aback by his remark, but they didn’t push further. Instead, Fabian tilted his head, keeping pace just a step behind. “We’re… pillars, huh? Fair enough,” he said softly, a trace of humor underlining the concern in his voice.

John continued walking, deliberately sidestepping, careful to remain at a distance but still aware of their presence. The twins mirrored his pace, respectful but insistent, a quiet, unspoken support.

He muttered again, barely audible: “It’s… better if I just…” His voice trailed off as the corridors stretched before him, twisting and turning in the dim torchlight.

Fabian gave a small, knowing smile. “Alright, mate. We’ll follow, but only if you let us. No hovering, no pressing. Just… here.” He gestured vaguely, indicating they weren’t going to crowd him.

Gideon grinned. “Yeah. Pillars. But… strong pillars. That’s probably what he means.”

John’s fingers fumbled in his pocket, brushing against the worn edges of his book and the smooth wood of his wand. The castle corridor stretched ahead, endless and twisting, but all he could feel was the tightness in his chest, the prickling at the back of his neck. Fabian and Gideon flanked him, walking close enough that their presence was tangible, almost suffocating. He didn’t want them there. He quickened his pace, trying to put some space between himself and the giants of fifth-year energy.

“Mate, slow down—” Fabian started, but John ignored him, his eyes scanning the walls for anything to anchor himself to.

At that moment, the corridor ahead opened, just a fraction, and Brian May, with Freddie and Mary close behind, appeared, ambling casually down the hallway. They chatted lightly with the twins—words floating, laughter, familiar voices—but to John, the sound pressed in from every side. He felt trapped. Too many tall people… too many voices… Panic clawed at his chest, and instinctively, he pressed himself toward the nearest wall.

As if the castle understood his need, a section of stone split apart with a quiet click, forming a doorway just large enough for him to slip through. Without thinking, he darted in.

“John, wait—” Fabian lunged forward, hand brushing the stone. But the wall shifted almost imperceptibly as John passed, closing smoothly behind him. Fabian’s arm got caught, trapped halfway through the brickwork, fingers pressing against the cool stone. He groaned, surprise and mild panic mingling in his tone. “Well… I’ve never had my arm stuck in a wall before,” he muttered glumly, tugging at it with no effect.

John’s eyes, catching sight of the hand frozen on the other side of the wall, couldn’t help themselves. A small chuckle escaped him, soft and brief, before he darted down the secret passage, heart pounding, lungs ragged—but lighter somehow.

Outside, in the main corridor, Freddie leaned back against the stone, laughing freely, his head thrown back and curly hair bouncing. “Oh, that’s hilarious! Look at him, Mary!”

Mary covered her mouth with her hand, snickering quietly but trying to hide it. Her eyes twinkled as she watched Fabian’s predicament, shaking her head in amusement.

Brian, ever the serious one despite the absurdity, straightened, peering at Fabian’s arm stuck in the wall. He adjusted his glasses and, mock-seriously, said, “Well, I suppose we’ll have to cut your arm off, Fabian. There’s no other solution at this rate.”

Fabian gasped audibly, eyes wide in both horror and disbelief. “Cut my arm off?! Brian, I thought we were friends, and you’re talking about chopping me!”

Gideon, ever the calm counterbalance to Fabian’s drama, stepped forward with a wry grin. “Don’t worry, brother dear,” he said, placing a hand gently on Fabian’s shoulder. “I’ll cut my arm off too, and we can still be twins.”

Freddie laughed even harder, clutching his stomach as Mary shook her head, still giggling. Brian’s mock-serious expression faltered as he gave a faint snort, clearly fighting laughter.

Fabian groaned dramatically, head leaning against the stone, muttering, “I can’t believe I let him do this to me. He’s a first-year!”

Gideon rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “Ah, but he’s a clever little one. And, admit it, Fab, it’s… kind of fun. First-year chaos has a certain charm, don’t you think?”

John’s hurried footsteps echoed in the narrow stone corridor. The walls pressed close on either side, damp and humming with magic, yet there was something comforting in their closeness. His panic had not entirely ebbed, but it was contained, quieted by the knowledge that he was alone here. No towering fifth-years, no laughter ringing too loud, no eyes staring at him expectantly. Just him, and the quiet pulse of the castle’s heartbeat.

He slowed after a while, resting a hand against the wall, catching his breath. His palm tingled faintly, as if the stone itself recognized his touch. “Thank you,” he whispered before he could stop himself. He didn’t know who he was thanking — the stone, the magic, the castle — but the words felt right.

The passage twisted sharply, and he followed it without hesitation. Something in his chest pulled him along, like invisible threads drawing him forward. Finally, the ground dipped beneath him, and the air grew lighter, warmer. A faint glow illuminated the end of the tunnel.

John stepped into it, squinting — and then, suddenly, the world shifted. The floor fell away with a soft lurch, like stepping off the last stair without realizing, and he stumbled forward into a wide, familiar chamber.

The Founder’s room.

He recognized it immediately: the great round table in the center, the four chairs, the goblets gleaming faintly in the filtered light. He staggered a step, heart still racing, trying to take in how he’d ended up here again. The huge carved door loomed behind him, now firmly shut. He hadn’t walked here. The castle had delivered him here.

John’s gaze darted to the corner where his battered trunk had been before. His breath caught. Empty. The trunk was gone.

For a moment, panic rose again, sharp and hot, his stomach tightening. He crossed the room quickly, as if the trunk might only be hidden behind the table, but no — the space was empty. His few belongings, the little pieces of home he clung to, gone. His heart squeezed.

“Looking for it?”

The voice was soft, warm, lilting with kindness. John startled, spinning toward the portraits. Helga Hufflepuff smiled down at him, her expression kind but knowing.

“It was too precious to leave here,” she said gently. “The elves have moved it where it belongs, little badger — to your dormitory. Safe and waiting for you.”

John’s lips parted, but no words came. His hand flexed at his side. He hated how relief pricked his eyes.

“Don’t fret,” Helga added softly, as though she’d read the tightness in his chest. “Nothing is taken from you. Only safeguarded.”

From the corner, Salazar’s voice broke the stillness. “Pity,” he drawled, though his tone was lighter than his words. “I rather liked the thought of him sneaking back here for his socks. It would have been amusing.”

“Salazar.” Helga sighed, but there was affection beneath it.

Rowena Ravenclaw’s portrait leaned forward slightly, her clear gaze fixed on John. “It is not chance that brought you back here. The castle guided you. You’ll come to understand in time why the walls listen when you run your hand across them.”

Godric appeared at that, bold as ever, arms folded across his chest. “Though perhaps not yet,” he said with a grin. “He’s barely a first-year. Let him breathe before you drown him in riddles.”

John blinked up at them, his shoulders taut, his lips pressing together. He didn’t know if he wanted riddles, or guidance, or nothing at all. He only knew that his chest still ached with the panic of before, his belongings gone — even if they were safe — and the weight of four portraits watching him was almost too much.

He lowered his eyes, muttering, “I don’t want attention.”

The room went quiet.

It was Helga who answered first, her voice the gentlest murmur. “Oh, little one… not all attention is a burden. Some of it is protection. Some of it is love.”

John’s throat bobbed. He turned away slightly, shoulders hunched. He didn’t want their words — not when they felt too big, too heavy.

The portraits seemed to sense it. For once, they did not crowd him with more talk. Salazar muttered something about “skittish as a rabbit,” but Godric hushed him with a sharp look. Rowena leaned back, her face thoughtful.

Finally, Helga spoke again, soft as a whisper of leaves in autumn. “Go now, dear one. You’ll find your trunk waiting. And… should the walls part again, you’ll know we are never far.”

John hesitated, fingers brushing the carved edge of the round table. The wood was warm, humming faintly beneath his touch. He pulled back quickly, almost guiltily, and with a stiff nod turned toward the door.

Once again, it opened smoothly for him, shrinking again to just his height, as though to reassure him it was meant to be used by him alone. 

The heavy door to the Founders’ chamber sealed itself behind him with a low thrum. John rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest as he walked, trying to ease the tightness there. The corridors bent and realigned almost instinctively, carrying him where he needed to go, not where he asked. When he finally emerged into the daylight-lit halls, his pace quickened. He knew he was late. His second lesson. Transfiguration.

The thought made his stomach sink. He didn’t want to enter late — to walk into a room already buzzing with first-years, everyone turning to look at him. The panic was only half-contained as he gripped his wand in his pocket for reassurance.

When he reached the classroom door, voices already carried through — excited, nervous chatter of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw mingling. He hesitated. His hand twitched toward the knob. The door creaked on its own, opening with a slowness that seemed almost deliberate. He slipped in quickly, head ducked, heart pounding.

Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes snapped to him at once. She didn’t pause mid-sentence — her voice was still steady, clipped as she addressed the class — but she gestured with one hand toward an empty desk near the middle. Her gesture wasn’t unkind, only firm.

John slid into the seat, acutely aware of the Ravenclaws’ glances — curious, appraising, whispering behind hands. Hufflepuffs too. He wished he could melt into the wood of his chair.

On the board, twenty-six symbols glowed in neat script, shifting slightly as if written with light itself. The Transfiguration Alphabet. Beside them, the simple base formula every student would need: object + intent + incantation + movement = transformation.

McGonagall finished her instructions crisply, then let the class scribble down the letters, reminding them they’d be expected to know the sequence by heart before the term’s end. “Without it,” she added, “your wand will not understand the language of transfiguration. Each letter holds the seed of change.”

John’s fingers twitched at his side. He didn’t need to write it. He’d memorised the sequence weeks ago, tracing it line by line until it had embedded itself in his mind. He knew the formula too.

He lowered his eyes, hiding the certainty in them.

“Quills down,” McGonagall said after a time. “Now — your first practical step. Match to matchstick.” With a sweep of her wand, each desk bore a small box, each box containing an ordinary, splintery match. “This,” she said, “is the simplest of transformations, and yet few of you will achieve it today.”

Chairs scraped, eager whispers rose. Quills tucked behind ears, students seized their wands.

John lifted his match between two fingers, running his thumb over the wood. It seemed to vibrate faintly — or maybe that was just his nerves. He glanced around. Ravenclaws already straightening their shoulders, Gryffindors bouncing with determination. His stomach turned.

“Begin,” McGonagall commanded.

Wands lifted. Latin muttered. Flourishes carved air. John’s lips pressed tight. He didn’t raise his wand.

“Mr. Deacon.” Her voice was not unkind, but it pinned him like a needle. John’s head jerked up, meeting McGonagall’s gaze from across the room. His breath stuttered.

She looked at the bare desk in front of him. No parchment, no quill. Only the match. Her mouth tightened slightly. “Have you not found your trunk?”

John frowned, confusion flashing sharp in his chest. Last night she’d said it wasn’t his fault. That they would find it. That he wasn’t to blame. Now she was asking him as if he’d misplaced it himself. His throat closed. He dropped his gaze, shoulders curling.

“I—” His voice caught, thin. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

Something in McGonagall’s expression softened — but only for a fraction of a second. She cleared her throat. “Very well. You may share with your neighbour today. Miss Clearwater, lend Mr. Deacon parchment.”

A Ravenclaw girl — neat blonde braid, sharp blue eyes — slid a square of parchment toward him with an arched brow. John muttered a thanks too soft to carry and hunched lower, wand tapping nervously against his leg.

He hated this. All of it.

The Ravenclaws were already ahead, murmuring precise syllables, letters drawn sharp in the air. Gryffindors blasted too much energy into the wand flourishes, resulting in matchsticks clattering across desks, one even bursting into flame. Laughter rippled. McGonagall quashed it instantly with a glance.

John stared at his own match. He knew the motion. He knew the incantation. His wrist twitched, but he didn’t raise his wand.

If you read it, you know it, right? he’d told the Prewett twins earlier. But saying and doing were different. Here, eyes were everywhere. He couldn’t bear them all seeing him succeed, or fail.

Still, the itch in his hand wouldn’t leave. Finally, when the chatter grew loud enough to cover him, he angled his wand low. Quiet breath. Whispered syllables. The flick of his wrist precise.

The match trembled. Then shimmered. Then, impossibly — it stretched, warped, and a silver needle lay on his desk. Slim, sharp, perfect.

His breath stopped. His heart hammered. He curled his hand over it, quick as a secret, hiding it from sight.

“Any progress?” McGonagall’s voice rang.

A Gryffindor crowed that his was “nearly metal!” and lifted a crooked splinter of wood, half-gleaming. Ravenclaws presented faintly bent matches. She nodded brisk approval, striding between rows.

John hunched, hand closed tight over his desk. He felt the cool metal pressing into his palm, a secret only his.

“Not yet, Professor,” he whispered when she glanced his way, so soft it barely carried.

She studied him for a beat longer than she should have. Then, with the faintest narrowing of her eyes, she moved on.

The clang of the bell sent a ripple of relief through the classroom. Books snapped shut, quills stuffed into bags, chatter erupting as Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw alike spilled toward the door. John’s shoulders slumped, his hand still clenched around the small, sharp secret hidden in his palm.

He waited for the tide to thin before he moved. He didn’t want to get caught in the crush of taller bodies, the laughter and chatter that felt like static against his skin. He hovered in his seat, hoping if he lingered just long enough, he could slip out unnoticed.

“Mr. Deacon.”

The sound of his name froze him. His head jerked up. McGonagall stood at the front, wand tucking itself into her sleeve, her eyes fixed sharply on him. The last stragglers trickled out of the door, their glances curious, before it shut behind them.

John’s pulse climbed. He stuffed his free hand into his pocket and rose slowly, his other hand still curled tightly around the transformed match. He walked to the front with the deliberate pace of someone hoping the floor would swallow him.

When he stopped in front of her desk, she studied him for a long moment. Not unkindly. Not angrily. Just sharply.

Her mouth thinned. “We shall see your trunk returned to you by this evening, I assure you. It is not your failing.”

His chest loosened slightly as he already had his trunk, had found it himself. But then her eyes narrowed just a fraction, tilting toward his closed hand. “And yet,” she said, “I cannot help but notice your reluctance today.”

John froze. His fist tightened.

“You did not raise your wand once. Not even to attempt. And yet…” Her gaze sharpened further. “I have taught long enough to recognise when a student is concealing something.”

The back of his neck prickled. He ducked his head, staring at the floorboards, but her silence pressed him to answer. Slowly, awkwardly, he uncurled his fist.

The silver needle gleamed in his palm. Perfect. Flawless.

McGonagall inhaled softly, sharply. “I see.”

John’s throat bobbed. His shoulders curled in tighter.

“You completed the transformation on your first attempt,” she said, more statement than question.

John’s voice was low, rough. “Didn’t mean to.”

Her brow furrowed. “Mr. Deacon, no one accomplishes such a feat by accident. Not without knowledge, and not without… talent.”

He flinched at the word. Talent. It felt like a curse, a label that dragged eyes and expectations to him. He muttered, “It was just a match.”

She studied him a moment longer, her lips pursing. Then she swept her wand in a flick. The needle in his palm dissolved into wood once more, an ordinary splintery match.

“Such skill is a gift,” she said softly, though her tone was still edged with steel. “But it is also a responsibility. If you are already this far ahead, Mr. Deacon, I shall expect honesty — with yourself and with me.”

John shifted on his feet, awkward, wishing he could vanish through the floor.

Her expression softened, ever so slightly. “I will not parade you before the class. Nor will I burden you with attention you clearly dislike.” Her eyes held his firmly. “But I ask only that you do not hide from your own capabilities.”

McGonagall’s sharp eyes lingered on him as he shifted uneasily in front of her desk. There was a quiet tension in the air, a tightness that clung to the corners of the classroom like dust. She folded her hands in front of her, the steel in her posture softened by a rare flicker of curiosity.

“I would like you to show me, if you would, just how far ahead you are. Not for the class. Not for your peers.” She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. “But for me. Demonstrate any spell you know — anything at all. I wish to gauge… precisely.”

John’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t used to such direct attention, and yet there was something in her tone that made him lift his wand slowly. His hand brushed the wood, fingers curling lightly around it, almost as if it were part of him.

“I saw you use the sunlight charm yesterday,” she said softly, “before the feast. That is not a charm first-years are expected to learn this soon… especially not without instruction.”

John’s lips parted slightly, the words forming in his throat but dying before they left. He shifted on his feet, eyes flicking to the floor, then up again. Finally, he muttered softly, “You... want me to show you something?"

McGonagall inclined her head slightly. “Yes. Any spell you like. Take care, but do not hold back. Show me exactly what you can do.”

He took a breath, wand raised, and murmured the softening charm he had first practiced under the twins’ watchful eyes — the second-year charm that usually softened small objects like books or chairs, meant for controlled practice.

"Spongify."

The air quivered faintly. His wand traced a subtle, almost casual arc, and the magic radiated outward. The polished classroom floor, hard stone beneath their feet, began to ripple as if it were liquid. A soft, warm glow spread from the center of the room in concentric waves. The stone beneath their feet bent, slackened, giving the sensation of walking on a supple, springy surface. Chairs wobbled slightly. McGonagall’s robes swished as she stepped back, eyes widening imperceptibly.

John didn’t flinch. He looked down at the floor, fingers still curled around the wand, as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. “It… softens,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “I… I don’t know how to reverse it.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she straightened. She didn’t move toward the wand; there was no fear in her posture, only awe, tempered with careful thought. This was a control beyond even most second-years’ understanding. And he’d done it without even articulating the pronunciation perfectly. Muttered words, normally disastrous for fledgling spellcasters, had not ruined the effect in the slightest.

“Interesting,” she said softly, almost to herself, stepping forward to the center of the room. Her gaze scanned the warped floor, lingering on the edges of the ripples. “Fascinating indeed.” She glanced at him, eyes bright with an analytical fire.

John’s shoulders tensed slightly. He muttered again, small, apologetic. “Sorry… I… I don’t know how to… undo it.”

McGonagall’s sharp gaze softened, her tone carrying a rare warmth. “Do not apologize, Mr. Deacon. You are… far beyond where most first-years even dream of being. This is not recklessness. It is control. It is talent. Extraordinary talent.”

She stepped back to the front of the room and folded her arms. The floor gradually returned to its original hardness as she muttered a counter-charm under her breath — not a complex reversal, but a stabilizing enchantment to ease the disruption. She studied him closely as the stones solidified again, the faint echo of the magic lingering in the air like a whispered signature.

Her mind worked rapidly, weighing the implications. He had mastered spells beyond his year. His control over the simplest forms of transfiguration and charmwork was already remarkable. And yet… she knew he was only beginning. She recalled Flitwick’s boast from earlier: that even in the staff room, he had bragged about the first-year who had levitated a feather a bit with without a word or wand movement.

McGonagall’s fingers tapped lightly against her desk, her mind racing. Could this boy handle being pushed forward? Could he be placed up a year? She frowned thoughtfully. It was rare, nearly unprecedented, to contemplate such a measure on a first day, but the evidence was… undeniable.

“Remarkable,” she murmured. “And yet, he is still… hesitant. Careful. It is not arrogance. He is… wary.”

John shifted slightly, shoulders curling as he met her gaze. The weight of observation pressed down on him, and he ducked his head.

“You do not need to demonstrate more,” she said gently. “But know this — you have been noted, Mr. Deacon. Truly noted. And we will consider carefully what you require to thrive here. That may include… a different year than the one in which you were placed. You may need to be challenged, yes, but safely. Not pushed beyond control, only far enough to grow.”

John’s throat bobbed slightly, and he murmured something inarticulate under his breath. She caught only the faintest whisper.

“Good. That will do.” She allowed a very rare, small smile. “Now, Mr. Deacon, you may leave — but I expect careful thought before any further charmwork today. And do not forget your trunk will be returned soon. All your materials, all your things — they are not lost, only temporarily elsewhere.”

John inclined his head minutely, still quiet, and tucked his wand back into his robe pocket. He left the classroom slowly, hands gripping his empty book pocket. His heart still thumped from the adrenaline, but there was a strange, almost thrilling weight in it — the sense that he was already… noticed. That the magic in his fingertips was recognized, even if the world hadn’t yet caught up.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the room seemed to sigh — a gentle, reverent hush — as if Hogwarts itself had acknowledged the boy’s ability and watched him leave with quiet approval.

The clang of the bells marked the start of lunch, echoing through the corridors and drawing students like a tide toward the Great Hall. John’s stomach lurched in protest, though not from hunger. He walked in slowly, the robes around him heavy and unfamiliar after hours of running through corridors, the faint stench of sweat sticking to the fabric.

Stephen and Colin, those insistent first-years who had been eager to pull him along earlier, spotted him almost immediately. Their faces lit up, and they hurried over, waving small wooden spoons and bread rolls like signaling flags.

“Come on, John! You can’t just skip lunch!” Stephen said, leaning a little too close, eager to persuade.

Colin added, “Sit with us! You have to eat something, you’re going to collapse!”

John didn’t raise his eyes. He let the words wash over him as if they were background noise, his attention already fixed on a far corner of the hall, where the tables gleamed in the flickering candlelight. He felt the weight of every eye in the hall, and the crowding made his chest tighten.

He slid into a bench, not speaking, not reaching for the food. His posture shrank inward, shoulders curling, hands gripping the edge of the bench. Colin and Stephen hovered, leaning closer, their voices rising in the frantic, anxious tone of people who believed their care could fix the problem.

“Please, just a bit! You can start with a roll,” Stephen urged.

John blinked slowly, his gaze finally lifting just enough to meet theirs. His eyes were dull, rimmed faintly with fatigue, but clear enough to convey: I’m fine.

Then, almost before they could respond, he pushed back from the bench. The scrape of his shoes against the stone floor sounded unnervingly loud. He ignored the calls behind him — Stephen’s, Colin’s, and a few whispered exclamations from other first-years nearby.

He moved toward the exit, weaving through the larger legs of older students, past a group of fifth-years laughing at some private joke, past a Slytherin leaning against a column tossing crumbs into the air. His stomach churned, a combination of emptiness and dizziness, and yet the movement through the crowd steadied him a little, each step a small anchor in the chaos of the hall.

Stephen called after him, voice cracking, “John! Don’t— don’t leave like this!”

Colin added, panicked, “Wait! You need—”

But John was already at the door, pushing it open and letting the cool, quieter air of the corridor wash over him. The sudden contrast was almost painful — the laughter and clamor of the hall left behind, replaced with a low echo of his own footsteps. He clutched the hem of his robe, trying to steady himself against the vertigo building from missed meals and frantic morning exertion.

He swayed slightly, stomach twisting, knees weak, but he refused to stop. There was no space for him at the table, he told himself. No space for the attention. No space for the concern that came with it. The Great Hall, warm and bustling, would only overwhelm him further.

He paused briefly in a side corridor, leaning against the cold stone wall, hand pressed to his forehead. The dizziness hit harder, a fog creeping over his mind, tugging at the edges of memory already fragile. He realized the world was spinning slightly, the shadows of the corridor stretching and compressing in ways that made him grip his wand instinctively.

A soft, almost imperceptible groan escaped him as he slid down to sit on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. His breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. The absence of food, water, and even a moment of real rest since arriving at Hogwarts weighed down on him, pressing through every bone in his body.

Yet, even in this, he was quiet. No calls for help. No raised voice. He simply sat, fingers brushing the floor absentmindedly, wand tucked carefully in his robe pocket, and his book clutched like a talisman. He leafed through the pages, tracing familiar lines, letting the known patterns of words and diagrams distract him from the spinning around him.

The echoes of the Great Hall faded. The only sound was the rustle of pages and the soft tap of his wand against the stone floor as he absentmindedly traced circles, muttering tiny observations to himself.

He would eat later. Perhaps. For now, the world could wait.

John leaned against the cold stone wall, wand and book clutched in his lap, staring at the floor as if the cracks might somehow hold answers. He tried to summon the image of his father, tried to feel that familiar warmth, the laughter or even the gentle scolding that had somehow anchored him through so many moments of childhood. But it was gone.

The edges of memory felt shredded, like a tapestry left out in a storm. He could remember snippets — a voice, a laugh, a gesture — but the texture of the moment, the smell of the air, the warmth of the hands, all of it slipped further and further away. The birthdays, the small, mundane moments, the quiet evenings — they all dissolved the more he tried to grasp them. He clutched at the thought of the 19th of August, just days before the incident, a single smile, a joke, a fleeting laugh from his father… but even that faded to gray

He tried his sister, Julie. The curve of her cheek, the sparkle in her eye. He remembered holding her hand, brushing her hair, helping her when she cried. But those moments were after the funeral, after their father had died. The memories were functional, caretaking memories, not the warm, alive ones he longed for. He didn’t know her laughter before the grief. He didn’t know her happiness outside the shadow of loss.

His mother, too, existed only in pieces: the dark clothes she wore at the rushed funeral, the sound of muffled crying behind the locked bedroom door. He could almost remember her smile from before, but it was a hollow image, fading every time he tried to focus. He could picture her eyes, but not their shine. He could picture her hands, but not their warmth.

All he had left were the mere days after his father’s death. Mere days of waking to quiet, of empty rooms, of shadows stretching longer than they should. He had tended to Julie, kept the house together, fed himself, moved through the motions. But it had felt like he was living someone else’s life. His family — the family he had known — had vanished with his father’s breath, leaving behind only shapes in a darkened house.

And now he was here, at Hogwarts, a place that should have been a wonder but felt alien and overwhelming. He could not feel their presence here. He could not feel his father’s laughter in the echoes of the castle halls, nor his mother’s warmth in the chill of the stone corridors. The people around him — the chatter, the excitement — pressed against him, foreign and loud. He felt utterly unmoored.

He pressed his hands to his face and whispered into his palms, a murmur that no one would hear, not even himself, “I shouldn’t have come here.”

Every instinct, every flicker of logic screamed it: he should have stayed home, stayed with his sister, helped his mother, kept what was left of their fragile routine intact. But he hadn’t. He had left them. He had left his home, his familiar rooms, the only people who had known him completely, to face this immense, frightening world alone.

His throat tightened. He felt tears welling but didn’t let them fall. Not yet. The weight of grief and fear pressed down like a physical force, and he knew — with a sharp, stabbing clarity — that he was alone here. Not just in the castle, not just among strangers, but in the deeper, invisible sense: no one could know what it was like to be him, to have four days of memory and nothing more.

He tried again to summon the image of his father’s face, the curve of his lips in laughter, the way he smelled on warm summer mornings. Nothing. Only gray. Nothing of the warmth that had once been there remained.

John pressed his wand and book closer, holding them like talismans against the emptiness. The thought of Julie gnawed at him constantly. Who would protect her now? Who would keep her safe from the loneliness, from the grief, from the way the world kept moving even as it had taken their father? He had been her anchor. And he was gone.

Everything felt wrong. Hogwarts was meant to be magical, wondrous, and full of learning. And yet all he could feel was the hollow echo of absence. The castle walls pressed in around him, shadows long and cold, and he felt the truth in the pit of his stomach: he should never have left. He should never have come here.

He pressed his face to his knees, hiding as best he could. The dizziness, the hunger, the panic — it all came crashing together, suffocating, unrelenting. He didn’t know how to navigate this new world, didn’t know how to reconcile what he had lost with what he was supposed to be gaining. All he knew was that the hole where his family had been, where his memories had lived, was growing, and there was no one to help him fill it.

And in that quiet, unbearable moment, he whispered again to himself, just a breath, barely audible: “I shouldn’t have come.”

Chapter Text

Isn't this art adorable? It's what prompted me to make this fic!

The corridors were quiet after lunch, the clatter of the Great Hall fading into echoes as most students moved off to their next lessons. For the Hufflepuff first-years, the afternoon brought a free period — the one odd slice of autonomy amid the structured chaos of the school day. Most of them wandered toward the library or the common room, chatting and laughing.

John, however, was nowhere to be found. He was still in the shadowed side corridor just beyond the Great Hall, knees drawn up, and drifted into an exhausted sleep. He had only managed four hours of sleep the previous night, after all the confusion with the sorting, the missing trunk, and the chaos of arriving at Hogwarts. Every nerve in his body throbbed, and his mind had simply surrendered to the quiet that the corridor offered.

No one noticed his absence. Not Colin or Stephen, still hovering near the common room, nor the few wandering older students. 4th lesson had ended, and the castle’s rhythm carried everyone forward, leaving John alone in his quiet corner.

Pomona Sprout, now, had started to notice something amiss. The herbology classroom was unusually empty, and when she glanced at her register, a pang of worry shot through her. John Deacon wasn’t present.

She muttered under her breath, tugging at her sleeves. “Something’s not right…”

Her hand rose, and with a subtle flick, she sent a silvery Patronus gliding through the corridors. It darted silently, passing other teachers, making its way toward Madam Pomfrey’s infirmary. Pomfrey, thirty and alert, was accustomed to the small surprises Hogwarts could throw at her. A silvery otter glided toward her, carrying Pomona’s message: a first-year missing during a scheduled class period.

“Not again,” Pomfrey muttered, frowning.

Meanwhile, down another corridor, Roger Taylor and Arthur Weasley were careening around a corner, Peeves’ mocking shrieks echoing behind them. “I shouldn’t have become friends with you so soon!” Arthur gasped, ducking under a low archway. “This is a terrible idea!”

Roger grinned wildly, weaving around the angles of the corridor with a reckless thrill. “Relax, Arthur! This is fun! You’re overthinking it!”

They skidded into a side passage to escape a particularly clever barrage of soot and whoopee cushions Peeves had prepared, and then — suddenly — Roger tripped over something.

“Oof!” he yelped, nearly tumbling himself.

Arthur stumbled behind him, catching himself against the wall. “Roger, what—”

But then both of them froze. On the cold stone floor lay a small figure, head ducked, robe rumpled, chest rising and falling with uneven but steady breaths.

The boy was deep in sleep, far beyond mere drowsiness, and Roger’s heart skipped. This was the second time he’d collided with John in just a few hours — the first had been an unremarkable bump in the corridor — but now the sight of him unmoving, pale in the shadowed light, set Roger’s instincts into overdrive.

He knelt beside John, tentatively brushing the boy’s cheek with his fingertips. “Hey… wake up…”

No response.

Arthur edged closer, biting his lip nervously. “He’s… he’s not waking. Should we—”

Roger sighed through clenched teeth. “Ok, fuck it.” He formed his hand into a firm fist and pressed his knuckles against John’s sternum, just as he had seen emergency procedures used in Muggle hospitals. The boy flinched violently, hissing a tiny, startled sound, curling away instinctively from the sudden, sharp pressure.

“Woah! Hey! Are you okay?” Roger said, stepping back slightly as John scrambled to tuck his wand and book away, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with panic.

John blinked up at him, and for a moment Roger noticed the blank, detached quality in the boy’s gaze — the way he didn’t seem to register the world fully, like the corridors, the laughter, and even the collision were all distant and muted.

“What’s your name?” Roger asked again, keeping his tone gentle.

The boy hesitated, blinking slowly. His lips moved, but only the faintest whisper emerged. No one would have heard it in the echoing corridor.

Arthur glanced between them nervously. “Does he… speak?”

Roger shrugged, a little uneasily. “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just… like, super careful about talking. First day jitters, probably.”

“I’m Roger,” he said finally, holding out a hand carefully. “That’s Arthur. We’re in second year — though I got pushed down a year, so technically I’m older than I look and I’ve got more authority than him.” He gave John a small, cheeky grin. “Anyway, you probably should be in class, little one. So… why were you asleep in the corridor? You look like you’ve been running on four hours or something.”

John said nothing. He stared at Roger, at the brick walls, at the light falling through the high windows, then down at his lap. He tugged at his robe lightly, uncomfortable. 

Unseen to him, a silvery light slanted through the corridor, darting and weaving with elegant precision.

The otter found him immediately. It paused, circling the small figure slumped against the wall, assessing the boy’s state. Its presence was comforting in a way John couldn’t consciously register, a glimmer of warmth and assurance brushing against the edges of his panic. But it didn’t linger. Swiftly, it arced through the air toward the infirmary, knowing its next task: delivering the urgent message to Madam Pomfrey so that she could come for him.

The otter burst through the doors of the infirmary, shimmering and gliding across the floor. Pomfrey caught it immediately. She raised her wand as the creature circled, a wordless communication passing between them. Its message was clear: the first-year, John Deacon, was with others, in a corridor near the Great Hall, pale, disoriented, and unsteady. Pomfrey’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she set off at a brisk pace, wand at the ready, staff awareness heightened for any immediate dangers.

Meanwhile, back in the corridor, Roger and Arthur had begun edging closer to John, crouching slightly, trying to coax him upright.

“C’mon, little one,” Roger said gently, a hint of coaxing in his voice. “You’ve gotta stand. You can do it. Just… lean on us if you need.”

John flinched slightly, moving back as their hands hovered near him. As he stood on his own, he could feel the energy of the corridor pressing down — the shadows, the echoes of his own rapid heartbeat, the dizzy spinning of the floor beneath him. Black dots clouded his vision, a creeping numbness spreading across his peripheral awareness. Sound began to distort; the distant clatter of other students, the faint wind in the castle, even Roger’s voice, stretched and folded into a distorted hum that throbbed in his ears.

He tried to stay standing, tried to disappear into the stone wall, but his body betrayed him. His legs almost gave way, his knees threatening to collapse under him. Instinctively, he tried to steady himself, leaning against the wall, but the vertigo surged harder, knocking him off balance.

Roger lunged, hands ready to grasp him. Arthur followed, arms ready, but John shook his head weakly, trying to push himself upright. He planted his feet, wobbled, and suddenly all the air seemed to leave him at once. Black spots widened, sound vanished entirely, and the world tilted violently.

He toppled forward. Roger and Arthur barely had time to catch him. Roger’s hands found John’s shoulders and back, Arthur’s grasp on his arms, and together they supported him just as his legs gave out completely. John sagged into them, limp as a rag, eyes half-lidded, lips pale.

Roger’s heart hammered in his chest. “Wake up... wake up,” he muttered under his breath, panic rising as he realized the boy’s exhaustion was far more than normal first-year fatigue.

At that exact moment, a soft shimmer of silver light appeared at the far end of the corridor. Pomfrey, fast and precise, rounded the corner, wand raised, hair slightly disheveled from the hurry. Her eyes immediately locked on the small, slumped figure in Roger and Arthur’s grasp. Relief flickered across her face, but it was tempered by the precision of her awareness — she saw how fragile John was, how close he had come to losing consciousness completely.

“Stand still, stand perfectly still!” Pomfrey called in a clear, steady voice, moving quickly but gently toward them. Her wand traced the air, preparing stabilizing charms she had memorized for emergencies like this.

Roger stepped back slightly, letting Pomfrey take the lead, though his hands remained lightly against John’s back, almost as if to reassure both the boy and himself that he wasn’t leaving him alone. Arthur mirrored him, eyes wide but alert.

Pomfrey knelt carefully, examining John’s state. “He’s exhausted… weak… probably hasn’t eaten, hasn’t slept properly. That’s why he’s collapsed,” she murmured to herself, voice low but precise, as if speaking aloud might somehow break the fragile balance of his condition. Her hands hovered near him, not touching yet, letting the boy adjust to her presence.

John, still dazed, felt her attention like a weight on his chest — not threatening, not harsh, just the unavoidable awareness of someone noticing everything at once. His wand and book were still tucked against him; he didn’t move them, but he felt them vibrate faintly with the quiet hum of protective magic from Pomfrey’s approach.

The otter had returned to Pomona Sprout by now, circling gently around the greenhouse professor and communicating, wordlessly but unmistakably: the boy had been found. He was safe… for now. Pomona’s shoulders relaxed, the tension in her spine softening just enough to return to her classroom. Her eyes lingered briefly on the flickering light of the Patronus, gratitude sparkling before she resumed her teaching, leaving the immediate rescue in Pomfrey’s capable hands.

John’s senses slowly started to reintegrate, the black dots shrinking and retreating to the edges of his vision. Sound returned in fragments, faint first, then sharper: Arthur’s quick, uneven breaths, Roger’s whispered “he’s alright… he’s alright,” and Pomfrey’s calm, authoritative instructions.

John finally managed to shift slightly, leaning against Pomfrey as she guided him upright. His legs wobbled violently, but he didn’t protest, just allowed himself to be supported. The corridor seemed narrower somehow, safer somehow, with Pomfrey’s presence anchoring him and Roger and Arthur flanking him like silent guardians.

Pomfrey’s hands were firm but gentle as she led John down the quiet corridor. He leaned lightly against her, tiny and unsteady, every step careful. Roger and Arthur flanked them, walking slightly behind, glancing back nervously as if expecting him to collapse again.

“Just a little further, John,” Pomfrey murmured softly, keeping her voice calm and neutral. “We’ll have you settled in the infirmary. Nothing to worry about. You’ll be safe there.”

John’s head remained lowered, eyes flickering between the floor and her robes. He didn’t speak, didn’t even respond with a nod, but he followed her lead. His child hands clutched the folds of his robe, fingernails biting into the fabric, a quiet rhythm that betrayed how tense he was.

The infirmary came into view, its usual antiseptic smell mingled with the faint scent of herbs and potions Pomfrey kept for emergencies. She led him to a vacant bed, pulling the blankets back gently. “Here,” she said, kneeling beside him. “You can rest here. No one will disturb you. Drink, eat, or move when you’re ready. That’s all.”

John lowered himself onto the mattress with surprising care, his movements almost ritualistic. He folded his legs beneath him, curling slightly as if to make himself smaller, safer. 

Roger leaned against the foot of the bed, arms crossed, clearly uncomfortable with just standing there. “Uh… you’re really tiny, you know?” he muttered.

Arthur sighed, adjusting his hair nervously. “I don’t even know what to say right now. Should we… leave him? He probably wants to be alone.”

Pomfrey shook her head gently. “Stay nearby if you like, quietly. You're in luck I know you have a free period. He’s not in danger now, but he’s exhausted. He may need some time to rest, and sudden conversation might overwhelm him.”

John’s eyes flicked to them briefly — Roger’s energetic, watchful gaze and Arthur’s hesitant concern — then back down at the blanket pulled up to his chin. He exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening just a fraction.

Pomfrey knelt beside the bed again, examining him carefully. “You’ve missed meals, haven’t you?” she said softly. “And sleep. That’s why you felt faint, that’s why your legs gave out. It’s not because you’re weak, John. You’re just… overloaded.”

He didn’t respond. He never did. But the tiniest shiver of acknowledgment ran through his shoulders. Pomfrey understood — some things didn’t need words.

She smoothed his hair lightly, careful not to invade his space, just enough to reassure. “Rest now. No lessons, no chores, nothing. Just this bed. When you’re ready, we’ll figure out the rest.”

John curled further into himself, letting the warmth of the blankets and the quiet of the infirmary settle him. Roger and Arthur, uncertain, shifted awkwardly to stand against the wall near the door, giving him space but still nearby, the guardians of the corridor now silent sentries.

Pomfrey watched him for a long moment, ensuring he was truly stable. Finally, she rose quietly. “I’ll check on you in a little while,” she whispered, stepping to the side. “You’re safe now.”

Roger and Arthur had quietly slipped away after making sure John was settled in the infirmary bed, murmuring to Pomfrey that they would leave him alone now. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving the small room quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock and John’s shallow, uneven breaths. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself, hiding a little behind the fabric, but his eyes, wide and wary, remained on Pomfrey as she crouched beside the bed again.

“I need to talk to you, John,” Pomfrey said softly, hands resting gently on her knees, careful not to reach for him unless he invited it. John said nothing, staring at the folds of the blanket. His hands gripped the edge of his robes, knuckles whitening.

Pomfrey took a deep breath. “Part of my job — part of Hogwarts’ rules — is that I need to send a letter home anytime a first-year is found in the infirmary under these circumstances. It’s called a ‘hospital wing notification.’ You’ll probably get letters sent to your family often this year if you’re ever ill, exhausted, or injured. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Green eyes widened slightly. His grip on his robes tightened as though he were trying to make himself small, invisible. Panic crept up his throat, a cold, curling thing. “No… no… they can’t know,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “My mum… my sister…”

Her expression softened immediately, understanding the fear and urgency behind his words. “Look, John. I understand you not wanting to cause them worry, I truly do. But I need to be honest with you. I’m only telling you so that you are aware of the letter being sent. You don’t have any choice about the matter, I’m sorry.”

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard, hands still clutching at his robes. The knots in his chest tightened as the thought of his mother or sister reading about him here, alone and struggling, sank into him. His jaw pressed tight, eyes flitting to the floor, then back to Pomfrey.

“Can I… go home?” he muttered, almost to himself. His voice was quiet but steady, a fragile plea that didn’t carry any childish whine, only the raw honesty of someone who felt untethered.

Pomfrey’s lips pressed together. She had known homesickness could be strong, especially for first-years, but there was something heavier in his gaze — deeper than ordinary worry or shyness. She crouched slightly closer, keeping her tone calm and soothing. “John… the school year has just started. You have not settled in yet. I understand what homesickness feels like, I truly do. But… Hogwarts is your home for now. We need to keep you safe here.”

“I shouldn’t have come here,” John said, barely a whisper. His eyes were cloudy with an emotion she couldn’t yet name — grief, fear, anger, maybe all of them intertwined. There was something deeper there, something not just about being scared or lost. It was like a hollow ache he carried inside him, something Pomfrey could see reflected even without knowing his history.

She nodded slowly, absorbing his words without pushing. “I understand,” she said softly. “It’s not easy. I can’t promise everything will feel alright immediately, but I can promise you… I will make sure you are safe, and you will not be forced into anything. We will take it step by step. You are not alone here.”

Then she held up a small, thick vial, the liquid inside a murky shade of green-brown. “This is a nutrition potion,” she explained gently, her tone calm and encouraging. “It’ll help you regain strength and keep you steady for the rest of the day. Best swallowed in one go — it does taste horrid if you dawdle.”

John’s eyes widened slightly at the color, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He turned the vial over in his hands, trying to gauge exactly how bad it might be.

Pomfrey caught the look and smiled faintly. “Don’t smell it. And don’t think about the possible ingredients,” she added lightly, though there was a twinkle in her eye. “Just drink. You’ll be fine.”

He grimaced. He tilted his head back and, in a quick motion, swallowed the potion in one go. Pomfrey’s brow lifted in quiet approval. She immediately handed him a glass of water, which he sipped carefully, the cold liquid washing away the lingering taste.

“Thank you,” he muttered softly, eyes downcast, hands curling around the glass.

Pomfrey nodded, satisfied. “Good. That’s done. Now…” She tapped her wand lightly, and his school uniform shimmered briefly before transfiguring smoothly into soft, oversized pyjamas. They were pale blue — comfortable, warm, and forgiving of his small child frame.

John tugged at the fabric briefly, testing it, and felt an unexpected ease. The stiff robes of the morning were gone. He sat back against the pillows, feeling the weight of the day pressing less heavily against him.

“Sleep now,” Pomfrey said softly, keeping her voice even and soothing. “You need to rest. Tomorrow, we’ll work on finding your trunk, catching up with lessons, and everything else. But for tonight, just sleep.”

He nodded slowly, the words unnecessary between them now. Pomfrey adjusted the blanket over him, tucking it lightly under his chin, then stepped back to the edge of the bed. She didn’t hover; she didn’t crowd him. She simply made sure he had the space to let go, to rest without fear.

John closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. His breathing evened out, shallow but steady, and the tension in his shoulders eased. Pomfrey watched him for a moment longer, making sure he was truly settled, before quietly leaving the infirmary.

Freddie slinked into the Hufflepuff common room after dinner, his robes slightly loose, his hair fluffed to perfection as usual. He slid into the seat beside Mary with a flourish, tilting his head just enough to flash that cheeky grin of his.

“Hello,” he purred.

“AH! FREDDIE!” Mary yelped, nearly tipping her chair backward in surprise. “How are you in here? What are you doing in our common room?”

“I’m a Slytherin,” he said lightly, waving a hand as though that explained everything.

“That’s what you always say!” Mary exclaimed, glaring at him. “Now, how did you get in?”

Freddie leaned back casually, crossing his legs with effortless elegance. “I asked someone if they could take me in,” he said, smirking like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You… asked someone?” Mary repeated, incredulous.

“Yes,” Freddie replied, with a tilt of his chin. “I thought Hufflepuffs were supposed to be rather nice, but the guy I asked… he wanted payment.”

“Payment?” Mary echoed, raising a brow.

Freddie pouted dramatically. “I don’t know. I just kissed him, and that was payment enough.”

“You… kissed him?” Mary’s hands flew to her cheeks.

Freddie nodded, grinning wider. “It worked. I’m here, aren’t I?”

Mary’s eyes widened in horror. “Freddie… homosexuality is illegal!”

Freddie’s expression shifted to mock shock. “Here? But Mary, it was legalized in Wizarding England in 1946, the year I was born! Can you believe that? It’s like my birth changed something.” He waved a hand, the motion sending a loose strand of his hair to dance theatrically over his shoulder.

She sighed, leaning back, her fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. “Oh good. I’m too used to Muggle law. Everything is so… rigid.”

“It’s not legal in Muggle land?”

Mary shook her head. “No… it’s not. I mean… sometimes, depending where you are. But generally? Definitely not yet.”

“Ah.” Freddie leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Well, I know it’s certainly not legal in Zanzibar, wizard or not. So I’ve always had to be… careful. But Hogwarts? I thought it might be a little more… accommodating.”

Mary rolled her eyes, hiding a smile behind her hand. “Accommodating? Freddie, you’re impossible. Only you would casually stroll into a Hufflepuff common room and announce your Slytherin-ness while discussing kissing as currency.”

Freddie tilted his head, feigning deep thought. “It’s called charm, my dear. One must adapt to survive… or, preferably, thrive.” He leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “Besides, you should know, I’ve already had a rather eventful first day here. That little first-year…” He winked subtly, lowering his voice as he gestured vaguely toward the other side of the room.

She groaned, leaning back in her chair, exasperated but smiling. “Will you shut up about that first-year? It’s clear he hates attention. Why are you so obsessed with him anyway?”

Freddie tilted his head, feigning deep thought, tapping his chin lightly with a finger. “Do you know… I actually have no clue!! Maybe it’s because he has long hair…"

“Because he has long hair…” Mary repeated, trying not to laugh. A small giggle escaped her before she shook her head. “Wow, Freddie. That is… truly a grand reason. What about his hair?”

“Well… it’s long, isn’t it!” Freddie gestured vaguely, the motion almost theatrical.

“It’s long…” she echoed, smiling wider now, watching him with amusement.

“I don’t know, Mary! There’s just something about him that makes me want to wrap him up in a ball of blankets and sing a lullaby to him.”

Mary blinked at him, a laugh breaking through. “And that has nothing to do with the fact he’s a tiny first-year, terrified of everyone, and barely talks to anyone?”

"You know… that just might be it…”

She leaned back in her chair, laughing softly. “Freddie, that is half the first-years! Tiny, scared, shy… why is he any different?”

Freddie smirked but didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the corner of the common room where John had been in the early morning but he didn't know that, he was just drawn to look at it. “He’s… quieter, yes, but there’s something… there’s a weight about him. A little storm hiding behind that calm, and it makes me want to protect him.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “A storm?”

“Yes,” Freddie said quietly, leaning closer, lowering his voice theatrically, “and I simply cannot resist a storm. Even a tiny, silent one.”

Mary shook her head, chuckling, and waved a hand toward the exit of the common room. “Well, just… try not to overwhelm him, okay? You’re… well, you’re Freddie Mercury, the whirlwind.”

Freddie leaned back in his chair, a dramatic sigh escaping him. “Ah, Mary… where would the fun be if I didn’t stir things up a little? Besides, a careful approach is necessary. One must charm carefully, but effectively.”

Mary groaned again, muttering under her breath, “Charm carefully… you can't do that.”

“Fine… I suppose even a little storm like him requires some finesse.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “You’ll scare him even more.”

“Or… perhaps, I’ll be the calm of the storm he didn’t know he needed.”

Mary blinked at him. “Freddie…”

“Mary,” he said, eyes sparkling, “sometimes a storm only needs a guide.”

The corridors were quiet, shadows stretching under the flickering torchlight, and the usual hum of Hogwarts at night was replaced by the occasional creak of stone and the whisper of distant drafts. Brian moved steadily, wand in hand, the prefect badge on his robes catching the low light as he patrolled the halls. It was just past 1 a.m., and he was determined to make sure no first-years were wandering where they shouldn’t be.

A faint rhythm reached him — a steady, insistent drumming. He frowned and sighed, muttering under his breath. Of course..

Brian followed the sound down the twisting corridors, the beat growing louder as he approached the abandoned music room. He paused at the door, hand hovering over the handle. He didn’t even need to open it — he already knew who was inside.

Pushing the door open quietly, he stepped in. The dim candlelight reflected off brass instruments scattered around the room, and in the center, Roger sat at a battered drum, sticks flying with rapid precision.

“Roger.” Brian’s voice was calm, but firm.

Roger froze mid-beat, a mischievous grin splitting his face. “Brian! How lovely of you to join me.”

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Brian said, stepping fully into the room.

“Are you kidding?” Roger’s grin fell, replaced with a sharp seriousness that only came when he wasn’t joking around. “Last year, you used to sneak in here to play! And now, you’re a prefect? You’re going to kick me out, give me detention, deduct points?”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Okay, Rog. Something is clearly going through your mind. It’s only the second night."

Roger’s jaw tightened. “Oh really? You think something wouldn’t be going through my mind after summer holidays? With that bastard?” His fists clenched unconsciously as he muttered the words, voice low.

“I know, I know,” Brian said softly, stepping closer, trying to defuse the tension. “I’m sorry.”

“And I’ve been dropped down a year!” Roger growled, letting out the frustration that had been simmering since the start of term.

Brian used the opportunity to redirect him, leaning against the doorframe. “How’s it going? Any new friends?”

Blue eyes rolled skyward, muttering under his breath, “You sound like my mum.” Then, after a pause, he admitted grudgingly, “Yes. Arthur Weasley."

“Gwaine Weasley's brother?” Brian prompted.

“The one.” Roger’s grin softened slightly at the memory. “Helped me mess with Peeves earlier. Then we ran into… doesn’t matter.”

“No, I want to know,” Brian pressed, curiosity winning out over caution.

He scowled slightly. “Why? He’s just a little first-year.”

“Yeah, but I’m bored,” Brian said, shrugging. “Strolling the corridors is annoying.”

“Fine,” Roger relented. He leaned back against the piano, eyes glinting with mischief and exasperation. “We were running, and I tripped over the little guy. He was sleeping in the corridor. I used that… er… what’s it called, rib rub—”

“‘Sternum rub’?” Brian asked, voice careful. He knew some of these muggle techniques from his mother, who had been a nurse at St. Mungo’s. She had taught him a few, especially the harsher methods.

“Yeah. The harsh one,” Roger muttered. “He wouldn’t wake, so I used it. Then— like… a Patronus came along. Wicked, by the way. So cool.”

Brian blinked. “A Patronus?”

“Yeah, yeah! It shimmered and danced, all silvery and faint. Then— well, he stood, and he fainted!”

“He fainted?” Brian repeated, incredulous.

“I know! Shocking, right?” Roger’s hands flew in the air, emphasizing every word. “Then Pomfrey arrived, took him to the infirmary. Said he probably hadn’t eaten or slept much. He did look very tired… anyway, she called him John.”

Brian rubbed his face, running a hand over his tired eyes. “That might be the John Freddie keeps going on about.”

“Oh, Freddie?” Roger’s face twisted into an amused smirk. “He’s the odd Slytherin, right? From Zanzibar?”

“I told you about him last year, Rog,” Brian said patiently, trying not to lose his cool.

“Yeah,” Roger muttered, looking up at the ceiling with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “But do I ever listen?”

Brian shook his head, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Apparently not. But that little first-year… sounds like he’s having a rough start. You sure you didn’t scare him more?”

He shrugged, a mix of defiance and concern flickering across his face. “Maybe a little. But he’s… tiny. I couldn’t just leave him there. Someone had to act. And it’s… well… he’s not just any first-year, is he?”

Brian studied him for a long moment, noting the unusual seriousness in Roger’s tone. “No. I think you’re right. He’s… unusual. But so are you, Rog.”

Blue eyes narrowed, a frown tugging at his features. “What? You think he has a bad home life too?”

Brian raised his hands, a quick defensive gesture. “I didn’t say that—”

“No, but it is possible,” Roger interrupted, leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, eyes serious. “Doesn’t really talk, shies away from touch, probably didn’t sleep or even eat…” He paused, tapping a rhythm on his knee with his fingers, as if counting out his thoughts. “I wonder if he plays music too. Everyone who plays music has trauma in their life.”

Brian muttered under his breath, unsure how to respond. “I don’t…”

Roger shook his head, smirking just a little, though there was an edge to it. “No, but you did jump off the Astronomy Tower in your third year and find out the hard way that there are anti-suicide charms.”

Brian froze mid-breath, eyes widening. “How do you know that?”

Roger leaned back, arms crossing, grin growing faintly wicked. “I was that first-year in the infirmary with a broken arm when Pomfrey was telling your Head of House. You looked real pale, mate. Groaning on and on about how embarrassing it was.”

Brian groaned and ran a hand through his hair, sitting back against the wall. “Right, okay. That was… yeah, that was bad. You don’t have to remind me.”

His smirk softened, though the curiosity in his eyes remained. “I’m just saying… people don’t just… act like him unless something’s happened. You know what I mean? That kind of quiet, that kind of… shut-down thing."

Brian nodded slowly, weighing the words. “Yeah… I suppose so. But we don’t know what happened. Could be nothing, could be everything. Either way, it’s… I don’t know, it’s worrying.”

Roger shrugged, his fingers still drumming lightly on his knees. “Worrying… yeah. But it makes him interesting. Not in a mean way. Just… intriguing. I want to know more about him. Not to bother him, just… see who he really is. If he even wants to be seen.”

The older boy glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the serious undertone. “You’re ridiculous sometimes, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Roger admitted, eyes flicking back to the darkened corridor outside the music room. “But sometimes, ridiculous is what gets you through. And maybe… just maybe, I can help him without messing it all up.”

Brian tilted his head, thinking. “You might… you might be the only one who could. Quiet, a little push, but not overwhelming him. You know how he is already.”

The blond shrugged again, a mischievous glint returning. “Well… that’s my specialty. Troublemaking with purpose. Helping first-years is just a bonus.”

Brian laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly off the walls. “Alright, then. Just… be careful, Rog. Don’t go overboard.”

Roger nodded once, then leaned back against the wall, drumsticks resting lazily on his knees, eyes thoughtful. “Careful’s boring, Brian. But… I’ll try to be careful enough not to make him hate me. That’s a start, right?”

He smirked. “That’s a good start. Now, go to bed before someone catches you and you really get in trouble.”

Roger gave a mock salute, but there was a quiet seriousness to it, the kind that only Brian could read. “Fine. Bed. But first… just one more roll on the drums. For the sake of it.”

Brian rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re relentless,” but he couldn’t help the faint smile. “Just… try not to annoy the ghosts, okay?”

He grinned and began a soft, steady rhythm, the sound echoing faintly down the empty corridor, a mixture of mischief and something deeper, almost protective in its persistence.

Chapter Text

The lanterns in the infirmary burned low, their light casting long shadows across the whitewashed walls. The air was hushed and still, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets and the occasional sigh of the wind outside the castle.

John woke suddenly, chest heaving, his face wet with tears he hadn’t realised he’d been shedding. He sat up too quickly, the world spinning for a moment, and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. He couldn’t even remember what had set him off—whether it had been a dream, a thought, or simply the silence closing in around him—but the tears kept coming all the same.

A choked sound left his throat, half sob, half breath, and he curled forward, drawing his knees up under the blanket. His shoulders shook as he tried to muffle himself, terrified someone might hear. He didn’t want Madam Pomfrey rushing over, didn’t want her sharp yet kind eyes on him again, didn’t want any more questions he couldn’t answer. He hated not having an answer.

He gripped the front of his hospital-issue pyjama top, twisting the fabric until his knuckles went white. His mind felt slippery—every time he reached for something solid to hold onto, a memory or a reason, it slid away. Just fragments, shadows, and the hollow echo of loss.

His breath came too fast, little hiccuping gasps. He buried his face into the pillow, trying to swallow the sound, but it only dampened the sobs, made them feel heavier, like he was choking on them. The pillow grew wet beneath his cheek.

“Stop it,” he whispered hoarsely to himself. “Stop crying, stop it—” His voice cracked, making the words more desperate than steady. He dragged the blanket over his head as though hiding from the world could make the hurt shrink away.

But it didn’t. His chest ached with every breath, his ribs straining against the tide of grief he didn’t even have a name for. He didn’t even know why he was crying—only that it felt like something inside him was breaking, slowly, painfully, and he couldn’t stop it.

A sound creaked at the far end of the room—the faint shifting of someone stirring in their sleep. John froze, holding his breath, willing himself to be silent. He didn’t want anyone to know. Not Pomfrey. Not Freddie, if he ever found out. Not anyone.

His hands shook as he gripped the edge of the blanket tighter, curling into himself, whispering through his tears, “I want to go home… I shouldn’t be here… I want to go home…”

The words repeated like a mantra, soft and broken, in the stillness of the infirmary.

Eventually the storm of sobs softened, though the tears still slid silently down his face. Exhaustion tugged at him, his body heavy with it. He lay there under the blanket, shivering faintly despite the warmth, until sleep claimed him again—uneasy, fragile, but sleep nonetheless.

The sunlight was already high by the time John stirred again, pale beams slipping through the tall windows and cutting across the white sheets. His lashes stuck together when he blinked; his face felt stiff, tight with the remnants of dried tears. The inside of his head was heavy, muzzy, like he’d been running all night instead of sleeping.

When he sat up, a dull throb settled behind his eyes. He rubbed at them automatically, but it only made them sting. He knew without even looking in a mirror that they’d be red and swollen—obvious, betraying him before he even spoke.

His stomach growled faintly, though it felt more like a knot than a hunger pang. He’d missed breakfast, clearly, and now he’d missed his first class too. His chest sank with the realisation. The idea of walking into class later and having everyone stare, or worse, ask questions… he didn’t know if he could bear it.

The infirmary was quiet. Madam Pomfrey wasn’t in sight, though he could hear the faint clatter of glass vials being arranged in her office. That meant she’d be back any moment. Panic flickered through him like a spark. He didn’t want her looking at him too closely, not when his face told a story he couldn’t explain.

He swung his legs out of bed, bare feet touching the cool stone floor. The sudden movement made his head spin, dark spots dancing at the edges of his vision. He pressed a hand to the mattress, steadying himself, taking a slow breath until the dizziness ebbed.

Maybe if he got up, splashed water on his face, she wouldn’t notice. Maybe if he pretended he was fine, she wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t send another letter home. The thought of his mother or Julie reading that he’d spent another night here—it twisted in his gut, sharp and unbearable. He couldn’t put more weight on them.

He shuffled to the little washbasin tucked against the far wall, poured cold water into his cupped hands, and splashed it against his face. The chill made him gasp, droplets sliding down his neck. He scrubbed at his eyes, but when he looked at his reflection in the warped mirror above the basin, he winced. The redness was impossible to hide. Puffy lids, pale skin, the unmistakable mark of a boy who’d been crying far too hard for far too long.

He pressed his lips together, heart hammering as footsteps approached from the office. He didn’t move—just stood there staring at himself, frozen between the urge to hide under the bed and the hopelessness of knowing it was already too late.

“Ah— Mr. Deacon, you’re awake at last.”

Her voice was brisk, but not unkind, carrying across the empty ward as she stepped from her office with a clipboard in hand. The sound made John flinch, though he kept his eyes trained on the basin as if the warped reflection might swallow him whole.

Pomfrey set the board down on the nearest bed and walked over. She didn’t comment on his bare feet or the way his shoulders hunched, just folded her arms lightly as she stopped a pace behind him. “You’ve missed your first lesson,” she said softly, almost conversationally. “I expect that can be excused… given you needed rest.”

John nodded, but didn’t turn. His throat was tight.

A moment of quiet stretched, broken only by the faint drip of the tap. Then, gently, she added, “You’ve been crying.”

He tensed all over. Heat flooded his face, a defensive shame he couldn’t quite name. His fingers curled against the rim of the basin. “I— I wasn’t,” he mumbled, though it was laughable to deny. His voice cracked halfway through, betraying him completely.

Pomfrey didn’t scold him for lying. She simply sighed, a soft, steadying sound, and reached out—not to touch, but to rest her hand lightly on the cool edge of the basin beside his own, a gesture of quiet presence. “You needn’t pretend with me, John,” she said gently. “It’s only us here. You’re safe to cry if you must.”

The word safe lodged somewhere deep in his chest. He shook his head quickly, scrubbing at his face with his sleeve. “I don’t want to.” His voice was so small, strangled, the words almost lost.

“I know.” She straightened slowly, giving him space, not crowding him the way some teachers might. “But your body seems to have other ideas.”

That nearly broke him. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek, shaking his head again, and then whispered so faintly she had to lean closer to catch it: “Can I go to class? Please?”

Pomfrey looked at him for a long moment, her expression softening. “If you truly feel up to it,” she said carefully, “but not before you eat something. You’ve been running yourself down, child, and no class is worth fainting in again.”

John’s shoulders hunched further at the reminder. He nodded once, quick and desperate, though his stomach knotted at the thought of food.

Pomfrey saw the hesitation in his eyes. She didn’t press. Instead, she moved back toward her office, speaking as she went: “I’ll fetch you something light—toast, fruit, nothing heavy. And if you can manage it, you may go after. If not…” she paused in the doorway, “…then we’ll find another way together. All right?”

John stayed frozen by the basin, silent, but his fingers unclenched slightly from the stone.

When Pomfrey returned, she carried a small tray, not a feast. Just two slices of toast, lightly buttered, a few apple slices, and a glass of milk. She set it carefully on the bed nearest John, smoothing the sheet like it was a little ritual, before motioning him over.

“Here we are,” she said with a faint smile. “Nothing frightening. Sit down, take your time.”

John obeyed stiffly, perching on the very edge of the mattress, knees together, hands in his lap. He stared at the food, throat tightening. His stomach growled faintly, but his chest was tighter still.

Pomfrey gave him space, sitting in the chair nearby and busying herself with a parchment on her lap, though her eyes flicked up often. “Go on,” she encouraged gently. “A bite or two to start.”

He reached out, almost reverently, fingers trembling as he picked up a slice of toast. He wanted—desperately—to eat it all, to make her nod approvingly, to not be a burden. He bit down, chewed, swallowed. The butter clung to the roof of his mouth, and for a moment he thought he could manage.

But the thought came unbidden—he couldn’t remember ever being given food like this by his mum or dad. No toast, no gentle encouragement, no one placing a tray before him with care. Just the silence of grief, dark clothes, closed doors. His chest squeezed tight.

He managed two more bites before the lump in his throat grew too sharp to swallow. He set the toast down, hands shaking, blinking hard at the blur in his eyes.

Pomfrey noticed. “That’s quite all right, John,” she said softly. “You don’t need to force it all at once.”

He clenched his fists. No, no, I wanted to— but the words jammed in his throat.

She reached out a hand as if to place it gently on his shoulder. “You did well, truly. You’ll manage more next time—”

He flinched away instantly, scrambling a little back on the bed. His breath came shallow, heart hammering, his voice sharp and hoarse: “D-Don’t.”

Pomfrey froze, then lowered her hand, her face tightening in quiet concern.

John pressed his sleeve against his eyes, refusing to look at her. He couldn’t remember his parents ever comforting him, not really. Not in a way that stayed. And the thought of a stranger doing it, here, now, only twisted the ache sharper.

“I’m sorry,” Pomfrey said quietly, her voice careful not to crowd him. “No touching. I’ll remember.”

He sniffled once, refusing to speak, eyes glued to the floorboards. His chest still shook, but he forced his hands still, trying to gather the scattered pieces of himself back into silence.

His fingers twisted into the fabric of his borrowed pyjamas, knuckles pale. He had knowledge. Facts lined up neatly in his head like the rows of books in a library. He could recite times tables. He knew how to form neat cursive, how to spell because without stumbling, how to pick apart the grammar of a French sentence and roll his tongue around bonjour. He could explain the layers of the Earth, sketch the water cycle, name the parts of a flower. He could take apart a radio, spread its pieces like treasure across the floor, and put it all back together again. He knew things.

But he didn’t remember learning any of it. Not a single classroom. Not a single teacher. Not a blackboard, or chalk, or the smell of school dinners. Just the knowledge, lodged there like someone had handed him the book but burned away the story of how it got into his hands.

And worse—he didn’t remember play. Did children really run around in playgrounds? Laughing until their sides hurt, swinging from ropes and bars, tumbling down slides? Did they run into their parents’ arms at the end of the day, bags bumping against their sides, hair ruffled with affection? He didn’t know. He had no picture to summon. Maybe that was how it worked. Maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

But not for him.

He only knew the silence after. He knew his mum’s closed door, the way she buried her face and wouldn’t come out. He knew Julie’s tiny cries and the weight of responsibility that pressed down far too heavy on his shoulders. He knew hunger in the evenings when no one cooked. He knew how quickly the days blurred together into a single long ache.

And yet—there was one thing.

His father’s hands.

Rough, broad palms, warm and calloused. The way they swallowed John’s smaller ones whole, wrapping them tight in a grip that seemed like it could never let go. The way the lines in his skin seemed carved by years of work, and yet the gentleness never faltered when he held him.

That was all John had. The texture, the certainty of those hands. No voice. No face in clear detail. Just that touch, as if it had been pressed into his bones.

He clung to it like a lifeline, terrified that one day even that would blur, slip away, vanish. Then what would he have left? Just facts. Just knowledge. Just emptiness in between.

He buried his face in his knees, whispering: “Please don’t go.”

John’s whisper had barely left his lips when he stiffened, remembering he wasn’t alone. Madam Pomfrey still sat in the chair at his bedside, her presence quiet but unyielding. 

“Who, dear?” she asked softly. “Who don’t you want to go?”

His jerked his head up, his eyes still wet, cheeks blotched red. For a moment he considered answering, blurting it all out, spilling the only precious scrap of memory he had left. But the thought made his chest squeeze in panic. If he said it aloud, if he gave it away to someone else, maybe it would fade faster. Maybe it would lose its sharpness, its reality.

He shook his head hard, clutching at the front of his robe like it could anchor him.

Pomfrey didn’t press. Her gaze lingered on him, steady but gentle, before she sighed through her nose and leaned back. “Alright. You needn’t tell me. Some things you keep close. I understand that.”

The words were kindly meant, but they landed heavily. John dug his nails into the fabric, trembling slightly. He wanted to be comforted, desperately—by the right person, by the right arms, someone who already belonged to him. Not a stranger in crisp robes, not the nurse whose job it was to patch him up.

But Pomfrey didn’t try to touch him. She didn’t fuss or reach out. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, quiet, simply there.

John stared down at the floor. His father’s hands lingered in his mind, rough and warm. He tried to hold onto them tighter, terrified they’d vanish.

Pomfrey’s voice, low and practical, broke the silence. “What matters is rest, and food, and… time.”

Time. The word made him flinch. Time was what was stealing everything.

He dragged the blanket higher up his shoulders, curling small beneath it, his lips pressed together against a cry he wouldn’t let out.

Pomfrey looked at him, worry hidden behind her professional mask. But again, she didn’t push. She only said, “I’ll check in with you in a little while. You rest until then.”

And she let him sit there, clinging to the ghost of his father’s hands, while the world felt like it was slipping further and further away.

At lunch, John didn’t even glance at the tray Pomfrey had set down. He sat cross-legged on the edge of the hospital bed, clutching his book like a teddy bear pressed tightly against his chest, eyes darting everywhere but the food. His stomach rumbled faintly, but he ignored it, turning slightly away, shoulders hunched.

Pomfrey crouched beside him again, careful not to loom over him. “John,” she said softly, “just a few bites. You don’t have to finish it all, just a little… to keep your strength up. Can you try?”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight, refusing to let her see how desperate he was for her to leave him alone. His fingers flexed around the book, the leather cover digging into his palms.

Before Pomfrey could respond, a loud crash echoed from the doorway.

“Madam Pomfrey! Help! Help! Urgently!”

Freddie stumbled in, hair wild, robes rumpled, waving one hand dramatically while the other clutched his jaw. His usual flair was there, but there was genuine panic in his wide eyes. “I’ve been hit with an acne hex! Horrible! Catastrophic! I need immediate treatment!”

John blinked, momentarily forgetting the food. The book shifted in his arms as he instinctively leaned back, trying to make himself as small as possible. He didn’t speak, didn’t move—just stared at the spectacle.

Pomfrey exhaled sharply through her nose, pinching the bridge of it. “Freddie, sit. Sit. Calm down. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” She motioned to a chair at the end of the bed. Freddie flopped into it like a starved cat, wincing whenever he moved.

John’s eyes flicked down at the food again, tugging the book closer. He felt like an intruder in his own space, the chaos drawing all attention away from him, and yet still focused on him somehow.

Freddie, meanwhile, leaned forward, whispering dramatically to Pomfrey, “I can’t look like this in front of Slytherins! They’ll never let me live it down! You must fix it, please!”

Pomfrey muttered a few quick incantations, and the faint glow of magic shimmered over Freddie’s jaw. The pimples began to fade, and the redness softened. Freddie squealed in relief and flung himself backward, dramatically collapsing against the chair’s armrest.

John blinked, still silent, but a small part of him couldn’t help noticing the absurdity of it all. He pressed the book tighter against his chest, trying to shrink further into himself, wishing he could disappear completely.

Pomfrey finally glanced at him. “John,” she said softly, voice steady despite the chaos around them. “Do you want to try a bite now? Just a tiny one?”

He shook his head, squeezing the book like it was the last thing keeping him tethered to something real.

Freddie, oblivious, bounced upright again. “Thank you, Madam Pomfrey! You are a wizardly goddess! I swear, if I ever become Minister of Magic, your name will be carved into the very walls of St. Mungo’s!”

John’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but the smallest flicker of amusement. He ducked his head, hiding it against the book, still refusing to eat. Pomfrey let out a patient sigh, realizing she’d need to tread very lightly.

Freddie finally noticed the small figure tucked into the corner, clutching the book like it was a lifeline. His brow furrowed, not in irritation, but in genuine concern. “John, is that you?” he said softly, leaning slightly toward him. His voice was low, careful, as if speaking too loudly would make John disappear entirely.

John flinched slightly but didn’t look up. He hugged the book closer, curling a little further into the edge of the bed.

“I know you don’t want attention,” Freddie continued, taking a seat a respectful distance away, “but… look, I know how it feels. When I first came to Hogwarts from Zanzibar, Madam Pomfrey had to force me to eat too. I… I didn’t think I deserved it, not when my country was starving and dying.” He paused, looking down at his hands, fidgeting. “Sorry, this is a bit morbid for lunch, isn’t it? I was stupid. I shouldn’t have wasted food… I should’ve eaten for them, for the people I loved and the people who still do, and will.” He finally lifted his gaze toward John. “You get what I mean? Eat… for those who love you, have loved you, and will love you.”

John’s lips twitched. “Poet,” he muttered, voice barely audible.

Freddie’s grin broke through, faint but warm. “Is that a witty comeback or just an observation? I do write songs, you know. That’s close to poetry, right? But… seriously, eat.”

He shook his head, clutching the book tighter. “I… I can’t.”

“Why not?” Freddie asked, leaning forward slightly, careful not to invade his space.

John’s voice was almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of something far deeper than mere refusal. “I… I can’t remember my entire life.”

Freddie froze, his usual mischievous energy dimming. He studied John closely, noting the curve of his shoulders, the way he hugged the book as if it were the only thing holding him together. “Oh…” He swallowed, searching for words that wouldn’t be too loud, too brash, too much. “I… I can’t even imagine, John. That… that’s…” He trailed off, letting the silence speak instead of risking a clumsy comfort.

Pomfrey watched silently, leaning slightly against the edge of the bed. She didn’t intervene; she simply observed, letting Freddie’s gentle coaxing continue while noting the tension in John’s posture. She knew this was a delicate balance—too much, and he would shut down completely; too little, and he might starve himself out of fear, confusion, or grief. Her hand rested lightly on the edge of the bed, ready to step in if needed, but she trusted Freddie’s instinct in this moment.

Freddie, sensing the fragility of John’s state, softened his voice further. “Look, you don’t have to eat it all at once. Just… a bite. Tiny. For now. If it helps, you don’t even have to look at it while you chew. Just… let your body have something while your mind catches up.”

John’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the book from his chest. He peeked over the edge, eyes still red from crying, and gave a small, hesitant nod.

“Good,” Freddie said softly, smiling like it was a victory, though he knew it was just a tiny step. “That’s… that’s really good.”

Pomfrey’s expression softened slightly, though her professional alertness didn’t waver. She made a mental note to check on him frequently, to ensure he didn’t fall back into the panic that had overtaken him the night before. She didn’t speak, letting the quiet encouragement between the two students continue, her presence a steady, reassuring undercurrent.

John took a careful, trembling bite, his eyes never leaving the book. Freddie watched, grinning faintly, a mix of pride and cautious hope in his gaze. He leaned back, letting John take the lead, and for a few moments, the hospital wing was quiet except for the soft sounds of chewing, the rustle of robes, and the lingering unspoken understanding between them.

Pomfrey allowed herself a brief, satisfied sigh. 

Freddie leaned back in the chair, watching John take the careful, trembling bites. He let the silence stretch a few seconds before speaking softly, so as not to startle him. “You know, you’re not completely alone here. I mean, besides me. I have friends… friends you might like, actually.”

John’s hands clenched the book a little, but he didn’t look up—just listened.

“There’s Brian,” Freddie began, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He’s… well, he’s a Ravenclaw, very clever, probably annoyingly smart, and would fucking kill someone if they messed with his hair. He’s a prefect now, and the badge… it’s gone straight to his head. You’ve met him I think."

John made a small, noncommittal noise.

“Then there’s Mary,” Freddie continued, “who’s Hufflepuff too, like you. Sweet, but sassy, and she’s got a grin that’ll disarm even the crankiest professor.”

Small fingers relaxed on the book just slightly.

“And then—oh, you met them already, didn’t you? Fabian and Gideon Prewett. The twins. Yeah, they’re… well, they’re ridiculous sometimes, but brilliant. Always laughing, always plotting, usually at the expense of someone older or taller. You know, like a pair of mini tornadoes with red hair.” Freddie’s eyes twinkled with fondness.

John’s lips twitched faintly.

“There’s also someone in Slytherin called Samuel. Don’t tell him I said this,” Freddie whispered conspiratorially, leaning in closer, “he’s as grumpy as I imagine a toad could be… but, funny thing, he looks like one of those fairy tales, you know? Where you kiss a toad and it turns into a prince? Well… he’s the prince version in appearance, but the toad personality is still very much intact. Absolute nightmare, but… dependable when you need him.”

John’s small nod indicated he was following, if not engaging fully.

Freddie sighed dramatically. “So, basically, you’re surrounded by chaos, brains, loyalty, and, er… occasional grumpiness. But in a good way. And, John… don’t worry about the first day nonsense. You’re doing fucking fine.”

Pomfrey, standing nearby, shot him a sharp glare. “Freddie! Please watch your language!"

Freddie lifted his hands innocently, grinning. “I did not say anything terrible… just that Brian would fucking kill someone over his hair. It’s the truth, Pomfrey!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling through her nose in frustration. “Young man. This is not the time for expletives. Even for truth’s sake.”

“Alright, alright,” Freddie said with a mock salute, still smirking. “But seriously, you’ll get used to Hogwarts eventually. And… well, I’m going to look out for you. I know you like your space, but… you’re not entirely invisible, little Hufflepuff. Not with me around.”

John’s hands relaxed further on the book. He didn’t speak, but the faintest trace of a smile appeared on his lips.

Freddie leaned back, satisfied, watching him carefully. “For now, eat a bit more. Not for me, not for Pomfrey, but… for you. And, maybe, for everyone waiting for you in this crazy chaotic castle.”

Pomfrey gave him one last sharp glance but allowed the boy some space, silently approving Freddie’s gentle coaxing, despite the expletives and theatrics.

John’s stomach rebelled against the potion-laced food as he tried to swallow, the mixture rising unbidden and threatening to choke him. His body stiffened, and he gagged, coughing violently. Freddie’s hand shot out instinctively. “Here— here, let me—”

The young boy flinched, jerking away sharply. “Stop! Stop trying to be my dad! He’s dead!” The words tumbled out, sharp, raw, trembling.

Freddie froze, realizing immediately he had crossed a boundary. Pomfrey, standing a few paces away, stiffened as well, her brows furrowing.

John’s hands shook as he clutched them over his mouth, trying to keep from vomiting further, trying to swallow down his fear along with the food. “He… he died… and now… everything’s gone. I—I just can’t remember anything! I can’t remember my mum’s smile either! Why can’t I—why can’t I…” His voice cracked, his breathing uneven. “I only remember holding his hand, and I feel… I just… feel it slipping away.”

Freddie stepped back slightly, hands raised, unsure what to do except give him space. “Hey… it’s okay. I mean, it’s… okay to feel what you feel,” he said softly, carefully choosing each word.

John shook his head violently. “I have a five-day-old memory! What’s okay about that? Five days! That’s… that’s nothing. I can’t… I can’t remember anything before that. I can’t remember my home… my family… I can’t remember anything!”

He bit down on his hand to keep from crying aloud, his head dropping, shoulders trembling, body tense and rigid. He stared away from Freddie and Pomfrey, trying desperately to make the world shrink to nothing around him. He refused to meet anyone’s gaze.

Pomfrey’s expression softened, though her voice remained calm and firm. “John… it’s alright. You’re safe here. You’re okay. Nothing more will hurt you now.”

John’s small voice, barely above a whisper, trembled. “Safe… doesn’t bring them back. Nothing brings them back.”

Freddie knelt slightly lower to be nearer to him, but kept a respectful distance, his own face etched with concern. “I… I know it doesn’t. But… you don’t have to do this alone, okay? You’re not alone right now. You can let yourself feel it, but… don’t try to carry all of it by yourself. Not here. Not today.”

He shook his head, teeth still clamped on his hand, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance, perhaps on the wall, perhaps on nothing at all.

Pomfrey crouched gently next to him, her hands open and unthreatening. “John, the fact that you can remember anything—your dad’s hand, even the smallest things—is a start. Your memories may be fragile now, but we can help you keep what you have. We can… rebuild it, slowly.”

John’s shoulders shook once more. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry out loud. He only bit down harder on his hand, trembling, trying to make himself small, trying to anchor himself somewhere that wasn’t slipping away.

Freddie swallowed, looking to Pomfrey, who gave him a small, measured nod. Freddie’s voice softened again, “You’re not a burden, John. Not to me, not to anyone here. You’re… you’re the same person your dad held, even if you can’t remember all the rest. That part of you… that hand, that feeling… that’s still real. Still yours.”

The young boy made no sound. He only exhaled shakily, pressed his hand tighter against his mouth, and a single tear slid down his cheek before he could even think to stop it.

Pomfrey’s voice was quiet now, near a whisper. “I don’t know the whole story, John, and I won’t pretend I do. But we’ll help you. We’ll help you remember what matters, or at least hold onto what little you have left. That’s all anyone can do… all anyone can do for you.”

John’s jaw worked silently, trying to swallow back his sobs, trying to regain a sliver of control. The room was quiet except for his shallow breathing and the distant clinking of cutlery from the Great Hall below. Freddie and Pomfrey remained nearby, patient, steady, giving him space while simultaneously letting him know he wasn’t alone in this immense, terrifying moment.

Eventually, John’s trembling slowed slightly, the biting of his hand easing. He kept his gaze averted, but the faintest, almost imperceptible nod hinted that he had at least heard them—heard that he was not entirely lost, not entirely alone.

John’s breathing gradually evened out, small, shallow inhales that betrayed the deep exhaustion in his tiny frame. His body slumped against the infirmary bed, limbs slack, robe slightly wrinkled, hair falling over his face. Pomfrey leaned back slightly, studying him with that careful mix of concern and professional detachment.

“He really is exhausted,” she murmured softly, almost to herself, adjusting the blanket tucked lightly around his shoulders. The faint rhythmic twitch of his hand in his sleep caught her attention. It curled around something—a thumb, warm and solid.

Freddie, still kneeling near the bed, glanced down. He realized, with a small, almost helpless smile, that John’s tiny hand had latched onto his thumb, holding it lightly as though it were a tether to something safe. The gesture made Freddie’s chest tighten. It was simple, unassuming, but somehow utterly vulnerable and, yes, adorable.

He looked up at Pomfrey, his face losing some of its usual theatrics, the grin replaced by something quieter, more earnest. “This isn’t a… um…” he hesitated, frowning slightly, “…obliviation, is it? This… this is memory loss, trauma… he can’t really get it back, can he?”

Pomfrey’s expression hardened slightly with solemnity, and she shook her head. “No, Mr. Bulsara—sorry, Mr. Mercury. It’s not something that can be fixed by magic. Not this. Not what he’s lost.” Her voice was steady, calm, but carried a weight that made Freddie’s stomach twist.

He swallowed, leaning back on his heels slightly, still keeping his thumb lightly trapped in John’s sleeping grip. “So… there’s no spell… no charm… nothing to make him remember?” His voice was low, almost hesitant, as if speaking it louder might make the truth too real.

Her eyes softened, glancing down at the small figure curled beneath the blanket. “No, I’m afraid not. What he has now… the few memories he clings to… that’s all he truly possesses. The rest… he will have to rebuild for himself, piece by piece, through living, through experiences, through care and patience.”

Freddie’s hand tightened slightly in response to the warmth of John’s grip. He exhaled slowly, forcing a smile, though it faltered. “Well… then I’ll just have to make sure he has some… pieces to build with, won’t I?”

Pomfrey’s lips twitched in the smallest hint of a smile. “You can be part of that, Mr. Mercury, if he wants you to be there. But it will take time. And patience. And… understanding.”

Freddie nodded, staring down at the tiny, sleeping form of John Deacon, his thumb still held lightly. The boy was fragile, yes, but there was something there—something stubborn, something quietly fierce. Something worth protecting.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint, even rhythm of John’s breathing. Freddie’s usual energy was muted, replaced by a soft, careful watchfulness. In the stillness, he realized just how serious this was—how much this little boy had lost, and how much he might need to trust someone to even start rebuilding it.

Finally, Pomfrey adjusted the blanket once more, her hands gentle and precise. “Go to class and then get some rest yourself, Mr. Mercury. He’s exhausted, yes, but so are you, after a day like this. Keep watch from here if you must, but even guardians need sleep.”

Freddie let out a small, resigned laugh, still gazing at the sleeping boy. “I’ll try,” he murmured, his thumb still lightly held in John’s tiny hand, “but I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate or even sleep a wink.”

By mid-afternoon, the infirmary was quiet, the soft light from the high windows casting long rectangles across the floor. Pomfrey had requested Pomona Sprout join her, knowing that the head of Hufflepuff would need to understand what had transpired with John. Pomfrey had already set aside the usual busywork of tending to other students—John’s situation required her full attention.

Pomfrey led Pomona to a small table beside one of the beds where John had rested earlier. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Pomona,” Pomfrey began, her voice measured but carrying an edge of concern. “I wanted you to hear the details firsthand.”

Pomona, still in her herbology robes, slightly rumpled from the day’s lessons, nodded, her curly hair escaping its cap. “Of course. What happened? Did my patronus help you find him?”

“Yes,” Pomfrey said, motioning to a chair. “I found him with two second-years—Roger Taylor and Arthur Weasley. They were trying to help him. John… he passed out. He’s physically unharmed, but…” Her voice faltered for a moment before she continued.

“Did he wake up?” Pomona asked, leaning closer.

“Yes,” Pomfrey replied. “Well enough to walk here, though he slept almost all the way through the night and woke only during first lesson. He’s clearly exhausted, though.”

Pomona’s lips parted in a sympathetic gasp. “Oh bless, he must have been utterly drained.”

Pomfrey added, almost as an afterthought, “And he hasn’t been eating properly either.”

She frowned. “That… is worrying. But what of the cause? Do we know why he… why this is happening?”

Pomfrey lowered her gaze slightly, choosing her words carefully. “We’ve only just begun to piece it together. He… he has very little of his own memory left. When I spoke to him, he said he has about five days of recollection—the only memories he can cling to are from the very recent past.”

Pomona’s eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath escaping her. “Five days? That… that’s unimaginable. Minerva did mention the Sorting Hat struggled with him, yes, but I had no idea it was this severe. And… the cause?”

Pomfrey hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly. “His father… has recently passed away. The trauma, the grief… it’s almost certainly the trigger for the memory loss. It is likely why he cannot retain anything before that event.”

Pomona’s face fell, her expression a mixture of shock and sorrow. “My word… poor boy. That explains so much. No wonder the Hat faltered, and no wonder he’s been… so withdrawn, so frightened. He’s carrying more than any first-year should.”

“Yes,” she agreed, her voice steady. “And he’s been trying to manage it on his own. The two second-years who found him—they meant well, but he collapsed from exhaustion. He’s barely eaten, barely slept, and the mental load… it’s extraordinary.”

Pomona’s hands trembled slightly, a rare break in her usual composed demeanor. “We need to make sure he’s supported properly. This isn’t just first-year adjustment… this is serious. How is he coping right now?”

Pomfrey exhaled, her shoulders tense. “He’s quiet. He wants to be left alone, but he is aware enough to follow instructions, to take the potions I give him. But… he’s fragile. Mentally, physically. We have to tread carefully. And any intervention has to be gentle, gradual. He cannot be pressured into things he isn’t ready for.”

Half an hour later, Freddie padded quietly along the infirmary corridor, trying to make his entrance as subtle as possible. His bright green Slytherin robes swished too loudly for his own stealthy liking, but he thought he could make it work. He’d been in class but all he could think about was checking on John.

Before he could even get close to the bed where John rested under Pomfrey’s careful watch, a sharp, firm voice stopped him in his tracks.

“I told you to go to class and then get your rest. What are you doing back here?”

Freddie froze mid-step, turning to see Pomfrey standing with her arms crossed, the same stern look she’d given him a hundred times before.

“I… I wanted to check on him!” He said, a slight panic creeping into his words.

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow, her tone softening just a fraction. “I understand, but he’s resting and he needs it. You’re not helping by hovering over him.”

Freddie looked over to see Pomona Sprout stepping from behind the bed, arms folded, a protective barrier of authority. “Mr. Mercury,” she said, voice firm but calm, “I think it’s best if you listen to her.”

“Oh, Professor Sprout! I was thinking, really, I was just— thinking! Too busy thinking, that’s all!” Freddie waved his hands, his flamboyant posture nearly tipping over in his rush to justify himself. “Hufflepuffs have a buddy system, right?”

“They do,” Pomona replied, her gaze narrowing. “And right now, the little first-year in this bed is more important than your curiosity.”

Freddie crouched slightly, leaning toward Pomfrey and Pomona conspiratorially. “Well, my friend Mary said she’d be happy to be a buddy, right?”

Pomona’s eyes flicked briefly to Pomfrey, a silent exchange of concern passing between them. “She did tell me that,” Pomona admitted cautiously.

“So—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically, “maybe we could… you know, buddy him up? Mary could look after him a bit?”

Her arms stayed firmly crossed, her posture unwavering. “But John has already expressed that he doesn’t want a buddy.”

Pomfrey stepped forward, a note of firmness in her voice that Freddie had never quite heard from her before. “If you don’t mind, Pomona,” she said, “I think it’s best to buddy him up without his explicit permission. He’s far too mentally unstable at the moment to make that choice on his own. He cannot be left to fend for himself emotionally.”

Freddie’s eyes widened as he took in her words, his flamboyant demeanor momentarily faltering. “Without… his permission?” he echoed, half shocked, half thoughtful.

“Yes,” Pomfrey said firmly. “Right now, his immediate needs outweigh his autonomy in this instance. He’s in a delicate state—memory loss, exhaustion, trauma. He cannot make these decisions safely.”

Freddie flopped dramatically into a chair at the end of the bed, his fingers drumming nervously against his knees. “So… Mary. She’ll do it?”

“Yes,” Pomfrey said, softening slightly. “Mary can be his buddy. She will ensure he eats, rests, and is safe. You can assist indirectly—support the buddy system, but not interfere directly.”

Freddie’s face split into a small, earnest grin. “Fine… I suppose I can behave. For now.” He added under his breath, almost conspiratorially, “But I will check on him when no one’s looking…”

Pomona’s gaze softened, though her arms stayed crossed. “Mr. Mercury, just remember: this isn’t a game. He needs care and patience, not attention-seeking antics.”

“I understand. I will be… decorously attentive.”

Pomfrey gave a small nod, satisfied, while Pomona glanced at John’s sleeping figure, her heart heavy with concern. Between them, they would make sure the boy had a protective net—one that didn’t rely solely on his own strength or choices, because right now, John didn’t have enough of either to keep himself safe.

Freddie left the infirmary quietly, pausing at the doorway to glance back one last time at John. He had said very little, had done even less, but in his own dramatic, heartfelt way, he felt he had helped. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he tiptoed down the corridor. There was a pang of sadness in his chest—seeing a first-year so fragile and frightened tugged at him more than he wanted to admit—but also a small, glowing satisfaction. I did something right, he thought. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Behind him, Pomona Sprout turned sharply toward Pomfrey, her arms crossed and eyes flashing with a mix of shock and indignation. “You can’t just confirm that without talking to me in private first!”

Pomfrey, still perched by John’s bed and smoothing the blankets around him, shook her head gently but firmly. “I can and I will, Pomona. I think a buddy is a great idea. Freddie got John to eat when I couldn’t. And if his friend can look after him, I’m more than for the idea.”

Pomona blinked, her mouth opening slightly. “He… got John to eat?”

She nodded. “Oh yes. And he gave us the information I just relayed to you—about John’s memory loss and his father. John seems adverse to touch, yet… he fell asleep holding Freddie’s thumb. Small, but meaningful.”

Pomona’s expression softened, her protective instincts warring with her frustration. “Holding Freddie’s thumb?” she echoed, incredulous. “For someone who’s barely communicating or eating, that’s—” She broke off, exhaling sharply, unable to find the right words.

“Exactly,” Pomfrey said. Her eyes followed the slow, even rise and fall of John’s chest. “It’s trust. Connection. Something he’s never been able to allow himself before. Freddie reached him—briefly, yes—but enough that we could see it. That’s why I agreed to the buddy system without delay.”

Pomona’s gaze softened further, and for the first time in a long moment, she allowed herself to look at John not as a problem to manage, but as a child who had been severely burdened by loss and fear. “I suppose… you’re right. If Freddie can reach him, even a little, then having his friend Mary as a buddy could help him maintain that fragile balance.”

She nodded, her tone quiet but insistent. “Exactly. He can’t make that choice on his own. We have to step in—gently, carefully—but decisively. John’s at a point where patience, vigilance, and the smallest gestures matter more than he realizes.”

Pomona sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “Very well. I’ll support this. But… next time, warn me before you confirm such things. I like to be consulted.”

Pomfrey offered a small, apologetic smile. “Duly noted. But in this case… I think John’s wellbeing outweighs protocol.”

Pomona’s lips curved into the tiniest of smiles. “Agreed. Let’s hope Mary is up to the task. And that first-year… that Freddie… he has quite the flair, doesn’t he?”

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Yes, and sometimes that flair is exactly what’s needed.”

Freddie swept into the Ancient Runes classroom like a gust of wind, robes swishing dramatically behind him. His eyes scanned the rows until they landed on Mary, exactly where he knew she would be—tucked away in her usual seat at the back, quill already poised, ready to get ahead on the lesson.

He slid into the chair beside her with exaggerated nonchalance. “Mary, darling. I may have…”

She didn’t even look up, only sighed as though she’d already been bracing herself. “Oh, Freddie. What have you done now?”

Freddie clasped a hand over his heart. “It’s a good thing, I’ll have you know! I may have given you a little first year to look after.”

Mary’s quill froze. She turned her head slowly, raising one perfectly skeptical brow. “You mean a buddy? And you did that without asking me?”

He grinned, utterly unbothered. “Well, you would’ve been given a random first year anyway! I’ve got you John.”

“John?” Her eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously. “Freddie, you really are obsessed with him!”

“I have a right to be, after what he told me today.” He leaned in, lowering his voice for maximum effect.

Mary set down her quill, giving him her full attention now. “You talked to him?”

“He’s in the infirmary!” Freddie whispered fiercely, as though the walls might overhear.

Mary blinked. “What for?”

“I didn’t ask.” He hesitated for a split second, his usual smirk faltering. “But he’s exhausted. And struggling… loads.” Her expression softened at once, but before she could press, he waved his hand in flustered theatrics. “And no, I don’t think he’d appreciate me telling you why. Confidential, private, all very hush-hush. So don’t pry, darling.”

Mary sat back in her chair, studying him closely. Freddie never usually kept things to himself—his tongue was faster than most people’s thoughts—but here he was, carefully guarding a secret that wasn’t his to spill. It said more than his words ever could.

“So… you’re serious about this.”

Freddie nodded, suddenly solemn. “Deadly serious. He needs someone steady. And between us, I thought—well, you’re patient enough to deal with me. Surely that qualifies you for sainthood.”

Mary rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched despite herself. “Honestly, Freddie. You’re insistent.”

“Yes, but charmingly so.” He leaned closer with a conspiratorial grin. “And admit it—you’d rather be looking after someone interesting than just any first-year who eats their quills and cries for mummy, wouldn’t you?”

Mary sighed, shaking her head. “I suppose you’ve trapped me now, haven’t you?”

“Oh, I do love it when you see sense.” Freddie leaned back triumphantly, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “John couldn’t be in better hands.”

Mary looked at him, thoughtful, then back at her parchment. “You’d better be right about this, Freddie. Because if you’ve set me up for disaster, I swear…”

“Darling, when am I ever wrong?”

She gave him a flat look. “Would you like the list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Freddie clutched his chest with mock-offense, but inside, he felt a strange, quiet relief. He hadn’t told her what John had said—not yet, maybe not ever—but he’d planted the seed. John wasn’t alone anymore, whether he realized it or not.

Mary had just settled into her favorite corner of the Hufflepuff common room, quill scratching neatly across her parchment as the cozy fire warmed her side. She’d only just gotten her thoughts straight when the barrel entrance creaked open again and Professor Sprout stepped in.

Several Hufflepuffs straightened nervously—Pomona was as beloved as she was formidable. She scanned the room and her gaze landed firmly on Mary.

“Miss Austin,” she called gently, but firmly enough that Mary instantly set her quill down. “With me, please.”

There was no question of saying no. Mary quickly gathered her things and followed her Head of House out through the round doorways and up into the stone corridors.

“Am I in trouble, Professor?” she asked as they climbed the stairwell toward the staff offices.

“No, no,” Pomona replied, brisk as ever, though her tone carried weight. “But there is something important we need to discuss. Something I think you may already suspect.”

Mary frowned, but didn’t press.

When they entered Pomona’s office, the air smelled of earth and peppermint tea, and potted plants crowded every spare surface. The professor closed the door behind them, then motioned for Mary to sit opposite her sturdy oak desk.

“You know why I’ve asked you here?” Pomona began.

Mary shook her head. “Not really, Professor. Unless this is about… Freddie.”

Pomona’s lips twitched. “Freddie Mercury has a way of sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, yes.” She folded her hands. “He mentioned to you a boy named John, didn’t he?”

Mary’s brow furrowed. “He did. Said I’d be his buddy. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.”

Pomona sighed, leaning back in her chair. “It was not a joke. John Deacon is a first-year in our house. He’s been… struggling. More than we realized at first.”

Mary sat straighter, her natural kindness stirring. “What do you mean by struggling?”

The professor hesitated, then chose her words carefully. “He’s suffered a great loss. And he cannot recall much of his life before arriving here—his memory has been… deeply affected. He’s exhausted, he’s underfed, and he’s frightened. More than he lets on.”

Mary pressed her lips together. The quill Freddie had mocked her for carrying everywhere tapped nervously against her knee. “That’s awful.”

Pomona nodded gravely. “It is. And he won’t accept help easily. But Freddie, for all his dramatics, managed to reach him today. Got him to eat when Madam Pomfrey could not. And since Freddie suggested you for the buddy system, I thought it only right to consult with you directly.”

Mary blinked. “So he was serious…”

“Quite serious. And he wasn’t wrong.” Pomona leaned forward, eyes kind but piercing. “Mary, you are steady, thoughtful, and patient. I think you could be exactly what John needs: someone close to his age but dependable, someone to keep an eye without smothering him. But it will not be easy. He may resist. He may even push you away.”

Mary nodded slowly, heart tugging. “But he won’t be alone.”

“Precisely.” Pomona gave her a small, proud smile. “Will you accept the role?”

She didn’t hesitate long. “Of course, Professor. If he’s in my house, then he’s my responsibility too. I’ll do what I can.”

“Good girl.” Pomona reached for her teacup. “I’ll introduce you properly in the infirmary once he’s strong enough. For now, prepare yourself. You’ll need to be both gentle and firm.”

Mary smiled faintly. “I deal with Freddie every day, Professor. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

Pomona chuckled, shaking her head. “Yes, perhaps you have. Very well. Off you go.”

Mary left the office with her mind spinning. She hadn’t expected Freddie’s meddling to lead her here, but now she felt a strange sense of determination. Whoever John was, he wasn’t just Freddie’s obsession anymore. He was family, whether he knew it yet or not.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Madam Pomfrey finally released John from the infirmary. She pressed a vial of strengthening solution into his hands and made him promise, in that strict-but-soft way of hers, that he would eat something at each meal. John had nodded mutely, clutching his book to his chest as if to anchor himself, and slipped out into the castle.

It was odd—after nearly two full days of isolation, the corridors felt too loud, too wide. His footsteps seemed to echo more than anyone else’s. He kept his head down, the fringe of his hair brushing over his eyes as he made the rounds of his professors.

He stopped first at the Care of Magical Creatures classroom, then Transfiguration, then Potions, then History of Magic, each time hovering awkwardly in the doorway until he was noticed. “Um… excuse me… was there any homework from yesterday?” he asked in his quiet little voice. The teachers were surprised to see him—several frowned when he explained he’d been in the hospital wing—but each reassured him that no, nothing had been set yet, not this early in term. Just introductory talks, safety rules, outlines of the year ahead.

John nodded, thanked them, and ducked away quickly before they could ask too many questions. It was a relief to know he wasn’t behind. He’d been reading ahead anyway, devouring each textbook as though it could make up for the cavern in his memory.

Back in the Hufflepuff dormitory, he let out a small breath. At least here it was quiet. He began to change, folding the uniform he’d worn in the infirmary into a neat square. He wasn’t sure why he folded so precisely—it just felt right, respectful, the way things ought to be done.

The spare set of school clothes waited for him at the bottom of his trunk. He tugged on the fresh shirt, the oversized jumper swallowing his thin frame and draping over his hands. Cozy, yes—but impractical. With a little huff, John rolled the sleeves until his fingers peeked out. His trousers were worse; without the two bent pins fastening either side at the waistband, they would have slipped straight to his ankles.

He paused as he tucked the folded set into the corner of the trunk. He knew—somehow—that the house-elves would take them away, wash them, and return them by tomorrow morning. It made him uncomfortable, that. The idea of someone else tending to his things. But he didn’t know how to wash clothes at Hogwarts, and though he’d read that magical cleaning was convenient, it was also a little damaging. If you did it too often, the fabric wore thin. Muggle washing lasts longer, he thought absently.

Muggle. The word still felt strange in his head, like a label he wasn’t sure he was meant to use. It separated people. Them and us. He didn’t like it.

Shaking his head, he busied himself with his satchel, sliding his schoolbooks into place one by one. The bag was old leather, softened and worn. He didn’t remember when he’d gotten it, but the way it fit across his shoulder made him think it had always been his.

He brushed his hair in the mirror nailed to the wall. It fell in soft, wavy tufts, fluffy but mostly tamed. He tilted his head, staring. Why had he grown it long? Not many boys did—or at least, he didn’t think they did. Then again, he didn’t know much anymore. But here at Hogwarts, he’d already noticed older wizards with braids or hair brushing their shoulders. Supposedly it was a mark of status. A lord’s thing.

The idea made him shiver. He didn’t feel like a lord. He felt like a child trying on clothes that didn’t belong to him.

In the mirror, his reflection looked swallowed whole by the uniform. Too much fabric, too much air. He tilted his chin, squinting. He didn’t look eleven. He looked small. Too small. Like eight, maybe nine at most. He turned his hands over, bare wrists peeking from the cuffed jumper, and for a moment he wondered if everyone else saw the same thing—that he didn’t quite fit here, in size or in place.

He pulled the satchel strap over his shoulder, tucked his chin down so his hair fell like a curtain around his face, and slipped out of the dorm again, heart thudding.

He navigated the low, cozy ceilings of the Hufflepuff common room with careful steps, his hair falling like a curtain around his face, partially shielding him from curious gazes. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and herbs, warm copper lamps glowing softly along the walls. 

Mary, sensing she needed to fulfil her role as his assigned buddy, approached him carefully. She left her friend with wild curls slumped over a sofa, quietly warning him with a gesture not to follow just yet. Mary’s steps were slow, deliberate—she knew John was wary of strangers, even friendly ones. Her blonde hair gleamed in the soft light, perfectly straight and almost reflective, cascading down her back.

“John?” she said gently, voice low and calm, not wanting to startle him.

John froze, wide-eyed, staring at her for a moment before instinctively taking a step backward. He gripped the strap of his satchel tighter, his mind racing with unease and the morning’s exhaustion.

“It’s okay,” Mary continued, careful to keep her distance. “I’m Mary. I’m supposed to be your buddy. That just means… I’m here to help, or to answer questions, or show you around if you want.”

John blinked rapidly, taking in her words. He tilted his head slightly, absorbing the information, then slowly, almost hesitantly, extended a small hand. It wasn’t the warm, natural gesture of a relaxed child, but the polite and awkward way he’d read about somewhere in his books: a handshake. It was his way of saying nice to meet you, even if he couldn’t form the words aloud.

Mary’s lips curved into a soft, encouraging smile. She accepted the handshake carefully, noting how tentative it was, the way his fingers barely pressed against hers. She could see it in his eyes—the shock at being assigned a buddy, the uncertainty at being looked after, and a flicker of gratitude beneath the wariness.

“I… I love your hair,” John muttered quietly, the words almost rushing out before he could stop himself. His tone carried no intention of flirtation; it was admiration, simple and innocent, aimed at the sheen and straightness of Mary’s blonde locks.

Mary’s eyes widened slightly at the comment, a mixture of surprise and amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you, John,” she said softly, letting the handshake linger just a moment longer before releasing him. “You don’t have to say much. I understand.”

Before she could add more, John let go of her hand, turned, and walked briskly toward the corridor leading out of the common room. His movements were purposeful but unsteady, oversized clothes making his steps seem almost comically large for his small frame. His satchel bounced lightly against his side, hair falling into his eyes, partially hiding the flush on his cheeks from the interaction.

Mary watched him go, a faint pang of concern tugging at her chest. The boy clearly had a lot to process, and the role of buddy was suddenly more important than she’d realized. She made a mental note to check in gently, give him space, but stay nearby—a presence he could count on, even if he didn’t know it yet.

“Arthur! Arthur! Wake up, man!” Roger was practically bouncing on the edge of Arthur’s bed, tugging the blankets off with the urgency of someone who’d just remembered the clock existed.

Arthur Weasley groaned, burying his face into his pillow, flaming hair sticking out at all angles. “Whassit—? Rog, it’s... too... early—”

“It’s not early, it’s late! We’ve missed breakfast!” Roger hissed, yanking harder until Arthur had no blanket left to cling to. “If we don’t move, we’re gonna miss Transfiguration as well, and McGonagall will skin us alive!”

That did the trick. Arthur shot upright, freckles standing out starkly against his pale, sleep-rumpled face. “Bloody hell!” He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his own pyjama trousers in his rush to get dressed.

Roger was already half-ready—shirt on crooked, tie hanging loose around his neck, hair sticking up in its usual untameable mess. He was hopping on one foot, trying to get his second shoe tied while also shoving his books into his bag. “Come on, come on, come on! I told you not to stay up tinkering with that bloody alarm clock charm! You broke it again!”

Arthur fumbled with his robes, tugging them on inside out before realizing and groaning loudly. “It was supposed to ring! I set it for seven—”

“Well, it didn’t ring, did it?!” Roger shot back, slinging his bag across his shoulder. “Merlin’s balls, we’re dead men walking!”

Arthur finally managed to right his robes, jamming quills and parchment into his satchel without looking. “We can still make it if we run!”

“Run? Mate, if we run, we might make it just as she’s closing the door—and then she’ll still murder us!” Roger barked a laugh, though nerves were written all over his face. He yanked Arthur toward the dormitory door. “Forget your comb, forget everything, let’s just go!”

They thundered down the Gryffindor staircase together, earning several annoyed glares from older students have a free period.

Arthur was muttering under his breath, “No breakfast, no tea—I’ll die—Roger, if I collapse halfway to class, tell my mum I love her—”

“You’ll live,” Roger shot back, though his own stomach gave an audible growl as they flew out of the common room portrait hole. “But if we don’t hurry, McGonagall’s gonna personally make sure we don’t.”

And with that, the two of them bolted down the corridor toward their first lesson, hearts racing, stomachs empty, the sound of their pounding feet echoing through the stone halls.

“Oh shit, this way!” Roger hissed, grabbing Arthur by the arm and yanking him into a side corridor just as a flying tin can whizzed past their heads. Peeves was clearly on high alert, cackling wildly and swinging a feather duster like a mace.

Arthur stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet, and muttered, “Why does he always find me the second I leave the common room?”

“Because he knows the weak spots!” Roger shot back, tugging him further down the winding corridor. “Just keep moving! Don’t stop! And don’t let him corner you!”

The corridor they’d darted into twisted sharply, forcing them to double back on themselves in a zigzag, stone walls echoing with Peeves’ shrill laughter. Tin cans clanged off the walls behind them, and Arthur yelped as a feather tickled his ear.

“Longer route, yes, genius,” Arthur panted, struggling to keep up. “We’re just running in circles! My lungs are—”

“Shush! Keep quiet!” Roger hissed. He vaulted over a low bundle of discarded robes and shoved Arthur after him. “If he hears you whining, he will pick you!”

Peeves’ voice floated after them, gleeful and taunting. “Ohhhh, it’s the little Gryffies! Running, running, running to their doom! Where are you going, where are you going?”

Roger’s hand shot out, tugging Arthur around another corner, and for a brief moment they ducked behind a tapestry. The chaotic shadows of the corridor stretched across the stone floor as they crouched, trying not to breathe too loudly.

“Are you kidding me? This is—ugh—stupid!” Arthur muttered, glancing at Roger.

“Not my problem!” Roger whispered, rolling his eyes, though his own grin betrayed the thrill. “We either take the long route or end up getting drenched in ink, or whatever the hell Peeves decides to throw next.”

They sprinted again, panting, twisting through corridors that seemed to stretch forever, each one echoing with Peeves’ maniacal giggles. Roger had already forgotten the first lesson entirely in his focus on not getting tagged by the poltergeist.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they rounded a corner that led to a relatively empty stretch of corridor. Roger slowed, leaning against the wall, chest heaving. “Okay… I think we lost him,” he muttered. Arthur collapsed next to him, hands on knees, gasping.

“Lost him? That was the entire second year’s survival training?” Arthur wheezed.

Roger smirked despite the panic. “Something like that. Welcome back to Hogwarts, mate. This is just Wednesday morning.”

By the time they reached the classroom, their hair was damp with sweat, sleeves twisted, and robes rumpled from the mad dash. Roger paused at the doorway, chest heaving, and looked at Arthur. “Ready for the wrath of a fifth-year prefect and a Transfiguration teacher all at once?”

Arthur groaned, straightening his crooked tie as best he could. “I don’t even want to know.”

They slipped into the room quietly, hoping to avoid attention, but Professor McGonagall’s sharp eyes immediately spotted the two of them. Her thin lips pressed into a stern line. “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Weasley,” she said, voice low but slicing through the classroom like a knife. “I see you’ve… taken an extended morning tour of Hogwarts.”

Roger’s grin faltered slightly under her gaze. “Yes, Professor,” he said, tone almost respectful now, though his eyebrows betrayed his amusement.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “I hope you have a valid reason for this lateness. And you, Mr. Weasley—why did you allow this… ‘tour guide’ to drag you around?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “We—uh—we… ran into Peeves, Professor. He was… um… enthusiastic about our morning.”

She raised a single brow. “I see.” Her gaze softened fractionally, as though she understood the chaos Peeves could cause, but the edge remained. “You may take your seats, but you will both stay after class. And I expect a full explanation for your delay.”

Roger exchanged a glance with Arthur, trying not to laugh. They slid into their benches, still catching their breath, while McGonagall turned to the class, her wand tapping the board to start the day’s lesson.

“Now, as I was saying,” she began, “we will continue practicing basic transfiguration. Mr. Taylor, Mr. Weasley, you will need to focus intently. I would not like any further demonstrations of… improvisational corridor racing during school hours.”

Roger muttered under his breath, barely audible to Arthur, “I think that counts as cardio for the day.” Arthur just groaned, hiding his flushed face behind his notebook.

Even as McGonagall demonstrated a precise transformation on a small inkwell, Roger and Arthur’s minds briefly wandered to the mad dash through the twisting corridors, Peeves’ maniacal laughter echoing in their ears. But they kept their heads down, silently vowing: next time, we’re getting breakfast first.

The classroom had emptied quickly, students eager to escape the lingering tension of McGonagall’s glare. Roger and Arthur remained behind, standing stiffly near their desks, waiting. The heavy silence was broken only by the faint scratching of quills from other students tidying up.

McGonagall’s gaze was sharp, measuring. “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Weasley,” she said, arms crossed, “you have explained some of your tardiness to me, but I require the full account. And I expect honesty.”

Roger ran a hand through his hair, sighing. He tried a casual grin. “Professor, it’s—um—a series of unfortunate events? Corridors, Peeves, things… you know.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “Mr. Taylor. I do know the castle well enough to detect when someone is… omitting details.”

Arthur, panicking slightly at Roger’s half-hearted evasions, blurted out, “I stayed up late tinkering with the alarm clock charm!” His hands waved in exasperation. “So the alarm never went off!”

Roger froze, face slackening. “Arthur! I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Really, now you’ve said it!”

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line, but the faintest twitch of amusement betrayed her. “Ah. So the magical alarm, intended to wake you, was… deactivated by your own midnight enthusiasm?”

Arthur nodded vigorously. “Yes! I was trying to improve it, make it… um… louder. And then I… fell asleep.”

Roger groaned, muttering under his breath, “Great.”

“Mr. Taylor,” McGonagall said sharply, “perhaps you’d care to add your version of events, rather than letting Mr. Weasley shoulder the blame entirely?”

Roger straightened, trying to act like a responsible student, though his grin betrayed him. “Well, yes, Professor. I was… accompanying Mr. Weasley, making sure he didn’t tinker himself into trouble again.”

Arthur looked at him, incredulous. “That’s not what happened!”

“I’m bridging,” Roger whispered, loud enough for only Arthur to hear. “Let me handle it.”

McGonagall’s eyes flicked between them. “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Weasley. While I appreciate teamwork, I also value honesty. Shall we summarize the facts clearly?”

Arthur hesitated, then spilled the remainder. “And then we ran into Peeves. He chased us through a side corridor, and—well—we took a longer route, so we ended up arriving late. I think we also tripped over a student asleep in the corridor… twice.”

Roger winced, grimacing. “I was trying to help, I swear.”

McGonagall let out a low sigh. “I see. While I’m dismayed by the irresponsibility, I am slightly reassured that no one was seriously harmed. That said, there will be a brief write-up explaining the events and the potential dangers for the prefect file. And you will be expected to report for detention tomorrow evening.”

Arthur groaned, while Roger simply nodded, pretending to take the lecture seriously, though his mind wandered to the thrill of the chase, Peeves’ laughter still echoing in his ears.

“Now, I trust there will be no further experimentation with alarm clock charms during unsupervised hours?” McGonagall’s voice was icy.

“Of course, Professor,” they chorused, though Roger’s smirk threatened to give them away.

Once they were dismissed, Roger muttered, “Bloody alarm clock. I swear, Arthur, you’re never allowed to touch it again without me.”

The next two days at Hogwarts passed in a peculiar rhythm for John. From the moment he left the infirmary, he attended classes with a quiet, intense focus that made his teachers both impressed and exasperated.

In Transfiguration, McGonagall watched as he quietly moved through the exercises, his wandwork precise, already performing second-year charms while the other first-years struggled with the basics. He rarely raised his hand, preferring to demonstrate silently, yet somehow, every spell he attempted worked flawlessly. A feather floated a foot in the air, a book softened across the room, and he barely looked up from his concentration. Some of the other students muttered under their breaths, calling him a know-it-all, though he seemed completely oblivious to their comments.

In Charms, Flitwick’s brow lifted repeatedly. John had already memorized all the incantations for the term, his wand flicking automatically at the correct angles, muttering the words in a soft, almost absent-minded voice. He could perform wordless magic subtly, something Flitwick had only seen in exceptionally gifted students. The tiny first-year moved with a confidence that unnerved the other children, but John barely noticed. To him, it was routine.

In Potions, Slughorn raised an eyebrow, curious about the little boy who not only completed the potion on time but had already anticipated variations and corrective measures. Slughorn scribbled notes for his own purposes, considering the boy for the Slug Club in the future, quietly intrigued by his precociousness.

And in the other classes, the teachers were all in agreement.

By the end of Thursday, the teachers’ discussions in the staff room were heated.

“He needs to move up a year, Albus,” one teacher insisted. “He’s not being challenged, and it’s affecting the flow of the class. He’s essentially finished the first-year curriculum before the first week is over!”

Albus Dumbledore, seated with his hands folded and spectacles sliding down his nose, frowned slightly. “I am not so sure. Academically, yes, he is advanced—but he is struggling emotionally, you know that.”

“Struggling? Thanks to you not checking in with your Muggle-borns, we have several issues,” another teacher said, irritation clear in her voice. “His father died recently! Another Muggle-born girl didn’t even receive a list of what she needs for class. How is that fair?”

“Emotional support is essential, of course,” Dumbledore replied quietly, “but it cannot replace careful guidance in their learning. I suggest a combination: support for his emotional well-being while ensuring he is intellectually stimulated.”

The conversation went back and forth, John’s situation becoming a microcosm of the broader challenges of teaching young students, especially those with trauma. Meanwhile, John himself remained blissfully unaware of the staffroom discussions.

During classes, he was quiet, precise, and diligent. He rarely spoke unless prompted, answering questions in soft, accurate tones. He completed homework before it was assigned in some cases and was careful not to flaunt his intelligence—but the sheer volume of knowledge he displayed made him unavoidable.

To the other students, he seemed almost alien. Their whispers grew: “How does he know everything?” or “Does he even sleep?” John didn’t care. He was navigating the world he had been thrust into, one precise step at a time, quietly observing, quietly learning, carrying both the brilliance and the burden of what he remembered—and what he had already lost.

Friday morning, John’s timetable was a problem before the day even started. His parchment clearly read: Flying Lesson – 2nd period. He stared at it in the quiet of the Hufflepuff dormitory, panic creeping up his chest. He didn’t have a flying kit. No broom, no gloves, no goggles, not even proper shoes for it.

Maybe I forgot to pack it? he thought, chewing the inside of his cheek. Maybe Daddy… maybe we never got around to buying one. His throat tightened. He couldn’t remember. He never knew. He just knew he didn’t have it.

He had a free period first, so instead of studying, John wandered toward the Quidditch pitch, clutching his satchel to his chest like a shield. The open air was bright and sharp with the smell of grass. He crept up the stands and sat quietly, knees drawn to his chest, watching the second-years whooped and swooped on their brooms.

One boy in particular—blond, quick, and fearless—caught John’s attention. He knew him vaguely, had even helped John once in the corridor: Roger. The boy flew like he belonged in the sky, his broom swerving fast around the pitch as if it were an extension of his body. John’s breath caught watching him dive and roll. He envied the ease, the joy, the control.

By the time the lesson ended and the second-years started filing off, John slipped down onto the pitch, head lowered. He padded across the grass to Madam Hooch, nerves pinching his face.

“Excuse me… Madam Hooch?” he asked softly.

She turned, her sharp yellow hawk eyes narrowing but not unkind. “Yes, Mr Deacon?”

John twisted his fingers together. “I don’t… I don’t have a flying kit. I don’t know what I should—um—what I should do about that.”

Behind him, a voice piped up. “Oi, I’ll lend you mine!” Roger jogged closer, broom over his shoulder, blond hair stuck up in wild tufts from the wind. “You can use my stuff, I don’t mind—”

Arthur, trudging after him, barked a laugh. “Roger, it won’t fit the poor guy. You’re all legs, he’s about half your size. And you stink right now. Honestly, do you ever wash that kit?”

Roger sniffed at his sleeve and frowned. “Oh. Yeah. True.”

John flushed, looking down at his shoes, not sure if he should be grateful or embarrassed.

Madam Hooch cleared her throat. “Normally, I’d suggest you speak with the house elves—they can provide you a set in the right size.” She gestured toward the castle. “If you hurry, you’ll have it before the lesson starts.”

But before John could even nod, there was a soft pop! beside him. A house elf, ears flapping, appeared at his elbow, holding out a neatly folded flying kit. “For Master Deacon,” it squeaked politely.

John blinked, wide-eyed, reaching out to take the bundle. “Oh… thank you.”

Madam Hooch blinked as well, muttering, “Well, that’s… unexpected.”

Roger grinned, leaning down to John’s level. “Looks like they’ve got your back already. See? Nothing to worry about.”

Arthur elbowed Roger as they walked past. “You’re hopeless.”

Roger shot back, “Hopelessly charming, you mean.”

John stood there clutching the kit, unsure whether to smile or shrink, but some small weight eased from his chest. At least he’d be able to try.

The changing room smelled of old wood polish and broom bristles, a faint tang of sweat clinging to the air from the lesson before. John slipped in quietly with the rest of the Hufflepuff and Slytherin boys, clutching the flying kit the elf had given him. He hoped, foolishly, that if he moved quickly enough no one would even notice he was there.

The hope shattered almost immediately.

“Look who it is,” one of the Slytherins muttered, elbowing his friend. “The little know-it-all.”

“Bet he already memorised the entire rulebook of Quidditch,” another snickered.

John froze, fingers fumbling with the laces of his boots. He didn’t answer, didn’t even look up. He just tried to fold in on himself, hair falling over his eyes like a curtain.

“Oi, Deacon,” one of the Hufflepuffs said this time, his tone sharp, resentful. “Think you’re cleverer than the rest of us, don’t you? Always got your hand up, got the answers. Teachers love you.”

“I…” John’s voice caught, small. “I don’t mean—”

The Slytherin boy cut him off with a laugh. “He doesn’t mean to make us look like idiots, is that it?”

Something inside John crumpled. He had expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he expected. But not this—their eyes on him, heavy with dislike. He hadn’t done anything, not really. He just read ahead. He just knew things.

When he bent to change into his robes, someone flicked a balled-up sock at his head. It stung, from humiliation not pain. Another boy muttered, “Bet he’ll be rubbish on a broom anyway. Doesn’t matter how many books you’ve read, Deacon.”

John clutched his kit tighter, a sick weight pooling in his stomach. His first taste of hate—it wasn’t subtle, or clever, or hidden behind politeness. It was just boys in a changing room, and it burned in a way books could never have prepared him for.

He didn’t say a word. He just got dressed as quickly as he could, heart hammering, wishing he could disappear into the oversized folds of his uniform.

The sunlight on the Quidditch pitch should have felt warm and welcoming, but to John it was blinding, merciless. The broom in his hand felt strange, as though it belonged to someone else. His palms were slick with sweat, and he kept wiping them against his trousers, but it didn’t help.

“All right, first-years!” Madam Hooch barked, her whistle swinging around her neck. “Line up! Stand by your brooms—left hand out—say ‘Up!’”

The voices rang out across the line. Most of the brooms leapt obediently into hands. One smacked a boy in the face, another spun on the ground before reluctantly bouncing up. John’s whispered “Up” was barely audible, but his broom twitched, then shot into his hand at once.

“Good,” Madam Hooch called. “That’s a sharp response, Mr… Deacon, is it? Good control.”

John’s ears burned. Around him, a few boys muttered. Of course his worked. Bet he practiced all summer. Someone snorted behind him.

The next step came, mounting the broom. John climbed on stiffly, heart hammering. The wood was cool against his legs, his knees knocking with nerves. He could feel eyes on him—those same boys from the changing room. Waiting for him to slip, to tumble, to prove their muttered jabs right.

“On my whistle, kick off hard, hover for a few seconds, then back down. Three… two… one—”

The shrill sound split the air.

Brooms rose. Some wobbled dangerously, others shot up too high. John’s jerked off the ground, unsteady. He gripped the handle so tightly his knuckles went white. His balance was wrong, too stiff, and his broom tilted sideways. His stomach lurched.

“Relax your grip!” Madam Hooch shouted.

But John couldn’t. The laughter of a couple of boys carried across the pitch. “Look at him wobble!” one called. “He’s going to eat grass in a second!”

Heat crawled up John’s neck. He tried to steady himself, but the broom swayed, then dipped sharply. His chest seized with panic. He was too high to jump, too clumsy to stay up.

He managed to hover—barely—for a handful of seconds before the broom bucked beneath him. With a graceless thump he came back down, feet skidding against the turf. He didn’t fall outright, but he looked like he might at any second.

“Well, that was pathetic,” someone muttered behind him.

John stared at the grass, blinking hard. His throat ached.

He didn’t care to impress anyone. He didn’t want to be good—he just wanted to survive the lesson without making a bigger fool of himself. His hands stayed tight on the broom, muscles tense, ears straining for the jeers and snickers of his classmates. He was dizzy from panic, but at least he wasn’t crashing. Some of the younger boys wobbled more, others outright tumbled off. That alone gave him a small, private sense of satisfaction.

Then his eyes landed on the main Slytherin bully. A tall, broad-shouldered boy with a smirk permanently plastered on his face, hovering smugly above the pitch. He was showing off, banking to the side, leaning the broom dangerously, daring someone to notice him. He’d been the one snickering at John before, making a big show of his own skill.

John’s stomach tightened—not with fear this time, but with a flash of something sharp and deliberate. A sly part of him, hidden under layers of fear and exhaustion, flickered to life. No. Not like this. Not this bully.

He didn’t think, he just focused. The broom beneath his fingers felt steady in a way it hadn’t before. Not with magic, not with wand or words, but something in him connecting to the broom, to the pitch, to the air around the other boy. He raised his concentration just a fraction, imagining a shift.

The Slytherin’s broom jerked. A subtle wobble, almost imperceptible. The bully’s smirk faltered. John’s grip didn’t change. He let the tension linger in his mind, invisible, wordless. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the broom under the boy tipped to one side. Not enough to throw him entirely off, but enough to make him glance nervously at his classmates.

“Oi—what the—?” The boy’s voice cracked as his broom dipped again, wobbling just enough to embarrass him. A few nearby first-years stifled giggles. John’s lips twitched, hiding the faintest hint of a grin behind the collar of his jumper.

No one saw exactly what had happened. Madam Hooch was yelling instructions at everyone, her eyes scanning constantly. The bully straightened quickly, glaring around to see who had dared interfere with him. John crouched slightly on the broom, head low, pretending to focus on staying upright.

Inside, he felt the tiniest surge of satisfaction. He didn’t want glory. He didn’t want praise. He just wanted balance. And for a moment, the bully realized he wasn’t the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

Madam Hooch clapped her hands sharply. “Alright, first-years! Everyone, a lap of the pitch! Keep steady, and don’t crash into each other!”

The entire group groaned and rose, wobbling unsteadily as the broomsticks lifted. John followed, hands tight around the handle, legs tense, eyes scanning every movement. The wind rushed past his ears, the shouts of his classmates blurring into a dull roar.

He noticed it immediately—one of the boys, taller and heavier, was angling dangerously close, eyes fixed on him as if aiming to make him fall. Panic flared for a moment, sharp and cold, but John didn’t freeze. His hands adjusted on the broom instinctively, the broom responding with tiny, precise movements. It wasn’t expert flying by any standard, but it was enough.

As the boy lunged closer, John wobbled just enough to slip aside. His broom leaned and rocked, not with elegance but with survival instinct, and the would-be attacker overshot, veering slightly off course. A few classmates squealed in surprise; the intended collision missed entirely.

John’s chest heaved, adrenaline pumping, but there was no pride, no triumph. He had dodged, nothing more. The whispers from the others reached him faintly—some impressed, some mocking—but he didn’t look. He focused only on keeping the broom steady enough to finish the lap in one piece.

Madam Hooch’s voice cut through the wind, sharp and commanding. “Keep your wits about you! Eyes forward!”

The other first-years were panting, flushed, some dizzy, some triumphant. John’s hands still gripped the broom handle, knuckles white. He didn’t know if anyone had noticed the way he had dodged—not just physically but somehow instinctively, surviving the chaos with minimal fuss.

He dropped to the grass, trembling slightly, and slid the broomstick into the rack. No one came close to praising him; if anything, some were grumbling about him wobbling. That suited John just fine. He didn’t need their attention. He just needed to breathe.

The class trudged back to the changing room, the air thick with chatter and laughter, mostly at the expense of anyone who had struggled on the brooms. John trailed behind, keeping his head down, eyes fixed on the floor.

Then the burly Slytherin stepped forward. He looked older, his shoulders broad and imposing. Without warning, he lunged and scooped John up, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. John’s eyes widened fractionally, but otherwise his expression remained blank, calm on the outside even as panic gripped his chest.

The bully’s grin widened as he shook John slightly, laughing along with the others. “Why aren’t you reacting, little one?”

The laughter around him swelled. Colin and Stephen, who had been chatting quietly nearby, froze, concern etching their faces.

John didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Inside, a storm of fear, confusion, and helplessness raged, but his body remained unnervingly still, almost detached, as if he were observing himself from a distance.

The bully’s patience snapped. With a frustrated growl, he hurled John to the ground. John hit awkwardly, his head bouncing slightly and shoulder jarring against the floor. Pain shot through him, sharp and immediate, but he made no sound. He rolled instinctively with the impact, minimizing the force on his shoulder and chest. Every muscle tensed, every reflex honed by that flicker of panic inside him.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself up. His movements were careful, measured—his calm exterior never breaking, even as every joint ached, his shoulder throbbed, and his head spun slightly.

He retreated to the corner of the changing room, placing a few paces between himself and the others. There, he began to change into his school clothes, his hands slightly shaky but composed. His face remained unreadable, almost serene, as though nothing had happened, while every nerve in his body screamed.

Colin and Stephen watched from a distance, their brows furrowed. They knew he’d been hurt; they could see the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his movements faltered for just a second when he adjusted his jumper. But when they glanced at his face, there was no cry, no protest—only that still, quiet mask he always wore.

Around him, the room buzzed with laughter and chatter, oblivious. John’s mind hummed with the echoes of the impact, the ache in his shoulder, the dizziness—but outwardly, he simply folded his clothes, pinned his trousers, brushed down his jumper, and completed his change. No one could tell the turmoil simmering beneath the surface.

When he finally straightened, adjusting his satchel, he moved with the same careful, deliberate steps as always, his blank expression masking the throbbing pain and panic that lingered inside.

John’s legs carried him up the gentle slope toward the castle, feet pounding softly against the cobblestones. The wind tugged at his hair, lifting it slightly around his face, but he barely noticed; all his focus was on putting distance between himself and the group in the changing room, on escaping the lingering heat of embarrassment and the ache from the shoulder hit.

Behind him, Roger’s footsteps echoed faster, almost matching John’s pace.

“Wait up! Can we just talk?” Roger called, his voice a little breathless, but not strained.

John froze mid-stride, a jolt running through him, and spun around sharply. His wide eyes met Roger’s, cautious, wary, scanning for any hint of aggression. His hands, clutching his satchel straps, tensed slightly.

Roger grinned, raising his hands in a harmless gesture. “Hey, hey, no need to panic. I saw you flying today. Wasn’t half bad, you know. Could’ve done a lot better if people hadn’t been trying to crash into you.”

John blinked slowly, processing the words. “H-how did you see me flying?” His voice was soft, almost timid, but he’d said it, and the sound of it startled him more than it did Roger.

Roger’s smile widened. “Oh! So you do speak.”

Lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course.”

“Then why don’t you speak much?” Roger asked, curiosity threading through the tone, but not judgment.

John shrugged slightly, his gaze dropping to the ground. “There’s not much to be said,” he murmured, voice quiet, polite, but weighed down by a hesitant reserve.

Roger tilted his head. “You’re short.”

Green eyes flicked up briefly, almost imperceptibly, and then back to the ground. “I’ll grow. I’ve only just turned eleven.”

“Ah. August birthday?”

John nodded once, small, careful.

“You’re quiet for a Leo,” Roger said lightly, as if testing a theory.

John nodded again, just once, his gaze softening slightly but still reserved.

“How did you see me flying?” John asked again, gently.

Roger shrugged casually. “I had Care of Magical Creatures. Got let go early because the salamanders escaped and Kettleburn had nothing else planned. So I wandered over. Lucky timing.”

John’s lips pressed together in a faint, polite acknowledgment. He changed direction subtly, aiming to walk down toward the lake rather than continue up the castle steps. His movements were measured, shy but deliberate, as if every step required consideration.

“Where are you going?” Roger asked, jogging to keep pace, a slight teasing lilt in his voice.

He paused for a fraction, then muttered softly, almost as an afterthought, “Lake.”

Roger’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn’t press further, letting John lead. They walked together in a quiet rhythm, the sounds of the castle fading behind them, the soft rustle of the grass and the distant calls of birds greeting the morning.

John’s posture remained careful, shoulders slightly hunched, hands gripping the straps of his satchel. He offered only polite nods and soft mutters in response to any attempt at conversation, his words sparse but measured. Every gesture was intentional, every glance fleeting, yet there was a subtle calm to him—a quiet insistence on doing things his own way, on maintaining a careful distance even when accompanied.

The lake lay quiet in the late morning light, a pale mirror reflecting the soft blue of the sky and the scattered clouds drifting lazily above. John’s boots crunched over the gravel and grass as he moved carefully toward a flat rock jutting slightly from the edge of the water. He stepped onto it with deliberate caution, the surface uneven beneath his school shoes, and he leaned forward slightly, peering down at the reflection staring back at him.

The boy he saw was small, swallowed by the folds of his too-large robes, hair falling in soft, wavy strands around his face. His eyes—grey-green in the soft morning light—looked back with cautious curiosity, yet there was a hollow weight in their depth, as if they carried more than an eleven-year-old should.

John wondered silently, almost to himself, what his father had looked like, whether he’d resembled him more than his mother. He tried to recall his father’s face, the warmth in his hands, the way he had looked at John with quiet pride. But the memories were fleeting, splintered at the edges. He remembered nothing but the roughness of his father’s hands. The rest—smiles, laughter, embraces—faded before he could grasp them.

“John?” Roger’s voice was soft, careful, a contrast to his usual energy.

Before John could turn, a firm hand landed on his shoulder. He jolted violently, twisting instinctively, and nearly tipped off the rock into the shallow edge of the lake. Water lapped at the stones below, catching the sunlight in tiny, shimmering bursts.

“Woah—hey, steady!” Roger’s grip tightened just enough to prevent him from falling. He pulled him a step back, away from the edge, but the tug made John wince, pain flickering across his small shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” Roger said, eyes narrowing with concern.

John’s voice was soft, almost a whisper, a hint of defensiveness underneath: “People throw small things.” His gaze flicked away from Roger, down toward the water. “Thank you… for stopping me from getting wet.”

Roger shook his head slightly, a faint frown on his face. “I almost caused it,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “So… you’re hurt. You just brushed over that. You said they threw you?”

John shrugged, his small shoulders rising and falling beneath the folds of his oversized jumper. His lips pressed together as if sealing away a more complicated answer. “Yes. A bit.” His tone was clipped, precise, almost rehearsed, a defense mechanism built into every word.

Roger studied him for a long moment, the quiet of the lake pressing around them. The faint wind tugged at their robes, making the grass and reeds bend and rustle. He could see the slight tension in John’s posture—the way his hands clutched at the satchel strap, the way he avoided direct eye contact, the faint quiver in his stance despite his small, controlled movements.

“Look,” Roger said gently, lowering his hand from John’s shoulder but keeping close. “You don’t have to explain everything. But… you’re allowed to be hurt and not hide it... and it’s not… your fault.”

John’s lips twitched faintly, almost a reflex to hide something, and he gave a small, polite nod, his wide eyes tracing the water again. He didn’t speak, didn’t argue, but his body loosened slightly, a subtle easing in the shoulders, as if the small acknowledgment was enough.

“Did it hurt a lot?” Roger asked, softer this time, curiosity more than insistence.

John considered it, silent, then muttered quietly: “It did… but… it’s fine. I’m fine. Really.” His voice was small, but there was an undercurrent of something heavier, a weight he wasn’t ready to share.

Roger let the silence stretch for a moment, only the soft lapping of the water and the distant chirp of birds filling the space. He knew pushing would scare John away; he had to let him choose to talk. So he stayed close, a silent presence, letting John’s gaze rest on the lake, on his reflection, on whatever thoughts haunted him there.

His fingers twitched slightly on the strap of his satchel, the only outward sign of his inner tension. Yet even that small, restless movement was tempered by the knowledge that Roger wasn’t going to leave.

John shifted slightly on the rock, his hair falling like a curtain across his face as he turned just enough to glance at Roger. His eyes were wide, almost suspicious, but there was no heat in them—just confusion, caution, the kind that came from never quite knowing if kindness was real.

His voice was barely above the wind, a tiny tremor carried in it: “Why are you even talking to me?”

Roger blinked, taken aback for a second, then gave a lopsided grin, trying to ease the tension. “Because you’re here,” he said simply, shrugging. “And because you don’t say much, which makes me curious. Most first years won’t shut up about how great they’re going to be. You…” He tilted his head, studying John. “You’re different.”

John’s fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sleeve, pulling it over his hand until only his fingertips showed. His gaze dropped to the ground again, unwilling to hold Roger’s.

“Different’s not… good,” he muttered, voice soft, almost lost in the breeze.

Roger stepped a little closer, not crowding him but enough that his presence was steady, solid. “Different’s interesting,” he corrected, with the kind of certainty only a thirteen-year-old could have. “Besides, as I said, you flew better than half the idiots in our year who laughed at you. That’s… worth talking about.”

John’s lips pressed together, a faint crease forming between his brows. He didn’t respond immediately, weighing Roger’s words like fragile glass, afraid they might shatter if he believed them too much.

After a long pause, he finally murmured, “You don’t… mind?”

“Mind what?” Roger asked, genuinely confused.

“That I don’t talk much.”

Roger laughed, light and unbothered. “Nah. I do enough talking for both of us.”

John didn’t answer. He only looked at Roger, head tilted slightly, eyes big and unreadable. There was no nod, no shake of the head, no word—just a stare, the kind that felt sharper than it should coming from someone so small, so quiet.

Roger shifted under the weight of it, then smirked. “Right. You’re one of those. Just… stare and wait for me to say something, yeah?”

John didn’t blink.

He laughed under his breath. “Fine, fine, I’ll talk. I don’t mind. I’m good at it, anyway.”

He dropped down onto the grass beside the rock, leaning back on his hands. “Well… I’m Roger. Roger Taylor. From Cornwall. Bit far from here, so I guess I’m lucky the train even stopped at my stop. My mum cried when I left, my gran told me to keep my head down—fat chance of that happening.” He grinned to himself.

John blinked slowly, watching him.

“And let me tell you—flying’s the best bit. I’d do it all day if they let me. I mean, I’m not perfect—yet—but I’m good. My mate Alfie said I show off too much, but hey, if you’ve got it, you’ve got to use it, right?” He gave a quick laugh, glanced at John, and shrugged when he got nothing back. “Yeah, thought so. Not impressed.”

John tilted his head just slightly, like he was listening harder.

Roger carried on, unabashed. “I’ve got a younger sister at home—Clare. She’s nine. Drives me mad, but I’ll admit it, I miss her sometimes. My dad’s a GP. Muggle doctor, y’know? Thought this whole wizard thing was a joke when my letter came. Mum cried again. Seems to be her thing.”

John’s fingers played with the hem of his jumper sleeve, tugging it over his knuckles, his face carefully neutral.

Roger leaned forward a little, catching that small movement. “You’ve got family too, yeah?" He hesitated, tone softening. “You don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want.”

John’s stare flicked down to the grass at Roger’s feet, shoulders curling in just a little.

Roger quickly filled the silence again, cheerful on purpose. “Anyway. I like music, too. Drums, mostly, but I’ll pick up anything that makes noise. Teachers don’t like it, obviously. I’ve already had one detention, but hey, what’s Hogwarts without a bit of trouble, right?”

For the first time, John’s lips twitched—the smallest huff of something almost like amusement escaping his nose before he caught himself.

Roger pounced on it immediately. “Aha! That’s something! Knew you weren’t a statue. See? You listen. You just don’t talk much. That’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”

John blinked again, but softer this time. His voice came out quiet, careful: “You’re loud.”

Roger grinned, triumphant. “Exactly. That’s why we’ll get along.”

“I like music,” John said, voice so soft Roger almost thought he imagined it.

Roger blinked, then lit up. “You do? Oh, finally—something out of you! What kind?”

John tilted his head, uncertain, like the question had too many right answers and too many wrong ones at the same time. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his oversized jumper. “I… I don’t know.”

He leaned forward, intrigued. “Don’t know? You just said you like it. Do you play?”

There was a pause. John glanced down at his shoes, at the grass, at the tiny rocks by the lake. “I… I have a bass,” he whispered, as though admitting a secret. Then he swallowed, mouth dry. “But… I don’t know.”

Roger frowned, confusion mixing with curiosity. “You don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know?”

John’s shoulders drew in tighter. His hair fell forward over his face, that curtain he seemed to hide behind. “I—” His lips pressed together. He shook his head once, small and stubborn. “I don’t know.”

The air shifted. Roger sat back a little, the grin fading off his face. He looked at John properly then—not just the quiet kid who surprised him on a broomstick, not just the one who seemed too clever for his own good, but a boy who was curled up inside himself, trying to disappear even when sitting in plain daylight.

And Roger knew those eyes.

He knew the way they flicked away when asked something too personal. He knew the way the body stiffened, like bracing for something worse to come. He knew the hollow tone, the way words were rationed out like they cost something.

Trauma.

It was written in John’s silence as much as in the few words he gave. Roger’s gut twisted because he’d seen that look before—on himself in the mirror when he was younger, when the shouting got too much, when the walls at home rattled with more than wind.

Roger let out a slow breath and forced his voice into something softer, gentler. “Alright. You don’t have to explain.”

Green eyes flicked up, surprised.

Roger tried a half-smile, but not his usual cocky one. “I get it. Sometimes… sometimes you don’t know if you’re allowed to like things. Or if you’re any good. Or if it’s even yours to claim. Doesn’t mean you don’t care, though.”

He stared, mouth parting just slightly, as though the thought had never been put into words for him before.

Roger shrugged, glancing out at the lake instead of drilling into him with it. “Look, I’m not gonna make you say anything you don’t want to. You’ve got a bass? That’s cool as hell. Means you’ve got music in you, whether you play it yet or not. And when—if—you feel like it, you’ll know.”

Silence fell, but this time it wasn’t heavy. The water lapped gently at the bank. A breeze ruffled their hair. John’s hands stilled on his sleeves, clutching the fabric but not twisting it. His breathing evened out.

Roger leaned back on his hands, squinting at John, who still stood on the rock staring down at his robes. “What went wrong with the Sorting Hat, by the way?”

John blinked at him. “It… couldn’t place me.”

The drummer laughed lightly, though there was an edge of real curiosity. “Well, obviously. I could’ve guessed that. Hat’s probably still arguing with itself now.”

John’s shoulders hunched. He looked away, his hair falling like a shield again. His eyes dropped to the yellow trim on his robes, fingers tracing the seam as though wondering whether the cloth itself might tell him something. For a moment he imagined what he would have worn if he remembered everything—if he remembered who he was meant to be. A green lining? Blue? Red? He would never know.

Roger caught the silence. “Ok, I get it,” he said after a beat, softer. “Another boundary. I’ll leave it.” He kicked a pebble towards the water, where it plunked uselessly into the shallows. “Hey, do you know how to skim stones? Or is that another ‘I don’t know?’”

John’s head lifted just enough. He nodded once.

Roger narrowed his eyes playfully. “An ‘I don’t know?’”

His nod was slower this time, but there was something new on his face—a shy, small smile tugging at his lips.

Roger grinned. “Aha! Gotcha. A smile. That’s worth celebrating.” He hopped down from the grass bank, crouched, and picked up a flat, smooth stone. “Alright then, mystery one. Watch and learn. If you do know, and you’re just pretending not to, you’d better not outshow me. This is my thing.”

John tilted his head, curiosity finally flickering past his guarded expression.

Roger flicked the stone with a practiced snap of his wrist. It skipped once, twice, three, four times before sinking into the rippling surface. “There! Four! That’s a good one.” He turned and smirked. “Your move, if you dare.”

The younger boy shuffled closer, hesitant. His long sleeves almost covered his fingers as he bent down, picking up a stone. He weighed it, uncertain. His grip was awkward, like he was trying to remember a shape his hands once knew. He threw—too softly, at the wrong angle. The stone bounced once then plunked down in defeat.

Roger whooped and clapped. “Ha! Brilliant. That’s the most tragic skim I’ve ever seen. But hey, you got one! That counts!”

John’s smile widened a fraction, the tiniest gleam of pride lighting his face despite himself.

“Good,” Roger said, softer again, watching the boy straighten. “Told you. You know more than you think.”

The words hung between them, sinking in with the ripples spreading across the lake.

The two of them kept crouching along the bank, hunting for the perfect stones. Roger had explained how to “test the weight,” showing John how to spin the stone on his palm before tossing it. John listened carefully, as though Roger were giving him some sacred lesson instead of just teaching him a pastime.

“Three skips!” Roger crowed after his next throw, turning to grin at John.

John nodded, eyes following the ripples. His own attempt earned him two skips this time before the stone plopped into the depths. His expression didn’t change much, but the faintest light touched his face again, as though each successful attempt proved some tiny, hidden piece of himself still worked.

They kept at it for several minutes, stones clicking and splashing into the water, the air full of Roger’s banter and the occasional quiet nod or mutter from John. The lake was calm, their ripples fading slowly across its wide surface—

Until the water shuddered.

At first it was just a tremor, as if a breeze had disturbed it. But then the ripples swelled, widening, deepening. A massive shadow shifted beneath the water.

Roger froze mid-crouch. “Er… John?"

John’s head tilted, watching with his strange, blank curiosity. And then, from the depths, a tentacle the size of a tree trunk curled lazily upwards, breaking the surface. Another followed, slapping down with a sound like thunder.

The giant squid.

Roger leapt to his feet. “Oh bloody hell—”

But John had already bolted. His satchel thumped against his side as he ran, robes flying, hair in his face. He grabbed Roger’s sleeve with surprising force, yanking hard enough that Roger nearly toppled.

“Run,” John gasped, voice sharp and frightened in a way Roger hadn’t heard before. “Run—now—”

Roger didn’t need telling twice. The two of them sprinted along the bank, splashing through the grass, John tugging insistently at him as if terrified he’d stop. Behind them, the lake roiled with movement. The squid didn’t chase—they both knew it never really did—but the sheer immensity of it, the reminder of what lurked just beneath the surface, was enough to set their hearts racing.

By the time they reached the slope up toward the castle, Roger was breathless and laughing. “Merlin’s beard, John, you nearly ripped my arm off!”

John finally released his sleeve, chest heaving, eyes wide. His face was pale, lips pressed tight as though holding something back. He looked at Roger, then at the lake again, then back—

And for a second, almost as quickly as it came, there was a flash of a grin.

John looked up at Roger, his gaze sharp and oddly calculating, as though he were trying to see every angle of the boy in front of him. Roger, usually quick with a quip or a smirk, felt his breath catch, just a little, when he noticed John’s eyes subtly shift. The swirling hues seemed to mirror the world around them: the crisp sky-blue overhead, the deep green of the trees lining the path, and then a soft grey-green that reminded him vaguely of mossy slate. It was disorienting in a way Roger wasn’t used to—like staring into a mirror he couldn’t quite recognize.

Then John, without breaking eye contact, reached out and took Roger’s hand. It was deliberate, unhesitant, and Roger felt a slight jolt—not unpleasant, just startling in the intimacy of the gesture.

“What class do you have now?” John’s voice was quiet, almost shy, yet firm, his eyes still flicking toward Roger as if measuring the truth in his answer.

“Muggle Studies,” Roger said, blinking at the hand now resting in John’s. “Why?”

“Don’t you live in the muggle world?” John asked, tilting his head, eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the answer before it even left Roger’s mouth.

“How’d you know that?” Roger asked, a laugh laced with surprise escaping him.

“Said your dad didn’t believe in magic,” John muttered calmly.

“Oh… right. Yeah,” Roger said, scratching the back of his neck. “I'm taking it for a free OWL, I guess.” Roger shrugged, tossing his bag higher on his shoulder, trying to play it casual.

John frowned, lips pressed tight. “Smart,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Roger, suddenly aware of John’s hand still in his own, glanced down. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” John said quickly, and let go.

“No, I don’t mind. I’m a touchy person, but I don’t really get others being the same,” Roger said, smirking just a little, trying to read the boy in front of him.

“I’m not a touchy person,” he replied softly, eyes scanning the srea as if noting every detail.

“Oh, I know that—from when I found you in the corridor. That’s why I pointed it out. Didn’t seem like you,” Roger added, leaning back slightly, still intrigued.

“Well, I don’t know who I am, really. I just know I don’t like touch,” John said, almost shyly, almost as if confessing a personal truth.

“You’re holding my hand again,” Roger noted, this time teasing a little more, though the smirk was tempered by curiosity.

“Your hand is warm,” John said simply, as if that explained everything.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “And yours is cold. So, what class do you have? You didn’t say.”

“Charms. You know? I think this is the most words I’ve spoken since my memory began,” John admitted, voice low but confident in its quiet revelation.

Roger muttered under his breath "Memory began?", a note of shock in his tone as they turned into the entrance hall. “Oh… shit. We’re late.”

“You’re not,” John said matter-of-factly. He glanced up at Roger, eyes flicking toward a faint seam in the wall along the corridor. “Take this route,” he instructed, pointing subtly. “Through the passage. Shortcut. Go before you really are late.”

Roger’s eyes widened. “How the fuck do you know that?” he asked, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“I have a useful book.” John said, pulling his hand back, eyes glinting just a little with the satisfaction of having offered something genuinely helpful.

Roger nodded, breathing out, a grin tugging at his lips. “Thank you… John.”

“No, thank you, Roger,” John said, already pivoting back toward his own class route, slipping into the shadows of the secret passage with that quiet, assured poise that made him seem smaller than he was, but somehow far more in control.

Roger lingered a moment at the entrance to the passage, shaking his head, still marveling. That boy… he’s not just quiet, he’s… something else entirely.

Chapter Text

By the end of the second week, the constant murmur of worry among the Hogwarts staff had reached a peak. Teachers had whispered and fretted over John’s unusual behavior, his precocious understanding of spells, and his unreadable, quiet demeanor. Dumbledore, having already fielded multiple calls, notes, and impromptu meetings with heads of houses and various instructors, finally decided to summon John to his office. It was early afternoon when a small, polite note arrived for him: Please make your way to the headmaster’s office. – Albus Dumbledore.

John, as usual, said nothing to his dormmates about the summons. He left the common room quietly, sat on the stairs for a moment to adjust his oversized jumper, and then made his way up to the headmaster’s office. His steps were careful, methodical, almost hesitant, as though each movement required permission from his own mind before it could execute.

Upon entering, he was met with the warm glow of sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows, glinting off stacks of parchment and shelves of books. Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, looking calm but with a faint crease of concern between his brows—a headmaster who had spent far too many hours untangling teacher worries and extraordinary student issues alike.

“Ah, Mr. Deacon,” Dumbledore said warmly, rising from his chair. “Come in. Do come in. Sit, if you like.” He gestured to a high-backed chair opposite his desk. John obediently moved forward and lowered himself onto the edge of the chair, his posture precise and stiff, as if he were unsure of how much space he was allowed to occupy.

Dumbledore reached into a small dish on his desk and offered John a rhubarb-flavored sweet. “A small treat before we talk? It’s quite nice, very sweet. I find it helps with nerves.”

John’s eyes flicked to the candy. He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, thank you,” he muttered. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but perfectly clear.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said with a small smile, not pressing the matter. “No need to force oneself.” He leaned back slightly, hands folded atop the desk. “Now, Mr. Deacon, I imagine you are aware that you have caused a certain… stir among your instructors.” His eyes twinkled gently, yet his expression remained serious. “They have noted your knowledge, your abilities, and your… unusual mastery of spells at such an early stage. Your capacity to learn, to anticipate, to perform—well beyond what is typical for a first-year student.”

John’s eyes widened imperceptibly, though he remained silent, gripping the sides of the chair lightly.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore continued, voice measured, careful, yet warm, “even Professor McGonagall, who is not easily impressed, has observed that your understanding of charms, transfiguration, and even aspects of Herbology, are already far beyond what we expect. Professor Flitwick has been most enthusiastic, and while the others fret over your lack of engagement in lessons, it is clear to all of us that you comprehend more than you allow yourself to demonstrate.”

He blinked, his mind racing to process the words. He nodded slightly, muttering a quiet, “thank you.”

The headmaster's fingers tapped lightly on the desk. “Which brings me to the matter at hand, Mr. Deacon. After consultation with your teachers, I am prepared to offer you the opportunity to… move up a year. To proceed as a second-year student in subjects for which you are demonstrably capable. This is unusual, yes, and it is fast, but your abilities warrant it, and I have faith that you will rise to the challenge.”

John’s mouth fell slightly open. He had never expected to hear such words. His head tilted, and his eyes, still wide, looked anywhere but the floor for once, as if searching for confirmation that he hadn’t misheard.

Dumbledore leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly, though still cheerful. “The tests will be tomorrow. I am sorry that it is all so sudden, but I trust your abilities implicitly. You may find some of the challenges… familiar, given your self-directed studies, but there will be measures to ensure the results are meaningful and fair. Do not worry unduly, Mr. Deacon. We only wish to ensure your talents are nurtured, not squandered.”

The boy shifted slightly in his chair, frowning faintly, trying to reconcile his feelings. Excitement, apprehension, and a strange, uncertain weight of responsibility pressed down on him.

Finally, he muttered softly, “Thank you.” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, but genuine.

Dumbledore smiled gently, giving him a small, conspiratorial wink. “No, thank you, Mr. Deacon. You have given us much to consider, and I believe the outcome will be… most enlightening.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, off you go. Get some rest, prepare as you will, and do not fret. We all have faith in you.”

John rose carefully, oversized jumper brushing against the desk edge, and walked to the door, thoughts swirling, mind both exhausted and racing. He paused briefly, glanced back at Dumbledore, and nodded once, quietly. “Yes. Thank you.”

And with that, he left the office, stepping into the corridors of Hogwarts once more, the weight of possibility and expectation settling around his small shoulders as he headed back to the quiet of the Hufflepuff corridors, unsure of what to think, only aware that the world had just shifted slightly beneath him.

The morning of the test dawned crisp and bright, but John paid little attention to the sun streaming through the Hufflepuff windows. He had spent the early hours in the library’s Muggle section, sprawled across a low table with a large, heavy book open in front of him, completely absorbed. The book detailed engines, combustion, and the inner workings of various vehicles. Pistons, gears, exhausts—he traced diagrams with a fingertip, whispering to himself the explanations as if reciting a charm. It had nothing to do with magic, yet everything felt like it connected; understanding the mechanics, the logic, the principles of cause and effect, grounded him in a way spells and charms sometimes didn’t.

He barely noticed the passage of time. For John, the world of moving parts, wheels, and spark plugs was easier to grasp than the human interactions and sudden bursts of emotion that filled Hogwarts. He turned a page, leaning closer, tracing a diagram of a car’s gearbox with meticulous care. Every line, every label, was memorized without conscious effort. A small part of him knew this obsession was his way of keeping the chaos at bay—the panic, the dizzying swirl of people and expectations, and the heavy weight of memory that had not yet returned.

It was a Saturday. Most students would have been playing games, walking by the lake, or simply enjoying the morning without the constant pressure of lessons, yet John didn’t care. Time, weekdays, or rules—they all blurred together in his mind when it came to focusing on learning, even if this learning wasn’t the expected kind.

He was led through a quiet corridor, the castle unusually empty for a weekend. The door to the testing room was open, and Dumbledore himself stood inside, smiling warmly, as though greeting an old friend rather than a nervous eleven-year-old.

“Ah, Mr. Deacon,” Dumbledore said, his tone bright yet calm. “Right on time, as always, I see. Are you ready?”

John nodded mutely, his hands clutching the corners of his oversized jumper. He felt small, swallowed in his clothes, yet something about Dumbledore’s calm presence made him feel less like he was about to be judged and more like he was merely stepping into a place where he could show what he already knew.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said, stepping aside. “Please, take a seat anywhere you like. The test has been tailored for you. No one else will see it. You may begin when ready.”

John slid into a chair, placing the ink and quill in front of him, though he barely glanced at them. His mind was already moving through formulas, charm sequences, and spells he had seen in lessons. Oddly, he felt more prepared than he had for anything else. It was as though Hogwarts itself had been leading him to this moment, and now it was simply a matter of proving it—not to anyone else, but to the facts themselves.

He did not open his mouth. There was no muttering, no hesitation. He read through the questions, visualizing each charm, counter-spell, and transfiguration in his mind with precision. When the test demanded wandwork, he whispered under his breath only when necessary, and the magic responded perfectly. When it required theory, he wrote in neat, concise script, each answer exact, without flourish or commentary.

Even as the test progressed, he remained detached from the observers. Dumbledore watched quietly, notes at hand, occasionally jotting down observations, but otherwise allowing John to work. The boy’s focus was absolute, as if the rest of the castle had ceased to exist.

By the end, John leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly drumming against the slate, his expression blank yet oddly satisfied. He had not studied for this test in the traditional sense, and yet he had performed flawlessly, demonstrating knowledge far beyond his first-year peers. The results were undeniable, a precise reflection of innate talent, intuition, and the rigorous self-directed learning that Hogwarts had not yet fully accounted for.

Dumbledore gave a small, approving nod. “Well done, Mr. Deacon. That will suffice for now. You may leave the room, and I shall review your work at my leisure. You may return to your common room, though I trust you understand the significance of what you have just accomplished.”

John muttered a quiet “Yes,” gathered his things, and left the room, leaving Dumbledore to review the slate in silence. Outside, the corridors were empty, yet the castle seemed to hum around him, almost aware of his passage. John felt neither triumphant nor proud; he simply felt… correct, as though he had done exactly what needed to be done, and the rest of the world would catch up eventually.

His footsteps echoed softly on the polished stone floors as he made his way through the castle, still feeling the lingering weight of Dumbledore’s test. Ahead, near one of the quieter staircases, he saw Freddie leaning casually against the wall, a faint smirk on his face, idly twirling a quill in his hand.

John’s stomach twisted. Memories of the hospital wing floated unbidden to the surface—Freddie coaxing him to eat when he had no appetite, offering warmth and patience, and even letting John curl his hand around his thumb in his sleep. He hadn’t meant to, but thinking about it made his cheeks heat. He wasn’t used to kindness, not in this raw, deliberate way, and certainly not from someone who wasn’t family. How could he possibly thank him? He felt awkward, tongue-tied, incapable of forming the right words.

The castle, almost sensing his uncertainty, seemed to guide him. Halls that usually twisted unpredictably straightened, corridors subtly shifted so that he found himself before a familiar, grand door he hadn’t seen in a few days. With a hesitant hand, he pushed it open, and there it was—the founders’ room, bathed in gentle, warm light. The round table gleamed, the goblets lined up like tiny beacons of order, and the portraits of the founders were already animatedly discussing something amongst themselves.

The four heads—Helga, Godric, Rowena, and Salazar—turned in unison at his entrance. There was no surprise, only a quiet, anticipatory happiness. It was as if they had known he would return, even without speaking it aloud. Their eyes, bright and expectant, fell on him with an almost familial warmth, and for a moment, John felt himself shrink under the weight of all that attention.

“I… I’m sorry for not coming back sooner,” John muttered, voice low, eyes flicking to the floor. His hands twisted at the hem of his oversized robes.

Helga gave him a gentle nod, smiling. “We were not worried, little one. You have been busy, I see.”

“I… I need help,” John continued, more to himself than to them. He paused, then straightened slightly, cheeks tinged with pink. “I want to… give a gift to a friend.”

“Ah,” Godric said, leaning forward in his portrait, interest flickering in his eyes. “And who is this friend?”

John hesitated, the name feeling strange yet necessary on his tongue. “A fifth year. Freddie.”

Salazar, never one to contain his enthusiasm, practically jumped out of his frame, bouncing with uncontained energy. “OHH! It’s for Freddie! The Slytherin! The one from the hospital wing!” His eyes shone with delight, and he gestured wildly, nearly toppling his frame.

John blinked, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of excitement. “Yes… that’s… him.”

“Splendid!” Helga interjected gently, though her eyes twinkled with amusement. “Now, what kind of gift would you like to give, dear? Something personal, something thoughtful, or perhaps something that represents your… appreciation?”

“I… I don’t know,” John admitted, voice almost a whisper. He thought about Freddie’s patience, his humor, his audacity, and even the way he had just smirked at him in the corridor. He wanted it to be right, something meaningful but not too much—something that could somehow convey gratitude without words, because words were hard.

Rowena leaned forward, tilting her head. “Then we shall help you choose. It should be something he would remember, something that speaks to both of your spirits.”

Salazar’s bouncing slowed slightly, but he still hummed with excitement. “Yes, yes! A Slytherin and a Hufflepuff… tricky, tricky! But that’s what makes it perfect. It must be clever and subtle, just like the two of you!”

“Go through the middle door, sweetheart,” Helga said, her voice calm but firm, eyes glinting as she regarded John.

John blinked up at her, confusion etched across his small, pale face. “W-what door?”

“It’ll appear in a second,” she said with a soft chuckle. “It’s a special door. It will take you straight to Salazar’s vault.”

Salazar’s portrait practically leapt from his frame, his robes swirling in agitation. “MY vault? Why my vault? You didn’t ask my permission! That is most improper, Helga!”

Helga smirked, tilting her head in an almost teasing fashion. “We’re getting John a gift to give to Freddie, Sal. It must be Slytherin.”

“Yes, but—” Salazar sputtered, hands flailing, “that’s rather sneaky Slytherin of you, Hufflepuff! How dare you use my vault without consulting me?”

John stood frozen, watching the argument unfold, feeling small and utterly out of place. His hands twisted at the hem of his robes. “I— I don’t want to steal anything,” he murmured, voice barely audible.

Rowena, perched elegantly in her frame, let out a soft tut and shook her head. “You’re not stealing anything, little one. These vaults, these treasures—they are not simply Salazar’s. They belong to all four of you, eventually. You’ll come together one day. You are our matches, carefully chosen. Everything here will guide you when that time comes.”

Godric leaned forward from his portrait, a small, amused smile on his lips. “Indeed. There is no theft here, John. Only preparation. It is… a lesson in responsibility as well as thoughtfulness.”

Salazar, still fuming but slightly mollified by Rowena’s words, muttered, “Fine. But he is to behave! No mishandling of the items, no clumsy fingers! You hear me, boy?”

John swallowed hard and nodded, words failing him entirely. His eyes flicked to Helga, silently seeking reassurance, and she gave him a gentle nod.

Helga’s voice softened. “It will appear now, John. Just step forward. Trust us.”

Almost as if on cue, the wall before him shimmered and rippled, like sunlight on water, and a narrow door formed, glowing faintly at its edges. It looked impossibly thin and delicate, yet inviting, promising safety and purpose. John hesitated, toes curling at the edge of the stone floor, but the subtle warmth of Helga’s gaze gave him courage.

“You’ll be fine,” Helga murmured. “We’ll be watching. Just remember—this is for a friend.”

John took a tentative step forward. The shimmering door expanded slightly to meet him, as if recognizing his uncertainty. He inhaled sharply, caught between nervousness and curiosity, and crossed the threshold.

The second he stepped through, the air shifted. A faint metallic scent mixed with polished stone and old, magical musk surrounded him. Shelves and cases, lined meticulously with objects that glimmered faintly in the dim light, stretched to impossible heights. Green, silver, and black shimmered subtly in the corners, reflecting the Slytherin house colors. He had never seen anything like it.

Salazar’s portrait appeared behind the vault’s bars, watching him intently. “You have five minutes. Only one item. Choose wisely.”

John’s eyes roamed over the treasures. Medallions and rings that seemed to glow softly, intricate scrolls with scripts he couldn’t read, boxes with delicate locks and gems. Each item radiated power and history, and yet, he realized, he was looking for something that wasn’t just valuable—it was meaningful. Something that could show Freddie he was grateful, without needing to say the words.

His small hands hovered over a silver locket set with a single emerald, catching the faint green shimmer of the vault light. Something about it felt right. Not grandiose, not overbearing, but something carefully chosen. His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted it.

“Careful,” Salazar warned sharply, though there was a note of begrudging admiration in his tone. “Not too fast. Handle it properly. You might learn from this one day.”

John nodded, biting his lip. He felt the weight of the moment—this wasn’t just a vault, this wasn’t just a gift. It was a lesson. A connection. And for a brief second, he felt a warmth he hadn’t felt in days: purpose.

He stepped back, holding the locket close to his chest. “I… I think this is enough,” he muttered quietly, voice barely audible, as though saying it aloud might shatter the fragile courage he had built.

Salazar blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching in something approaching a smile. “Hmm. Surprisingly sensible, little one. Yes… that will do.”

Rowena’s gentle voice chimed in from her portrait, “Well chosen, John. Thoughtfulness will always outshine extravagance. Remember that.”

Godric’s warm tone added, “Indeed. And now, little one, you may return. The gift will serve its purpose well, as will you, in due time.”

John exhaled, a small shiver running down his spine. Carefully, he placed the locket in his satchel. With one final glance at the shimmering shelves of Salazar’s vault, he stepped back through the middle door, the magical threshold closing silently behind him.

He found himself once again in the familiar space of the founders’ room, clutching the gift tightly, heart pounding with a mix of fear and pride.

“I… I just… thank you… for letting me… for helping me… for showing me… I mean, I’m sorry… for bothering you…” His words stumbled over themselves, spilling out in a frantic stream of gratitude and apologies.

Helga’s gentle smile faltered slightly. “John, you don’t need to apologize so much. You’ve been very careful and thoughtful.”

Rowena gave a delicate sigh, shaking her head. “He means well, Sal. Perhaps a bit too well.”

Salazar’s eyes narrowed, lips twitching in exasperation. “Well? I suppose. But all this… this fawning. I didn’t ask for a recital of gratitude! Are you planning to stay here forever, little one?”

Godric’s expression shifted from amused to outright impatient. “Honestly, John,” he said, leaning forward, “you’re starting to make my head ache with all these thank-yous.” He waved a hand dramatically. “Enough! I can only endure so much—”

Before John could stammer another apology, a sudden gust of wind rose in the room, whirling around his feet and nudging him gently but firmly toward the exit. John blinked in surprise, eyes wide, as if the air itself had taken on a mind of its own.

“Godric!” Helga exclaimed, frowning. “You’re actually… forcing him out?”

“I am!” Godric said, exasperated. “He needs to go! He has a gift to deliver and, by all accounts, somewhere to be! My patience is limited, and frankly, so is his time!”

John tried to resist, shuffling backward, but the wind tugged insistently, lifting the hem of his robes slightly. “I… I just… thank y—” he began, voice trembling, but another nudge of warm, playful wind sent him stumbling lightly forward.

Rowena muttered, almost under her breath, “Honestly. He’s far too literal, that one. Wind-assisted persuasion is quite effective, it seems.”

The boy let out a small, exasperated huff, muttering a tiny, “Yes… thank you,” as he allowed himself to be guided toward the doorway. His cheeks burned, a mix of embarrassment and the strange thrill of being literally pushed into the next step of his day by the founder’s magic.

As the room settled, Godric rolled his eyes dramatically and muttered, “Finally. Peace.” Helga gave John a reassuring nod, Rowena adjusted her posture with a faint smile, and Salazar huffed indignantly—but none of them followed him.

John stepped through the doorway, locket safe in his satchel, feeling like he had narrowly escaped both their attention and the overwhelming responsibility of thanking them properly. His heart was still pounding, but for the first time in hours, he felt a little lighter, a little braver, ready to take the next awkward step: giving the gift to Freddie.

He walked slowly down the corridor, clutching the small, velvet-wrapped package to his chest. His steps were tentative, head lowered, as if the walls themselves might judge him for what he was about to do. He can't remember giving a gift before, this was new, terrifying, and, for some reason, incredibly important.

As he turned a corner near the Hufflepuff common room entrance, he froze. Ahead stood the tall figure he had glimpsed before—the Ravenclaw prefect, with unmistakable wild curls—and beside him a Gryffindor with bright red hair, laughing at something Brian had just said. The sight made John pause. Freddie mentioned Brian in the hospital wing; that's how he remembered the name.

Summoning all the courage he could muster, John stepped forward. “Prefect May?” he said, voice small but deliberate. The words came out awkwardly formal, almost comical, and he immediately regretted the “Prefect” part.

Brian and the Gryffindor boy both chuckled lightly. Brian ruffled his curls, smiling. “Just call me Brian,” he said warmly, his laughter subdued enough to feel reassuring rather than mocking.

John nodded quickly, cheeks flushing under the weight of social anxiety, and shifted from foot to foot. “I… I want to give a gift. To someone,” he murmured, eyes darting toward the floor as he spoke. “But… I don’t know how to… I mean… not in person.” 

Brian paused thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Well… you could always write a letter,” he suggested, a hint of curiosity in his voice. “You can send it with one of the Hogwarts owls. They know everyone’s house and can deliver things safely. That way, you don’t have to… uh, do it face-to-face if that’s… uncomfortable.”

John’s wide eyes brightened slightly, as if he had glimpsed a small door in a wall he hadn’t noticed before. He nodded slowly. “A letter…? With the gift…?” His voice was hushed, unsure.

“Yep,” Brian said, stepping a little closer to show he meant no harm. “Write it down. Just tell them who it’s from. Fold it neatly with the package, and one of the owls will handle the rest. No awkward conversations, no real-time reactions… easy and polite.”

John blinked a few times, taking the information in. “Polite… yes. That… that seems possible.” He glanced at the Gryffindor beside Brian, who gave him an encouraging thumbs-up. That small gesture seemed to give him a little courage, grounding him in the moment.

“Do I… just write the name?” John asked. “On a piece of parchment?”

“Exactly,” Brian replied. “Name of the person you want to give it to, your name on it, and maybe a short message if you want. Keep it simple. The owl will take care of everything else.”

John tilted his head, processing, and then nodded again, muttering softly, “I… can do that.” It wasn’t a confident declaration, but it was a start. "Thank you." He muttered and walked off. The hall didn’t seem quite so vast, the steps less heavy, as he turned and made his way back toward the Hufflepuff common room.

Behind him, Brian and the Gryffindor shared a look and a quiet laugh, watching the small figure of John navigating the corridors, oddly determined, oddly careful, and decidedly unlike any first-year they had ever met.

In the quiet of his dorm, John fumbled with the thin stack of parchment he had managed to procure. He carefully cut a piece, humming softly to himself as he worked, measuring the edges with meticulous precision. Once satisfied, he held it between his fingers and muttered the sticking charm, feeling a faint tingle as the edges folded and adhered into a simple envelope.

He wrote the name slowly, his hand trembling slightly: Freddie Mercury. He paused, biting his lower lip. It was what he’d been told would suffice, but something in him wanted to do better, to be sure it reached its intended recipient. Beneath the name he added, almost hesitantly, 5th Year Slytherin, making sure the details were precise.

John set the envelope aside and took another piece of parchment. With careful attention, he cut it smaller this time, muttering softly to achieve a neat rectangle. On it, he wrote, Dear Mr Mercury, thank you for helping me in the hospital wing. You’re incredibly kind. I hope you like the gift. –John. Each word was deliberate, every curve and line of the letters exact. He read it once, muttered the words softly, then nodded to himself, satisfied.

He placed the note into the envelope alongside the silver locket. With a tiny flick and a whisper, the edges of the envelope sealed snugly with the sticking charm.

John clutched the envelope in one hand, the locket pressing lightly against his palm, and practically bolted from the dormitory. His long, wavy hair bounced behind him as he sprinted through the corridors, eyes darting from corner to corner, careful to avoid any obstacles.

As he rounded a corner, he almost collided with a teacher who had stepped out from a side corridor. The professor's eyes narrowed.

“And where exactly do you think you’re going at this speed, young man?” the professor asked sharply, voice echoing slightly in the empty hallway.

John’s chest tightened. He hadn’t been scolded since arriving, and the sudden reprimand made him flinch. He opened his mouth to explain, but the words tangled in his throat.

“I… I… the owlery,” he muttered finally, his voice small, almost inaudible.

The professor's frown softened slightly at the hesitation, but their tone remained firm. “Running through corridors like a madman is not acceptable, Mr Deacon. Walk sensibly and be mindful of the castle’s rules.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded quickly, murmuring, “Yes… sorry.” He adjusted the grip on the envelope, careful not to let it slip from his hands, and started walking at a hurried but controlled pace toward the owlery.

Even as he walked, his mind was preoccupied, going over every detail: had he written the address correctly? Would the locket arrive safely? Would Freddie understand that the gift was a thank-you, nothing more, nothing less? The questions swirled endlessly in his head, but he pushed them down, focusing instead on the rhythmic tap of his shoes against the stone floor and the destination ahead.

By the time he reached the massive doors of the owlery, his heart was hammering in his chest, a mix of anxiety, anticipation, and the tiniest flicker of pride. Carefully, he set the envelope and locket on the nearest ledge, and ensured the owl would grasp it gently. As the owl stretched its wings, John felt a flutter in his stomach, a strange mixture of hope and fear.

This was it. His first gift, sent across Hogwarts, and he had done it himself.

Freddie and Mary were sitting on the grass, their books spread out, pens in hand. The sudden flutter of wings caught their attention.

Freddie’s green eyes widened as the owl landed beside them, head tilting in that faintly comical way owls had, and dropping the envelope at his feet. His brow furrowed in confusion for a moment before recognition dawned.

“The owl… it’s for me?” he breathed, almost to himself.

Mary’s gaze followed the envelope, her hand coming up to her mouth. “Wait, it’s… for you?”

He crouched down carefully, picking it up with trembling fingers. The envelope felt heavier than expected, as if it carried more than just parchment. He hesitated, then opened it. The note inside was simple, neatly written:

Dear Mr Mercury, thank you for helping me in the hospital wing. You’re incredibly kind. I hope you like the gift. –John

Freddie’s breath caught. His hands shook slightly as he carefully lifted the small silver locket from the envelope. The sight of it—plain, delicate, and undoubtedly chosen with care—tugged at something deep in his chest.

Suddenly, he felt the warmth of tears spilling unbidden. He tried to blink them back, tried to smile, but it was impossible. They slid down his cheeks, glinting in the sunlight. He let out a strangled laugh, half in shock, half in the overwhelming swell of emotion.

Mary’s eyes widened. “Freddie… are you… crying?”

Freddie’s voice wavered as he pressed a hand to his face. “No! I just—” He sniffled, choking back the words. “I just… this is… it’s just… he’s… he’s so kind.” Trembling slightly, he held the note out toward Mary. “Here… read it.” His voice was tight, almost breaking.

Mary took it gently, her fingers brushing his. She read the note carefully, seeing the careful handwriting, the honesty in the words. Her gaze flicked up to Freddie, whose usual confident smirk had vanished, replaced by something vulnerable, raw, and entirely human.

Freddie’s hands lingered on the locket, turning it over slowly. The tears kept coming, uncontrolled now, and he let them fall freely. He didn’t try to stop them. This small, thoughtful gift had broken through a wall he hadn’t known existed, and he didn’t want it to stop.

Mary handed the note back to him, smiling softly. “He really did this for you,” she said quietly.

Freddie nodded, still clutching the locket, voice barely audible. “I… I can’t… he’s… I don’t even… oh, John.”

He buried his face in his hands for a moment, sobbing gently, the locket still resting safely in his palm, a tangible connection to the thoughtfulness and bravery of someone so small yet extraordinary.

Mary laughed softly, shaking her head at Freddie’s enthusiasm. “Freddie, calm down. You’re going to scare him off before he even knows you got it.”

“No! I can’t calm down! Did you see the handwriting? The care he took! And he—he didn’t even come in person! Can you imagine? He’s… he’s so fucking adorable, Mary! A whole letter for a gift! The little one couldn’t even do it in person! Ah, so cute!”

Freddie’s hands fluttered over the locket again, tracing its edges as if he could absorb every ounce of thought John had put into it. His eyes were bright, still glistening with tears, and he kept bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

She leaned back, still smiling, and shook her head. “You’re ridiculous. But… I get it. I really do.”

Freddie took a deep breath, clutching the locket to his chest. “I have to… I just have to… thank him properly. He… he’s just… oh, I can’t even—ugh! So small, so thoughtful, so… everything!”

Mary chuckled, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “One step at a time, Freddie. One step at a time.”

He clutched the silver locket to his chest for a moment, his fingers brushing over the smooth edges, then he fastened it around his neck. The chain felt light but weighty all at once—like it carried some small piece of John with him.

“I’m never taking it off! Never, Mary. Never!” he said, his voice fierce and resolute, eyes glimmering with tears he didn’t even try to hide. He tugged lightly at the chain to make sure it was secure, then pressed it to his chest again, as if to anchor it to his heart.

Mary raised an eyebrow, half amused and half exasperated. “Freddie… it’s just a locket. You’re not planning on…?”

Freddie threw her a dramatic look, eyes wide and sincere. “Make sure it’s on my corpse when I’m buried, please! He deserves to be remembered with me. Always.”

Mary laughed softly, shaking her head. “Only you could turn a thoughtful first-year gift into a funeral request.”

But he didn’t care. He held the locket close, heart hammering, imagining John’s small hands, the care he had put into the letter, the shy way he had done everything. “He… he thought of me. Just for me! Mary… do you understand? I have to make sure he knows… I feel the same. I really do.”

Mary smiled, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “I get it, Freddie. I really do. Now… maybe try to breathe before you hyperventilate.”

Freddie laughed through a few tears, letting the locked rest against his chest, the weight of it both a comfort and a promise. “I won’t ever let go, Mary. Never.”

John’s hands rested lightly on the worn wood of the Gryffindor portrait frame, staring up at the plus-sized lady with the extravagant flower crown. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper.

“You… you have beautiful flowers in your hair,” he said, tilting his head.

The lady’s eyes narrowed, but she stayed firm. “I’m not letting you in.”

“Oh… okay. I’m sorry,” John muttered, bowing slightly and pulling his hands back. His voice was small, but there was a note of something else there—a hesitation, a hope he barely admitted to himself.

Before the lady could respond further, a rustle came from the edge of the frame. Godric Gryffindor’s portrait flickered into view, tall and commanding, with that ever-confident half-smile. “He’s going in,” Godric said, his voice booming slightly but with warmth.

The fat lady blinked, momentarily lost for words. “Y-yes… yes, okay. He’s going in,” she stammered.

With a sudden swish of magic—or maybe just the influence of Godric’s words—the common room door swung open, granting John passage. He blinked up at it, wide-eyed, taking a cautious step inside.

The Gryffindor common room felt completely different from Hufflepuff’s cozy, rounded warmth. Here, the ceilings were high, the furniture more jagged and angular, with banners and crimson cushions scattered around. The fire roared in a grand hearth, casting flickering shadows along the walls, and the chatter of older students echoed down the two spiral staircases. It smelled of smoke and burnt toast, of wood polish and a hint of something sweet.

John paused on the threshold, his small frame dwarfed by the vastness, and tucked his hands into the oversized sleeves of his robes. He hadn’t expected so many people, so much energy, so much… boldness. His footsteps were careful, almost silent, as he edged further inside, scanning for Roger.

He spotted him eventually, sprawled lazily on a crimson armchair, broomstick leaning against the side, hair curling messily around his face. John’s lips pressed into a tiny line, a mixture of relief and nerves flooding through him. This was why he had come—finding the boy who had been a touchstone in the chaos of the last few days.

Slowly, he approached, still feeling swallowed by the room, still feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes he imagined might be watching. The carpet felt thick under his shoes, the shadows of the firelight dancing across the walls, almost guiding him forward.

John reached Roger’s side, barely daring to breathe, and said in a soft, careful voice, “Hi… I… wanted to see you.”

Roger looked up, eyebrows raised, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Well, look who finally decided to venture into the lion’s den.”

John’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though he remained shy and small, hands clutching the folds of his robes as he tried to anchor himself in this new, brash world. The Gryffindor common room felt overwhelming, but seeing Roger there made it just manageable enough

The Gryffindor first years were less than pleased to see John wandering into their common room. A few muttered under their breath, calling him a “know-it-all,” and one boy even rolled his eyes so dramatically it was almost a performance.

The older students, though, were a different story. They leaned lazily against the walls or perched on the railings of the staircases leading to the dormitories. Their expressions were more curious than hostile, eyes following the small Hufflepuff with an almost amused interest. “How the hell did he get in here?” one muttered, and someone else shrugged. No one stopped him—clearly, the mystery of his presence was more entertaining than causing trouble.

Roger, in contrast, was unbothered with a quick glance at Arthur who was frowning but watching patiently, said, “Sorry, Arthur. Gotta go.” Then he crouched slightly, grabbing John’s small hand in his own. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They moved down the grand staircase slowly at first, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with distant laughter and the occasional shout from the common room. John’s mind was still reeling from the chaos he had just left behind—the whispered judgments, the inquisitive stares—but he kept his small hand wrapped in Roger’s, letting the older boy guide him down.

“Shall we go to the lake?” Roger asked with a grin as they reached the bottom floor.

“T-the lake?” John’s voice was hesitant, a small quaver betraying the nerves he felt.

“Yes. Where else could we go?” Roger said, laughter lifting the corners of his mouth. “It’s peaceful. Away from… all this.” He gestured vaguely back toward the castle, where shouts and footsteps and chatter echoed faintly.

John’s wide eyes traveled up the soaring ceilings of the corridor. “It’s six flights of stairs, Roger!”

“And it’s your fault, walking all the way up them in the first place!” Roger teased, tugging gently on John’s hand to keep him moving.

John muttered something under his breath.

They descended the last few stairs in relative silence, Roger glanced down at him. “Wait… you said something just now. ‘They want to put [you] up a year’?”

John nodded, the words tumbling out quickly. “Into… your year.”

Roger froze mid-step, a brow arching. “You took the tests?”

“Yes. This morning. I’ll find out soon if I’ll move up.” John’s voice was quiet but precise, the syllables clipped as if measuring the weight of what he said.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Roger asked, a slight edge in his voice—half surprise, half incredulity.

“I found out yesterday after dinner,” John muttered, eyes forward.

“They gave you so long to prepare,” he said, shaking his head with a smirk, sarcasm thick in his tone. “You must’ve been well panicked.”

John frowned, the crease in his small forehead making him look younger than he was. “Why? I just read a book on cars. That was calming enough.”

“You didn’t even study?” Roger asked incredulously, stepping to the side to let John navigate a narrow stair landing safely.

“Should I have?” John muttered, tilting his head, not sure whether he should feel guilty or annoyed at the suggestion.

Roger laughed, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? You’re eleven, and already, the teachers are ready to move you up a year, and all you can say is… ‘Should I have studied?’”

John’s lips pressed together, tugging lightly at the oversized sleeves of his robes. He didn’t answer, but his shoulders lifted slightly as he processed the idea that, despite everything—the memory loss, the chaos of the first week, the exhaustion—he was being considered for something extraordinary.

Roger’s eyes softened, realizing that this tiny, quiet boy had endured more in a week than most endured in months, yet somehow carried himself with a calm precision that was almost unsettling. “Well,” Roger said finally, “let’s just get to the lake. You can think about all that… later.”

Brian and Gwaine emerged from the stone corridors of the castle, their robes slightly rumpled from the early morning trek down the stairwell. The sun was warm and bright, illuminating the emerald of the lake and the soft green of the grass where they saw Mary and Freddie sprawled out. Freddie, of course, was rolling dramatically in the grass, his arms flailing as he squealed, “Oh Mary! Oh Mary! He’s my baby now!” His voice was high, theatrical, filled with the kind of giddy excitement only Freddie Mercury could muster. Mary, sitting cross-legged nearby with her usual calm, shook her head, one hand covering her mouth to hide her amused laughter.

Brian and Gwaine exchanged a look, one that said without words: What the fuck are we walking into? Gwaine’s eyebrows were practically climbing into his hairline, and Brian’s lips pressed into a thin, incredulous line.

“Mary…” Brian said cautiously as they approached, “I think a… creature is very close to you.”

“I am well aware,” Mary replied without missing a beat, flicking a hand at Freddie, who was still rolling and squealing. “I think he’s quite tame, actually.”

Gwaine’s eyes flicked between Freddie and Mary, trying to make sense of the chaos. “Why is your creature crying?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

“Oh Brian!” Freddie suddenly sat up straight, pointing at the silver locket glinting in the sunlight around his neck. His eyes were wide and teary, and the theatricality of the moment made it somehow more intense. “Look what John gave me!” His voice cracked halfway through, the emotion barely contained.

Brian leaned in slightly, taking in the locket. “Oh… that’s what he wanted to give you,” Brian said, understanding. “He asked me how to give someone a present without actually doing it in person.”

Freddie’s hands immediately went to the locket, clutching it to his chest, and then he wailed again, dramatic and full-bodied: “Ahhh! He’s so cute! So cute! And I… oh, I can’t! It’s just—” He collapsed back onto the grass, flailing in exaggerated despair and joy simultaneously.

Gwaine rubbed the back of his neck, staring at his brother as if Freddie had spontaneously grown a second head. “Is this… normal Freddie behavior?” he muttered to Brian, eyebrows raised so high they threatened to escape his forehead.

Brian just shook his head, unable to form words for a long moment. “No,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “Absolutely not. But… somehow, it’s exactly him.”

Mary laughed, covering her face with her hand. “You have no idea, Gwaine. That’s just—Freddie.” She gestured vaguely toward the wailing figure on the grass. “That’s the reaction he has for everything, really. Exaggeration, flair, tears—it’s his whole package. And now he’s attached to John. That’s a whole other level.”

Freddie, meanwhile, rolled onto his side, holding the locket like a lifeline, his eyes glinting with unspent tears. “I can’t believe it! He trusted me! He really trusted me to carry this!” His voice cracked again, half sobbing, half singing a high note that floated across the lake. “He’s my little darling!”

Gwaine groaned audibly. “Brian, I think we need to hide under a rock. I can’t… I can’t handle watching this.”

Brian smirked slightly but kept his voice low. “No kidding. He’s like a whirlwind wrapped in velvet and drama.” He watched Freddie, who now had rolled fully onto his stomach, clutching the locket with both hands, muttering little broken phrases of adoration to himself. “And apparently… John has just created absolute chaos by being adorable.”

Freddie’s eyes lit up the moment he spotted John and the taller blond walking toward the lake. “Oh! Look there he is!” he squealed, springing halfway out of the grass, the locket bouncing slightly against his chest.

Mary, still seated with her usual calm, grabbed his arm, tugging him down with an almost superhuman strength. “Freddie, rules! Nod if you can hear me through your crazy brain.”

Freddie groaned, his dramatic flail slowed to a whimper as he nodded, eyes still glued to John. “Ugh… rules… fine, fine. I can do rules.”

She counted them off, one finger at a time. “Rule one: no running up to him. You’re not a toddler attacking cake. Rule two: no being loud. He’s shy and sensitive, Freddie, remember that. And rule three…” she pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated, “…no more crying.”

Freddie huffed, slumping back into the grass, muttering under his breath, “Fine, but this is torture…” His eyes, however, remained on John, tracking every step he took.

Brian frowned slightly, glancing at the blond accompanying John. “Wait… Roger? Is he… friends with a first year?”

The red head shrugged, whispering, “Apparently. Or something like it. I don’t even know what’s happening anymore.”

Freddie ignored the commentary, shaking his head at himself. “Rules, rules, rules… I’ll obey. For now. But the moment he notices me…” He shivered theatrically, curling his fingers around the locket, “…oh, I’ll explode. I’ll cry anyway, secretly.”

Mary rolled her eyes but allowed him to sit, making sure he stayed in the grass, pacing himself with exaggerated patience while John and Roger drew closer to the lake.

Freddie muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, “He has no idea how adorable he is… no idea at all…” and then silently counted down the steps to maintain some semblance of composure.

Brown eyes followed John and Roger as they made their way to the edge of the lake. Slowly, he pushed himself off the grass, wobbling slightly in the sunshine, the locket glinting against his chest. He started walking, deliberate at first, trying to obey Mary’s rules… but every step made his heart hammer faster.

Roger, focused on skimming stones across the lake, didn’t notice them. He flicked his wrist again, watching a stone bounce four times before disappearing into the water. John, standing on a smooth rock, tilted his head to watch, the sunlight catching in his hair.

And then, almost as if he sensed the sudden presence before it fully arrived, John’s head whipped toward the shore. His wide eyes scanned the movement—there, a figure approaching. Freddie. Black locks bouncing slightly in the breeze, the locket around his neck catching the sun. His stride was light, but there was a frantic energy to it, a pull toward John that couldn’t be ignored.

Ignoring Mary’s careful rules, Freddie broke into a light jog for the last stretch of the distance between them. The grass blurred beneath his feet as he closed the final few meters. His arms lifted slightly, unconsciously, as if ready to shield John from the world—or maybe just to finally get closer without thought.

Roger glanced up at the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye and froze mid-skip with his stone. “Uh… who’s that?” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

Green eyes widened further, a flicker of surprise and curiosity passing over his pale features. He barely breathed as Freddie slowed just enough to stop a few feet away, but the energy between them hummed, silent yet palpable.

Freddie grinned, slightly out of breath, brushing a hand through his hair, “Hi, John.” His voice was soft, careful now, trying to gauge the reaction, though his pulse still raced.

John swallowed, tugging slightly at the hem of his oversized jumper. He didn’t step forward, didn’t step back. He just stared, absorbing Freddie’s presence, a quiet, cautious fascination in his gaze.

Roger, now very aware that he was witnessing something he didn’t understand, glanced from John to Freddie, still holding his stone in midair. “Uh… should I… move?” he asked hesitantly, feeling suddenly very out of place.

Freddie shook his head, keeping his focus entirely on John. “No. Just… stay. I’ve got this,” he said with a small, reassuring smile, though the locket around his neck glinted sharply, echoing the intensity of the moment.

John’s lips parted slightly, almost forming words, but he only blinked, still frozen by the combination of surprise, recognition, and the weight of Freddie’s presence.

Freddie’s black robes swished slightly as he stood there, the sunlight catching the edges of the fabric in subtle glints. Beneath them, his home clothes were visible in flashes as he moved—deep black, but cut in a way that made him look taller, almost lithe, with a faint curve at the waist. There was something daringly stylish about the outfit, a touch of femininity in the lines that made the soft black material hug his form just right. He always liked dressing like this, a little extra, a little flamboyant, but also practical enough for moving around Hogwarts without tripping over himself.

John’s eyes had widened almost imperceptibly as he took it in. His lips parted and closed like he was trying to say something but unsure of the words. Then, softly, almost hesitant, he said, “I… I love your top.”

Freddie’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening, chest puffing out slightly in that dramatic, over-the-top way he always had. His eyebrows shot up, and a bright flush of heat rose to his cheeks—not embarrassment, exactly, but the kind of flustered, delighted intensity that only came when someone genuinely noticed him.

“You—what?” Freddie breathed, almost stumbling over his words, though he tried to play it cool. Then, a small laugh escaped him, melodic and high-pitched, the kind that made Mary glance at him sideways. “Oh my goodness! You… you really like it?”

John nodded shyly, tucking a loose curl behind his ear, still clutching at the oversized jumper sleeves. “Yes… I… it’s… nice,” he muttered, not used to speaking this much, not even to someone he trusted yet.

Freddie threw his head back and let out a dramatic sigh, arms stretching out wide as if to embrace the entire lake and sky, though he only had John’s presence to focus on. “Oh! Darling, that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire life!” he exclaimed, voice oscillating between dramatic delight and a laugh that threatened to burst into full-blown tears. “And you… you noticed my top! Truly! How perceptive! How—how amazing!”

John blinked, trying to process the torrent of emotion and words. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to people reacting like this, especially not to small compliments. He just stood there, arms slightly tight to his chest, unsure if he should shrink back or step closer.

Freddie, meanwhile, had suddenly remembered the locket at his neck, still warm from the string of events earlier. He clutched it lightly, brushing a thumb over the silver surface. “And I—oh! I must thank you!” he declared, spinning slightly on the balls of his feet like a stage performer revealing the grand finale. “This little, precious thing,” he held up the locket, “is… mine now! And it’s because of you! Oh, John, you absolute marvel! You thought about me! You—oh!” He paused, dramatically, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, trying to regain composure, though his eyes were still shining.

John watched, fascinated despite himself, a faint smile flickering over his lips. The attention was intense, but there was no malice, no expectation—just Freddie, pure and unfiltered. The little act of complimenting a top had unleashed a torrent of personality, warmth, and gratitude in a way John had almost forgotten could exist in the world.

The slytherin took a few tentative steps closer, lowering his voice slightly, still sparkling with excitement. “I… I don’t even know how to repay you, darling. How do you even respond to such adorableness?” He leaned slightly toward John, hand hovering near his shoulder, as if unsure whether to touch. “Honestly, you’re… utterly impossible to resist. I—oh, you’re just too cute!”

John blinked again, tilting his head slightly, feeling the unfamiliar weight of admiration and affection focused entirely on him. He murmured quietly, almost to himself, “It’s… nothing.”

Freddie gasped in mock outrage, placing a hand over his chest. “Nothing?! Nothing?! Darling, it’s everything! Everything to me! That is—the most delightful, breathtaking, heart-melting ‘nothing’ anyone has ever said!” He spun once, letting the hem of his robes flare around him, then landed back on his feet with a small dramatic bow. “And yet,” he said softly, more seriously this time, “it is the thought that counts. And I… I can feel it. Thank you, John. Truly. I—” He paused, blinking rapidly, almost losing composure, “I… adore you.”

John’s eyes went wide, and he glanced down, unsure how to respond. The words were overwhelming, but not frightening. He clutched his oversized jumper sleeves tightly again, feeling the warmth of Freddie’s presence—and maybe, just maybe, a flicker of something he hadn’t felt in a long time: safety.

Roger froze in place, his mouth slightly open, watching the scene unfold like someone had just set off fireworks in the middle of the corridor. Who the hell is this wild thing? he thought, utterly baffled. John, tiny and awkward in his oversized robes, stepped forward hesitantly, gaze flicking between Freddie’s face and the space just in front of him.

“I… um… how do hugs work?” John muttered, voice barely above a whisper, the question dripping with genuine curiosity. He tilted his head, obviously unsure of what he was even asking, and Roger felt his mind nearly short-circuit.

How does he not know how a hug works? Roger thought, utterly frozen. He could barely process that a kid who looked like he should be scared of everyone was honestly asking how a hug functions.

Freddie’s expression softened immediately as the weight of understanding hit him. He knew—he knew—that John’s memory was gone. That everything from his past, everything that should have been familiar and comforting, had vanished. A wave of sorrow washed over him, sudden and fierce.

“Like this, little one,” Freddie said gently, stepping forward and lowering himself to his knees so he wouldn’t tower over John. His arms opened wide in a silent invitation. John’s small hands trembled slightly before reaching out, and Freddie pulled him close.

John buried his face into Freddie’s neck, his arms wrapping awkwardly but firmly around him. The smell of strawberries—sweet and faintly fruity, lingering on Freddie from some charm or maybe just soap—hit him immediately.

“You smell like strawberries,” John muttered softly, a small note of wonder in his voice.

Freddie laughed quietly, the sound trembling with a mix of relief and emotion. “Yes, darling, I do.” He tightened the hug just a little, careful not to overwhelm John, letting the boy’s warmth seep into him.

Roger was still standing frozen a few feet away, arms dangling, eyes wide. I don’t even… what is happening? he thought, utterly incapable of processing the intimacy, the care, the sheer bewildering adorableness of it all. He had no idea how to react, so he just… watched.

John, still curled into Freddie, muttered, “Is… is this how it’s supposed to feel?”

Freddie smiled against the boy’s hair. “Yes, little one. Exactly like this. Safe, warm… like someone’s got you, and they won’t let go.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that, John slowly relaxing into the hug, Freddie’s arms steady and reassuring around him. The sunlight glinted off the lake behind them, the world fading away as the two of them just existed in that small bubble of warmth, understanding, and fragile trust.

Roger finally blinked, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “I… I need a drink.” But even then, he didn’t move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Chapter Text

“Now listen to me, my little bunny,” Freddie said, his voice soft but trembling with emotion. “You are never, ever to call me Mr. Mercury again, do you understand? That’s ghastly, makes me sound like a dull old professor. It’s Freddie. Just Freddie. Only Freddie, always Freddie.”

John blinked at him, mouth parting slightly, like he was memorising every word. “Freddie.” He tested it out quietly, the name careful in his mouth.

The slytherin made a noise that was half a sob, half a laugh, and pulled him back into the hug. “Ohhh, that’s better. That’s music, that’s—oh, darling, I can’t stand how sweet you are.”

John, nestled against Freddie’s neck again, was quiet a long moment before mumbling, “Can I hug you again later? Or… or does it only work once?”

Roger, who’d been standing there gobsmacked this entire time, finally let out a loud, incredulous noise. “What the bloody hell, John?! You don’t collect hugs like Chocolate Frog cards!”

He tilted his head against Freddie’s shoulder, peeking at Roger with a frown. “Why not?”

Freddie absolutely cackled, nearly falling backwards into the grass with John still attached to him. He stroked the back of John’s hair tenderly and declared, “Oh, Roger, Roger, you poor brute, don’t you see? He’s rewriting all the rules! Yes, darling,” he turned back to John, eyes shining, “you may hug me again later. A hundred times, a thousand times, as many as you like. My arms are yours.”

John’s lips curved just slightly, a shy, rare smile flickering. “I’ll remember.”

The slytherin melted entirely, pressing his forehead to John’s. “You’ll be the death of me, little one.”

Meanwhile Roger just crossed his arms, muttering to himself, “What in Merlin’s name have I gotten myself into?”

Mary’s voice rang out sharply across the lake, cutting through the warm afternoon air. “Freddie! Come back! You’re suffocating him!”

Freddie groaned theatrically, slowly disentangling himself from John’s small, trusting arms. “Mary, darling, I’m barely touching him. He’s perfectly safe… mostly.” He gave a dramatic shiver and straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.

Still holding a fraction of Freddie’s warmth, John blinked up at him. His mouth opened slightly, unsure if he should ask something, and then closed again.

Freddie crouched down just enough so his face was level with John’s. “Look, little one, I’ll see you around, alright? Don’t go thinking you can run off from me completely. You’ve got my attention now.”

John nodded slowly, letting go fully this time, and muttered, “See you… Freddie.”

Freddie’s lips twitched in a small, proud smile. “Good. Very good. That’s all I ask for now. Carry on being your mysterious, adorable self.” He straightened with a dramatic flourish, giving Mary a sideways glance.

Mary rolled her eyes and muttered something about overly dramatic Slytherins, tugging on Freddie’s arm. “Come on, you’re going to crush him if you’re not careful.”

Freddie waved a hand in dismissal, still looking back at John as they walked. “Nonsense! He’s fine! I’m practically a gentle giant… when I want to be.”

John watched them go, tilting his head slightly, still clutching a wisp of the warmth he felt. For the first time in days, he felt a small, unfamiliar tug of safety—and maybe, just maybe, belonging.

Freddie skidded to a stop in the grass, his arms flailing a little for dramatic effect, and spun to face Brian and Gwaine, Mary trailing behind him, trying to keep up. Books and satchels had tumbled across the grass in his rush, but Freddie barely noticed, his focus entirely on retelling the moment.

“Do you know what the poor boy said to me?” he exclaimed, eyes wide, practically glowing with excitement.

“Do I need to know?” Brian asked, eyebrows raised, clearly unsure whether he was about to regret asking.

“Well, first,” Freddie began, throwing his hands up, “he— he complimented my top! My top! Can you imagine? The little one actually said, ‘I love your top.’ To me!”

Gwaine raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s… cute, I guess?”

Freddie ignored him, pacing a little, caught up in the drama. “And that’s not all! Then, out of nowhere, he asked me how hugs work! How hugs work! Can you believe that?”

Brian’s jaw dropped slightly, and Mary’s mouth formed a small ‘o’.

“So what did you do?” Brian asked, exhaling through his nose.

“What else could I do?” Freddie said, throwing his hands to the sky. “I had to teach him! I had to kneel down, show him, make sure he understood. And you know what? He actually hugged me back! He buried his little head into my neck!”

Mary rolled her eyes, muttering, “You’re ridiculous, Freddie. He’s a first year, and you’re over here acting like he just gave you a medal.”

Freddie ignored her again, flopping onto the grass dramatically. “No, Mary! You don’t understand! It was adorable! He’s so small and polite, but somehow brave enough to ask me… to hug me! And he even noticed I smell like strawberries!”

Brian and Gwaine exchanged a look—equal parts confusion and amusement—as Freddie’s excitement practically radiated across the lake. Brian shook his head, muttering, “He’s completely lost it.”

The slytherin sat up, glaring dramatically at them. “Lost it? I’ll have you know, this is pure awe and admiration. The boy’s a marvel! I think I might faint every time he looks at me like that.”

Mary groaned, tugging at his sleeve. “He’s fine, Freddie. Just… stop flopping around, for once.”

Freddie rolled his eyes and flopped again, this time sideways. “Fine. But mark my words: the little one is officially my favourite person in Hogwarts. And that’s all there is to it.”

Gwaine shook his head, muttering, “I’ll never understand you.”

Brian smirked, watching Freddie’s antics, and muttered under his breath, “I don’t think anyone does.”

John’s eyes barely left the page of his book as Pomona Sprout stepped into the Hufflepuff common room, her sharp gaze scanning the low-lit space until it landed on him. He looked up slowly, blinking, and instinctively straightened his posture.

“Mr Deacon,” she said briskly, voice calm but firm, “I have some news for you.”

John tilted his head, silently indicating she should continue.

“You’ve… moved up a year.” Her tone carried a hint of pride as she saw the flicker of surprise cross his face. “Your test results were exceptional. The staff, including myself, think you’re ready for second year classes.”

John blinked, a faint flush creeping across his cheeks. He had been expecting… something, but not this. Moving up a year, just like that. His mind briefly skimmed over all the names, lessons, and teachers he would now encounter, and he quietly nodded.

Pomona gave a small smile. “I should also mention, there’s the option to move dormitories. You’ll have an extra bed ready for you if you choose to move into the second-year dorm. You’d be sharing with Edgar Bones and Edward Tonks.”

John considered it briefly, then nodded again. “I… don’t mind,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” Pomona reached into her robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment. She handed it to him. “This is your timetable for second year. You’ll start following it tomorrow. Don’t worry about not knowing the previous curriculum or any homework that may have been set—your teachers understand your situation.”

John took the parchment with a careful hand, studying it briefly before tucking it neatly into his satchel. The thought of an extra bed, new dormmates, and a whole new year filled him with a mixture of curiosity and quiet apprehension, but he said nothing, merely nodding again.

Pomona’s sharp eyes softened slightly. “I’ll leave you to read now. Prepare yourself, John. Tomorrow will be the first day of your new classes.”

As she left, John closed his book with deliberate care. With the timetable and Pomona’s words lingering in his mind, he pushed himself up from the cozy armchair by the window and made his way back toward his first-year dorm.

As he slid open the door to the dormitory, Colin and Stephen were just beginning to stir, blinking against the dim light filtering through the high windows. Stephen yawned, rubbing at his eyes, while Colin’s hair stuck up at odd angles, testament to the usual chaotic energy of a Hufflepuff morning.

John hesitated at the threshold. Maybe, he thought, he should actually talk to them this morning. Not just answer their questions with a terse nod or a muttered monosyllable, but speak. Really speak, for once. He had always been distant, wrapped up in his own quiet rhythms, but this—moving up a year—felt like a moment worth acknowledging.

He set about quietly packing the few things he had out, his hands working methodically to fold clothes and tuck them into his trunk. The oversized jumper he often wore now seemed even larger in the early light, sleeves spilling over his eleven year old hands. 

Colin and Stephen exchanged glances across the room, neither entirely sure how to start a conversation with John, though they had always made a point to try every morning. Today, however, he seemed… different. More deliberate. Intent.

John sat on his bed, the one that would soon no longer be his, and took a deep breath. He folded his hands together in his lap, fingers twitching slightly as he considered the words. Finally, he spoke, his voice small, careful, but carrying the weight of something he rarely allowed to surface.

“Um… I’m sorry,” he began, eyes fixed on the floor. “I haven’t… t-told you, but I’m moving up a year.”

The words hung in the air, heavy but quiet, almost hesitant, as if testing the room to see if it would respond. Colin and Stephen blinked, a moment of stunned silence passing between them. Then Colin, ever the more impulsive of the two, leaned forward slightly.

“That’s… that’s amazing, John! Wow. You’re really… ahead.”

Stephen nodded, a little more reserved but genuine. “Yeah. Congratulations. That’s… really something.”

John shifted on the bed, unsure what to do with the congratulations, the praise, the attention. He wasn’t used to it. “Thanks,” he muttered, almost under his breath. He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I… I just wanted you to know before I leave. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to keep it from you.”

Colin smiled gently, not with teasing, but with a warmth that made John’s chest feel a little lighter. “It’s fine, John. We get it. Honestly, we’re glad you told us.”

Stephen added, “Yeah. And… we’ll still see you around, right? You’re not… gone forever.”

John nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “No… not forever.” He moved toward his trunk, only to have it whisked from his sight as a small blur of motion caught his attention. A house-elf had appeared, its ears twitching, eyes glinting with quiet determination, and before John could speak, the trunk had been lifted effortlessly and disappeared into thin air. Seconds later, with the same soft pop of magic and a faint scent of something like lemon polish, the elf reappeared beside him.

“Young Master Deacon, trunk in new dorm,” the elf announced, bowing slightly, its tiny frame trembling with excitement or pride—John wasn’t sure which.

John blinked, taken aback. “Thank you, that’s… too kind. You didn’t have to do that.” His voice was soft, almost tentative, but carried genuine appreciation.

The elf tilted its head, the faintest smile on its sharp little face. “But Boxy wanted to.” With that, it vanished again, leaving behind the faint echo of a squeak and a hint of something metallic, perhaps the clasp of the trunk itself settling.

John took a moment to watch the spot where the elf had disappeared. A faint, wistful smile crossed his lips. Then he turned back to Colin and Stephen, who were both staring at him with a mixture of awe and amusement. He nodded once, quietly, a small acknowledgment of their presence and support, before turning toward the exit.

He took a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, and approached the door of the second-year common room.

The room itself was small, tucked off the main common room, with low ceilings and warm, worn carpets. The walls were decorated with muted tapestries, depicting scenes of learning and quiet camaraderie, far more intimate than the bustling first-year common room. He entered the 4th door, John’s eyes scanned it, noting the arrangement of beds and tables. His bed was in the far corner—a small relief to his nerves, providing a sense of seclusion he appreciated. He set his trunk down beside it, taking a moment to smooth the blanket that had been freshly arranged.

Before he could settle, a voice cut sharply through the room.

“Who are you?” The voice was harsh, demanding attention, coming from a boy with dark hair and piercing eyes standing near another bed. John glanced up to see Edgar Bones, already on guard, sizing him up with a mixture of suspicion and irritation.

John paused, hands gripping the straps of his satchel, his usual quiet hesitation evident. He shifted slightly, unsure how to answer—how much to say, how to introduce himself to someone who clearly regarded him as an intruder.

“I—I’m John Deacon,” he said finally, his voice low but precise. “I… moved up a year. This is… my bed.”

Edgar’s gaze narrowed, studying him like he might vanish if examined too closely. “Moved up? You’re… a first year?”

John nodded his head once, almost imperceptibly. “I… took tests. I… passed.” His eyes flicked toward the corner of the room, where his trunk rested like a quiet island in the small, crowded space. He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken question of why a first-year was here among the second years.

Edgar’s expression softened fractionally, curiosity overtaking initial hostility. “Hm… right. I guess… welcome, then. You’ll be sharing this room with me and Edward Tonks. I hope you… fit in.”

John nodded again, though he didn’t know what “fit in” really meant. He set his satchel beside the trunk and allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The corner of the room, the quiet hum of the second-year common room, and the familiar weight of his belongings offered a sliver of comfort amidst the unknown.

He didn’t speak further, only focused on arranging his trunk neatly beside the bed. Edgar stepped back, eyes still sharp but no longer overtly hostile. John could feel the quiet scrutiny, the unasked questions, but he let it wash over him, preferring the silent company of objects and space over the weight of conversation.

Finally, John settled onto his bed briefly, brushing his hair back from his eyes, feeling the oversized jumper cocoon around him, and allowed himself a small, private moment of relief. He was here now, in this room, with his trunk, his corner, and the faint promise of a place in this new year—though he wasn’t quite ready to speak to anyone else yet.

 Edward walked in, all energy and grins.N“And… erm, who are you?” He asked, tilting his head, his curiosity obvious.

Edgar, still perched near his own bed, let out a scoffing laugh. “That’s John Deacon. Been moved up a year, he has. Don’t let him fool you, he’s… well, clever.”

Edward grinned wider, stepping closer to John’s corner. “Oh, that’s cool! I like clever people. I’m Edward, but everyone calls me Ted.” He held out a hand, enthusiastic and open.

John, still nervous and unsure of proper social protocol in this new year and new dorm, straightened and stood. He extended his hand politely, gripping Ted’s hand in a brief, careful handshake.

But Ted, in a sudden burst of friendliness, didn’t stop at the handshake. He leaned forward and pulled John into a hug. John let out a squeak, startled by the sudden closeness, and froze mid-motion.

“Oh!” Ted said quickly, releasing him a fraction, though keeping his arms lightly around him. “Sorry! I just… wanted to welcome you properly.”

John blinked, his cheeks heating slightly. He didn’t recoil further, but he wasn’t sure how to react. His hands fumbled slightly at his sides before he let them fall back against the oversized sleeves of his jumper.

“It’s… okay,” he muttered softly, almost a whisper, his voice catching slightly in surprise and confusion. He stepped back a tiny bit, just enough to regain composure, but the small, lingering warmth of the hug made him pause.

Ted laughed softly, still smiling, giving John a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. I promise. First hugs are always weird.”

John nodded once, eyes wide, trying to process the kindness, the energy, and the sudden gesture of friendship. For all his quietness, something about Ted’s approach—direct, open, and unapologetically friendly—made John feel, for the first time that day, that he might actually belong here.

Edgar rolled his eyes but hid a small smirk. “Great. Now you’ve got him all flustered.”

John merely adjusted his jumper and glanced down at his trunk, letting the moment pass, quietly appreciating the effort without knowing exactly how to reciprocate—yet.

He crouched by his trunk, carefully lifting out a few things he wanted by his bedside—his books, and the notebook he always carried. The corners of the trunk were plain, the leather scratched in a few places, showing age and use.

“Hm, you don’t have a sorted trunk?” Edgar asked, peering over, one eyebrow raised.

“A sorted trunk?” John echoed, tilting his head.

“You know,” Edgar said, gesturing with a flourish, “a trunk that changes when you tap on it with your wand to whatever you want. I can tap mine, and it changes to the books I need, or the uniform, or anything else I’ve packed inside.”

John blinked at him, not quite sure what to say. “Oh… no, I don’t. Mine’s… muggle.” His voice was quiet, muttered almost to himself, as if the words felt foreign even saying them out loud.

Ted laughed, shooting Edgar a quick look. “Don’t worry, John. Edgar’s pureblood, he knows nothing of the muggle world.” He turned back to John with a warm grin. “I’m a muggleborn, so I get it. Muggle things are… different.”

“Err, I’m muggleborn too,” John said softly, shrugging. The words felt simple but heavy, like a small acknowledgment of something he hadn’t really thought about before.

Edgar snorted but said nothing, clearly uninterested in the subtleties of muggleborn life. Ted, on the other hand, leaned over to John’s side of the trunk. “If you want, I can show you a few charms that sort of do the same thing as a wizarding trunk. Nothing fancy, but it’ll save you some rummaging.”

John looked up at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Ted said, grinning. “It’s easy, just a little practice. Think of it as… making your muggle trunk a tiny bit magical.”

John’s lips twitched in what could almost be a smile, and he returned to unpacking, now feeling a little less like his trunk—and by extension himself—was out of place in the corner of the second-year dorm.

Edgar leaned back against the edge of his bed, eyes flicking toward John with curiosity. “Don’t you have any photos of your family?” he asked, matter-of-factly, like it was the simplest question in the world.

Ted whipped his head toward him, raising both eyebrows. “God, Ed! Why’d you have to be so blunt? Cameras are expensive, and that’s assuming you even want to keep every photo you ever take! Some people like their privacy, you know?”

John didn’t speak. His hands hovered over the books and folded clothes on his bed, fingers twitching slightly as he thought. Photos at home… there weren’t really any. Not in the way people usually had them. There was one worn photograph tucked into a drawer somewhere, faded at the edges: a tiny, fragile image of him as a baby, his sister Julie as a baby too, and his little brother Robert, who had died when he was six. That picture was like a ghost—memory trapped on paper, only slightly comforting, only slightly real.

He stared down at his lap, not sure what to say. The words felt heavy, weighted with things he couldn’t fully name, and his throat tightened.

Ted softened his tone, noticing the way John went quiet. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to show us anything you don’t want to. Some people just… don’t have a lot of pictures, and that’s fine. You keep the memories that matter, even if it’s not on film.”

Edgar, clearly feeling a bit sheepish, rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Ted. I was just wondering. Didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean anything bad,” John muttered finally, his voice low, almost a whisper. It was a sound that barely reached their ears but carried enough for Ted and Edgar to hear, and for the room to settle into a quiet understanding.

Ted leaned back, giving John a small encouraging smile. “It’s okay, John. You don’t have to have photos. You’ve got enough memory to make your own, right?”

He, in fact, didn’t have enough memories to make his own; every day felt like walking through fog. He remembered facts, lessons, and mechanics from books he’d read, but not the feeling of doing anything with them, not the warmth of laughter or the rhythm of a playground. His childhood, if it existed, was gone, leaving only faint impressions—his father’s rough hands in his, the sound of a door closing, the soft ache of a memory that wouldn’t stay.

He grabbed the edge of his old Hogwarts book, letting the leather press against his chest, a faint anchor in the swirling uncertainty. His wand slipped into his robes alongside it, tucked safely as if it could also hold the missing pieces of himself. The corridor felt vast and unfamiliar, echoing with footsteps that weren’t his own.

“Erm… bye John?” Ted’s voice carried from behind the door. It sounded tentative, unsure, waiting for some proper closure that John wasn’t quite equipped to give.

“Bye.” The reply was tiny, muffled, swallowed by the stone walls. It wasn’t loud or clear—it was all John could manage, the polite framework of a conversation he had yet to learn. Conversation was an art, a pattern of give and take, and John didn’t know the rhythm yet. Words were for relaying facts or answering questions, not for expressing feelings or nuance. The idea of talking about himself, about what he needed or wanted, felt foreign.

He began walking, each step measured and quiet, his book and wand clutched tight. He thought about Ted’s smile, the softness in it, the encouragement—it made him uneasy in a strange way, like holding onto something bright when everything else around him was dim. He didn’t know how to respond to warmth, how to create it in return. He had no practiced gestures, no learned conversational tricks. He simply walked.

Passing a window, he glanced down at the grounds below. Students moved about, laughing, calling out, their lives interweaving in ways he could barely grasp. It looked effortless, this thing called “belonging.” John felt the weight of absence—the weight of not knowing, not remembering. He had knowledge, yes, but not experience. Facts filled the holes left by lost memory, but they didn’t make him whole.

Eventually, he found himself at a quiet landing overlooking the entrance hall. He paused, gripping the railing. For a moment, he considered whether he should try to join the others, to seek interaction like a normal first-year—or a second-year, now. But he froze. Conversations required memory, required cues, required something inside him he didn’t have. He could mimic, he could answer questions with precision, but genuine dialogue, with laughter and nuance? That was beyond him.

He closed his eyes briefly and let the sound of the castle wash over him—the distant clang of footsteps, the faint rustle of robes, the quiet hum of students starting their day. It was grounding in a way, even if it wasn’t warmth. Even if it wasn’t memory.

He sighed softly, almost inaudibly, and tightened his grip on the book and wand. Maybe that was enough for now. Maybe walking, observing, and holding onto the small, solid things he could control—his knowledge, his wand, his book—was all he could manage today.

Ravenclaw prefects had their own room, provided they shared with one other person. It wasn’t luxurious—no one expected Ravenclaws to demand luxuries—but it was spacious and quiet, tucked high in one of the tall towers, with a view over the grounds that made the long climb worth it. The ceilings were vaulted, dark oak beams stretching across, giving the room a sense of gravitas and permanence. The windows were tall and narrow, letting in streaks of sunlight that cut across the polished floorboards, and the walls were lined with shelves full of books, some ancient, some modern, all carefully cataloged. The air smelled faintly of parchment, wax polish, and the lingering sharp scent of ink.

Brian had chosen to share the room with Alastor Moody. The name conjured a sense of dread, even to him, but the man—or rather, young man, for he wasn’t as old as his reputation suggested—was surprisingly easy to get along with. Moody had a mind of steel and a sharp tongue, but he wasn’t genuinely moody, Brian realized after a few conversations. He was just meticulous and demanding of himself and others. He reminded Brian a little of a Slytherin in temperament—too ambitious, too calculating—but that made him a good roommate, really. They got along fine as long as boundaries were respected.

Each of them had their own side of the room. A heavy, dark curtain, embroidered with intricate silver and blue threads, separated their spaces. Brian had his desk against the wall nearest the window so he could keep an eye on the grounds, while Alastor’s side faced the shelves of books and the small reading nook, complete with a lamp and a thick, worn armchair. Brian’s side was meticulously neat, but still lived-in: books stacked in small piles, a notebook open with notes scribbled in the margins, and a few personal items that reminded him of home. Alastor’s side had the air of someone who expected to be left alone—organized, methodical, slightly intimidating.

The room itself had a peculiar atmosphere. It was tall and lofty, giving a sense of freedom, but the shadows in the corners and the dark wooden beams overhead made it feel private and insulated. The acoustics were perfect for quiet study or even whispered conversation, amplifying even the softest shuffle of papers or creak of chair. Despite the dim, slightly imposing ambiance, the room was cozy in a scholarly way. Faded rugs softened the floor, a fireplace in the corner could be lit in the evenings, and the high, arched windows made the stars overhead feel just out of reach, almost like the sky itself was a textbook waiting to be studied.

“You better not be thinking of hurting yourself again, Brian,” Alastor said, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of experience and concern.

Brian looked up from the book he was leafing through, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I’m fine, Moody. Really.” His words sounded calmer than he felt, but he kept his voice neutral, not wanting to worry his roommate more than he had to.

Alastor leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. “I know you say that, but I’ve been through enough to recognize when someone’s shutting me out. Don’t think I can’t tell.”

Brian exhaled slowly, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a fraction. The words weren’t harsh, but there was an edge to them, a firmness that made him pause. Alastor wasn’t nagging, wasn’t judging—he was just… vigilant. Caring, in the way that people with a lot of experience could be, without needing to explain why.

“You were bad enough in 3rd year,” Alastor said, his tone clipped but edged with concern, “last year was an improvement, yes—but now it’s exams. Our OWLs. I’m more concerned this year than ever.”

Brian glanced up from his book, irritation flickering across his features before he tamped it down. “I haven’t hurt myself,” he muttered, voice low but steady.

Alastor didn’t soften. “You threw yourself off the Astronomy Tower in 3rd year. And I know about your friend—Mercury, was it?—stopped you last year when you tried it from the Owlery.” His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning Brian for any sign of dishonesty.

He let out a dry, humourless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “And the only pain I suffered,” he said, voice carrying a hint of self-mockery, “was the sheer embarrassment at bouncing all the way up again from the anti-suicide wards!"

Alastor’s eyes remained fixed, unamused. “Embarrassment is one thing. Risking your life is another. You think your cleverness or your charm makes you invincible, but it doesn’t. You’re not untouchable, Brian, and no one else should have to manage the aftermath of your decisions.”

Brian clenched his jaw but said nothing. There was truth in Moody’s words, as much as he hated to admit it. The memory of bouncing painfully, disoriented and mortified, was still vivid. And the image of Freddie—so fierce in his insistence—stopping him before things went too far, still lingered.

“I get it, Moody,” he finally muttered, voice quieter now, more contemplative than defensive. “I just… don’t like being treated like a time bomb.”

Alastor softened fractionally, just enough that Brian noticed. “I’m not treating you like a time bomb, Brian. I’m trying to make sure you survive the rest of this year in one piece. That’s it. And I’ll be watching. You’d better believe it.”

Brian exhaled, a mixture of frustration and reluctant relief. Moody’s vigilance was suffocating sometimes, but it was better than no one noticing at all. 

There was a knock on the door, light but insistent, followed by a voice that carried the usual dramatic urgency. “Brian! I saw death is imminent!”

Alastor raised an eyebrow at Brian, whose shoulders slumped with a weary sigh. They both knew exactly who it was without even looking.

Brian straightened and opened the door. “Hello, Trelawney.”

The seer practically stormed in, her oversized round glasses slipping down her nose, her tangled hair falling over shoulders draped in layers of mismatched scarves and fabric that looked like it had been stitched together from a dozen different garments. “I told you to call me Sibyl!” she snapped, though there was a faintly pleading note beneath the theatrics.

“Right. Hello, Sibyl,” Brian said, glancing toward Alastor, who had not moved an inch, eyebrow still arched in skeptical amusement.

“Brian! I saw death is imminent!” Sibyl repeated, waving her hands wildly.

“My death is not imminent. You’ve been saying that since first year,” Brian muttered dryly.

“But this time! Brian! This time, I swear!” She clutched at her chest, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and prophecy.

“You’ve said that every term of every year,” Brian replied, unimpressed.

Alastor chuckled softly from his side of the room. “What did you see, Sibyl? Him running off the top of a tower again?”

Sibyl’s eyes widened, and she nodded vigorously. “Yes…”

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thought so. Did he not bounce this time?”

“I saw him fall!” Her voice cracked with exaggerated horror, as if she had just witnessed the apocalypse.

“So you didn’t see him bounce?” He asked, tone deadpan.

“This is such a weird conversation!” Brian muttered, exasperation thick in his voice. “Sibyl, thank you for the warning, but off you go!”

Sibyl huffed indignantly but slowly backed toward the door, spinning dramatically on her heel as though her exit needed a proper flourish. Alastor shook his head with a quiet laugh, muttering, “I swear, every time she shows up it’s like the end of the world is nigh.”

Brian closed the door behind her, letting out a long sigh. “Honestly,” he muttered to Alastor, “I don’t know how I survive with half this chaos predicting my doom every other week.”

Alastor smirked. “Maybe you're just lucky—or stubborn enough to ignore it.”

Brian grinned faintly. “Stubborn sounds about right.”

From Brian and Alastor’s room, the view of the night sky was nearly unrivaled—second only to the Astronomy Tower itself. The tall, arched windows framed the stars perfectly, and the soft glow of moonlight spilled across the dark wooden floor, casting long, gentle shadows. It was quiet here, peaceful in a way that the rest of the castle rarely allowed.

Brian’s telescope stood near the window, its brass and glass gleaming faintly in the low light. A grey sheet covered it, protecting the delicate lenses from the sun during the day.

Alastor, leaning casually against the opposite wall with arms crossed, tilted his head toward the telescope. “See anything last night?”

Brian shifted slightly, brushing a wavy lock of hair from his face. “There was a faint Beehive cluster.”

“Bees?” Alastor asked, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“It’s a collection of stars, Moody,” Brian replied with a patient sigh, reaching to adjust a chair by the window.

“I keep telling you to call me Alastor or Al,” Alastor muttered, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” Brian said with a smirk.

“Maybe you’re the moody one,” Alastor shot back, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Brian chuckled, letting the sheet slide from the telescope and running a hand over the polished brass. “Or maybe you’re just grumpy at everything I do.”

Chapter Text

I've got their height comparison!! Awww. John and Roger's are based off of their age's average heights by the way!

That night, the corridors of Hogwarts were quiet, echoing only the distant creaks of the castle settling. Roger was making his usual patrol toward the abandoned music room, drumsticks tucked under his arm, when a voice caught his attention. It was strong, melodic, and carried effortlessly through the empty hallways. He slowed, narrowed his eyes, and quickened his pace—curiosity piqued.

He slipped into the music room just as the source became clear. Freddie Mercury, the fifth-year Slytherin he had heard so much about from whispers in the corridors, stood there, arms lifted slightly as if holding the very air of the room in his performance. His voice was powerful, resonant, almost commanding, filling every corner without seeming to exert any effort.

“Hello?” Roger’s voice was soft, cautious, not wanting to startle him further than necessary.

Freddie spun, hand pressed lightly over his heart, eyes widening. “Oh dear! You scared me!”

Roger raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

The Slytherin arched a brow, a playful lilt to his words. “Should I be asking you that? You’re past your curfew.”

“So are you,” Roger countered, stepping further into the room, closing the music door behind him with a soft click.

Freddie nodded, conceding with a smile. “Quite right. Yes. I’m thinking.”

Roger tilted his head, watching the fluidity with which Freddie moved. “You were singing,” he said, almost accusingly.

He laughed softly, a sound that seemed to resonate off the walls and fill the space with warmth. “I can do both, you know. Sing and think. Multitasking, quite enjoyable. My name is Freddie Mercury. You were with John by the lake, right?”

Roger’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “Yes. I’m Roger Taylor, second year.”

Freddie’s gaze flicked over him, curious. “You got moved down a year, yes?”

He exhaled, a little huff of frustration, though not entirely defensive. “Yes. That’s right. Dropped down. No big deal.”

Freddie tilted his head, studying him. “How are you friends with John if you’re in different years?”

Roger’s hands found the stool of the drum kit, and he sat down, leaning forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees. “I was running from Peeves with a friend, and I tripped over him in the corridor.”

Freddie’s face twisted with concern and confusion. “What do you mean?”

The Gryffindor gestured vaguely, as if to frame the story in his mind. “I didn’t mean to! He was asleep on the floor. I—well, I got him awake, and then he fainted. Pomfrey took him to the hospital wing. After that… I just… I wanted to be friends with him. I don’t know why exactly. I just felt… drawn to him. He’s a real sweet kid.”

Freddie’s frown deepened, a flicker of recognition crossing his eyes. “That… that hospital wing incident must’ve been when I helped him,” he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened slightly at the memory of the exhausted, fragile boy in Pomfrey’s care, how pale and small he’d seemed.

Roger continued, oblivious to Freddie’s thoughts, but earnest in his explanation. “Besides, John’s moving up a year. He’ll be in my year soon. I just… I don’t want him to feel alone. He’s… he’s different, but not in a bad way. He’s sweet. He’s smart. And he deserves to have someone he trusts.”

Freddie’s expression softened, the frown replaced by something warmer, more affectionate. His eyes flicked toward the drum kit, then back at Roger, but all the while his mind was on John—how small he must have seemed, how fragile, how much he’d needed someone to look after him, even in that brief, chaotic hospital wing encounter.

Slowly, Freddie’s lips curved into a small smile, almost wistful. He imagined the boy’s wide eyes, the nervous tilt of his head, the way he’d clung to his thumb like a lifeline. The thought made him ache a little with protectiveness. “You… you’re right, Roger,” he said softly. “John deserves that. Anyone would.”

Roger tilted his head, surprised at the tone in Freddie’s voice. “He… he’s in your thoughts now?”

Freddie nodded, almost shyly. “I… I can’t help it. He’s… adorable. Sweet. And… I need to see he’s safe. I don’t even know him that well, but…” He trailed off, his voice catching slightly.

Roger leaned back, crossing his arms, watching Freddie with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. “Oh, so that’s what’s got you like this in this room, singing,” he said, smirking. “The little first-year.”

Freddie spun on him, hands dramatically lifted in mock outrage. “Like this? Do you have any idea what he did? The locket! The letter! He gave me a gift!” His voice rose with excitement, emotion threading every word. “And he… he hugged me! Do you know how… how that made me feel?”

He shook his head, laughing, but his gaze softened. “Sounds like he’s made quite the impression on both of us.”

Freddie sank onto the edge of the piano, still clutching an imaginary locket as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “Quite the impression doesn’t even begin to cover it. That little boy… he’s… he’s something special, I swear. And I need to make sure he knows… that I care. That he’s safe. That he’s…” His voice trailed off into a quiet sigh.

Roger leaned forward, tapping the edge of the drum stool. “You’ve got a mission, Mercury. Just… don’t scare him off.”

Freddie’s eyes sparkled with determination. “Oh, I won’t. I just… I have to protect him. He’s too precious not to.”

Freddie tilted his head, eyes flicking to the sticks Roger had left balanced across the rim of the snare drum. His whole expression lit up with curiosity, like a cat spotting a shiny toy.

“You play drums?” he asked, his voice warm but tinged with surprise.

Roger couldn’t help but grin, puffing his chest a little. “That I do. Since I was four!”

Freddie let out an exaggerated gasp, his hand flying to his chest as though Roger had just told him he could fly. “Four!”

The gryffindor laughed outright at the drama, shoulders shaking as he gave the cymbal a little tap just to punctuate it. “Yes. Four. Mum got me a tiny kit—well, more like pots and pans really, but still. Proper drums came later."

Freddie leaned in closer, perched elegantly on the piano bench like it was his personal throne, eyes sparkling. “That’s absurdly young. And you’ve stuck with it all this time?”

Roger gave a sharp nod, proud but casual. “Wouldn’t give it up for anything. It’s in me. The rhythm. Always has been.”

He studied him for a long moment, lips curling like he’d just discovered something fascinating. “Mm. Yes, I can see that. You look the type. Loud. Confident. Bit of a show-off.”

Roger smirked. “Takes one to know one, mate.”

That earned him a delighted laugh from Freddie, high and musical, bouncing off the stone walls. Freddie tossed his head back, dark hair catching in the dim lamplight. “Touché.” He tilted forward again, chin in his hand, as though Roger were suddenly the most interesting book in the room. “And tell me, has anyone else heard you play? Or do you just lock yourself up here and make the walls shake in secret?”

Roger shrugged. “A few. Your friend Brian comes up here too.”

That caught Freddie off guard. His whole body jolted upright, eyes wide as saucers. “Brian?!” he repeated, like he hadn’t heard right.

Roger’s grin widened. He’d been expecting that reaction. “Yeah. Did he never tell you about me?”

Freddie’s mouth dropped open, scandalised, as if Brian himself had just walked in and betrayed him. “Brian?! No! No, he never told me. What, does he play something too?”

He leaned back on the stool, twirling one drumstick between his fingers, clearly enjoying himself now. “Electric guitar. And not just play—he built one. Made it with his dad’s help. Whole thing from scratch.”

Freddie let out an indignant cry, springing to his feet. “He never told me!”

Roger burst out laughing, the sound echoing around the room. “What, you two friends and he keeps that quiet? Figures.”

The slytherin was pacing now, throwing his hands up in outrage, scarves and cuffs fluttering with the motion. “We’ve known each other a year! And not once—not once!—did he mention that he not only plays guitar but built the blasted thing himself?!”

Roger thumped the kick drum just to underline the drama. “Guess he didn’t think it was worth bragging about.”

“Not worth—!” Freddie gasped again, looking genuinely wounded, as though Brian had personally robbed him of the discovery. He spun on his heel, glaring into the middle distance. “How dare he. How dare he keep something so magnificent from me! That’s practically treason, Roger, treason!”

Roger chuckled, leaning back against the kit, watching the performance unfold. “Sounds like you’ve been left out of the loop, mate.”

He clasped his hands to his chest, sighing like a Shakespearean actor on his final line. “Oh, the betrayal! All these years and I never knew. My own dear friend, hiding a secret so grand.”

Roger snorted, shaking his head. “Bloody hell, you’re dramatic. He probably just didn’t think it was a big deal. You know Brian—head down, books open, stars and telescopes. Not exactly Mr. Show-and-tell.”

Freddie spun back to him, eyes glittering with fire and delight. “Well, he’ll have to tell me now. I won’t rest until I hear it myself. A guitar he built with his own hands—Roger, do you realise what this means?”

He raised a brow. “Means he can play, and I can play, and you—what, sing?”

Freddie’s grin turned downright wicked. He spread his arms wide, as though declaring it to the heavens. “Exactly! A voice, a guitar, and drums! Why, we’ve the makings of a band already.”

Roger blinked at him, but a smile tugged at his lips anyway. “You’re mad.”

“Brilliant, you mean,” Freddie corrected, already lost in the vision, pacing again, muttering to himself about harmony and rhythm and stage lights as if the castle corridors could already be filled with roaring crowds.

“You know,” Roger said, voice dropping a little lower, “John told me he has a bass. I don’t know if he can play though. He said he can’t remember.” Roger tilted his head, watching Freddie closely. “Hey… do you know why he keeps saying he doesn’t know things?”

The effect on Freddie was instant. His pacing faltered. He stopped dead in the middle of the room, back to Roger. For a moment, all Roger could hear was Freddie’s sharp inhale, the shuffle of his shoes on the stone floor as he shifted his weight. When Freddie finally turned, his face was carefully composed, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of something heavier—sadness, maybe.

Freddie swallowed, his throat bobbing. He took a long moment before answering, smoothing down the front of his embroidered shirt as if the fabric could steady him. “…Yes,” he admitted quietly. “Yes, I know why.”

Roger leaned in, gripping his drumsticks tighter. “Well? Then what is it?”

But he shook his head firmly, almost snapping, though not unkindly. “No. No, I’m not telling you. That’s not mine to say. That’s up to John to tell you when he’s ready.”

Roger frowned, frustrated. “But if he’s forgetting things, if something’s wrong with him, don’t you think I ought to know? I’m his mate.”

Freddie’s voice softened, though the weight in it only deepened. “And because you’re his friend, you’ll wait until he trusts you with it. You don’t force these things, darling. Not with someone like John.”

Roger blinked at the “darling,” his annoyance warring with curiosity. Freddie’s tone was so final, so protective, that it put up a wall Roger couldn’t quite push through. He drummed the sticks against the snare instead, letting the frustration shake out in rhythm. “Alright, fine. But he’s not hiding from me forever. I’ll wait. I just… I just hope he tells me.”

The slytherin crossed the room slowly and laid a hand on Roger’s shoulder, his rings cool against the fabric of Roger’s robes. “He will. Give him time. He needs kindness more than questions right now.”

Roger looked up at him, still frowning but softening. “…And you? You gonna keep looking out for him too?”

Freddie’s expression warmed into something fierce, almost blazing. “Always.”

Roger had just finished a sharp little roll on the snare when Freddie’s voice floated in again, half dreamy and half suspicious. He had drifted toward the piano, tracing the keys with idle fingers as though he might burst into song again at any second.

“I am curious about little John though…” Freddie mused aloud, eyes narrowing with mock detective flair. “How on earth did he get me such a gorgeous necklace if he looks positively poor? I mean, come on—his robes are huge! They hang off him like curtains!” He threw his arms wide to demonstrate, nearly knocking over a candlestick. “And he’s clearly malnourished… or maybe,” Freddie tilted his head dramatically, “maybe that’s just a visual effect of the big robes. A sort of… illusion, no?”

Roger blinked at him, halfway between amusement and disbelief. “Are you seriously analyzing his robe size right now?”

“Yes!” Freddie exclaimed, throwing himself into the nearest chair with theatrical despair, hand pressed to his forehead. “I cannot simply ignore such details. He’s like a little bird fallen from the nest, and yet—out of nowhere—he produces this emerald locket that would make Cleopatra herself weep with envy!” He tugged at the chain where it rested against his chest, letting it glint in the candlelight. “Explain that, Roger! Explain it!”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely mad. Maybe he saved up? Or maybe it was his mum’s or something.”

Freddie sat bolt upright, wagging a jeweled finger. “No, no, no, I refuse to believe it was so ordinary. Look at it—it’s not secondhand, it’s pristine! This little one of yours is full of mysteries, Roger. Full of them!”

Roger drummed against his thigh, leaning back with a smirk. “Yeah, well, that’s John for you. Doesn’t talk much, keeps to himself, then comes out with something that floors you.”

Freddie clasped the locket again, eyes softening into that adoring gleam Roger was already starting to recognize. “Ohhh, my sweet boy. So thoughtful, so secretive, so utterly adorable I could scream. I must uncover every single one of his secrets, Roger. Every. Single. One.”

Roger groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Merlin help him.”

The door creaked open and in slipped Brian, tall frame outlined by the torchlight from the corridor. His book bag was slung over one shoulder, and he looked mildly surprised to find Freddie perched like a king on the piano bench while Roger twirled a drumstick between his fingers.

“Well,” Brian said, voice carefully neutral, “this is unexpected.”

Freddie shot up as if he’d been electrocuted. “Brian!” he cried, pointing a finger at him in mock accusation, the locket bouncing against his chest with the sudden movement. “You—you! You never told me you play guitar!”

Brian blinked, caught between defensiveness and a laugh. “I… well, I do, yes.”

Freddie clutched his chest as though Brian had just confessed to a crime. “'Yes' he says! As though it’s a minor thing! As though it’s not a colossal betrayal to let me, Freddie Mercury, waste a whole year in your company without knowing you have strings at your command!”

Roger snorted, leaning back on the drum stool. “Strings at your command? What are you, Shakespeare?”

Freddie spun toward him, dark eyes wide and glittering. “Oh hush, drummer boy, you’ve known this secret too, haven’t you? You’re both in on it! Plotting against me, leaving me out of your little band of musicians!”

Brian rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing. “It’s not a plot, Freddie. You never asked.”

“I never asked?!” Freddie gasped. “Brian Harold May, when have I ever not asked about everything?” He stomped once for emphasis, sending dust skittering across the music room floor.

Roger leaned an elbow on the drum kit, grinning. “He’s got you there, Bri.”

Brian gave Roger a flat look, then turned back to Freddie. “I made my guitar. Built it with my dad.”

Freddie froze. The indignation on his face softened into something else—something brighter, gentler, yet still dramatic enough to fill the room. “So it is true?” His voice cracked, full of awe. “Oh, darling, that’s beautiful! That’s artistry, that’s—oh my god I need to hear you play immediately. Immediately, Brian, or I’ll die here on the spot!”

“You’re already past curfew,” Brian reminded him dryly, though his ears flushed pink. “We’ll all die if another prefect finds us.”

“That will be a noble death, in the name of music!” Freddie declared, lifting both arms as though to address a stadium.

Roger rolled his eyes so hard Brian could see it even in the dim light. “He's a wild thing.”

Brian leaned against the doorframe, adjusting the strap of his bag like he needed something to do with his hands. His voice was calm but firm.

“Besides, I don’t have my guitar with me right now.”

Freddie let out the most dramatic groan imaginable, throwing his head back so far Roger thought he’d topple off the piano bench. “Not even shrunk in your bag?!”

Brian gave him a look over the rim of his glasses, deadpan as ever. “No, Freddie. I wouldn’t risk messing up the reversal spell. Took me ages to make that guitar.”

The slytherin dropped his arms with a heavy sigh, pacing three steps before whipping back around like a storm. “Ugh, Brian! You and your responsibility! Don’t you see? That’s all the more reason you should have it with you! A creation like that should never leave your side—like—like a poet and his quill, or me and my—” he paused, lifting his locket in the torchlight, “—glorious necklace from our little John.”

Roger, who’d been drumming idly against his leg, smirked. “More like you and your ego.”

Freddie spun on him. “Excuse me? My ego is a finely tuned instrument, thank you very much.” Then, dramatically back to Brian: “Darling, how dare you deprive me of hearing it? How dare you deprive yourself of playing it in the presence of an appreciative audience?”

Brian pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “You’re going to make me regret walking in here, aren’t you?”

“You already regret it,” Roger cut in with a laugh.

“Not true,” Freddie sang out, fluttering his hands as though brushing aside their complaints. “Because one day, you two will play, I will sing, and the heavens themselves will open to listen. Mark my words."

Roger blinked at him, skeptical but curious. “…You’re actually serious, aren’t you?"

The singer grinned, eyes glittering. “Deadly serious.”

Brian just sighed and dropped his bag in the corner, quietly thinking that somehow, this was going to get very out of hand.

Brian slid further down the wall, pulling his knees up loosely like he wanted the stones of the music room to swallow him. His voice was sharp, defensive, but the weariness underneath bled through. “Sibyl’s predicted my death again.”

Roger groaned and rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Again?”

“Yup.” Brian popped the p with deliberate flatness.

Freddie, still perched on the piano bench like a king surveying chaos, tilted his head with mock severity. “Darling, I’m not catching you from falling off a tower again, am I?”

Roger spun around so quickly the stool legs screeched on the floor. His wide-eyed expression flicked between them. “Wait—what?! I thought he only attempted once!”

Freddie frowned, equally startled. “I thought he only attempted once.” His voice softened, almost accusing, but mostly sad.

The ravenclaw groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh, shut up! Shut up, both of you!” He took a shaky breath, his next words tumbling out in a rush like ripping off a plaster. “Fine. I attempted in third year—off the astronomy tower. And I bounced all the way back up thanks to the suicide-prevention wards. And then again in fourth year, when Freddie bloody Mercury here decided to be my guardian angel and stopped me from hurling myself off the owlery. Happy?”

Roger froze, his mouth opening but no words coming out. The image clearly rattled him—Brian, quiet Brian, hurling himself into the dark.

Freddie’s hands, which were usually all flourish and dramatics, clenched into fists on his knees. His voice trembled but he forced brightness into it anyway, like paint covering cracks. “Happy you told us, yes. Happy you did it? No! Absolutely not.”

Roger finally found his voice, rough with something he couldn’t hide. “Bloody hell, Bri…” He shifted on the stool, drumming against the edge because his fingers couldn’t stay still. “You—you can’t just say that like it’s… like it’s homework you forgot.”

Lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Feels about the same weight to me.”

Freddie shot up from the bench at that, storming over until he was looming above Brian, eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare say that. Your life isn’t homework, Brian May. It isn’t optional. It isn’t throwaway. You hear me?”

Brian glanced up at him, almost startled by the ferocity in Freddie’s tone. For a second, the usual stoic mask cracked.

Roger swallowed hard, then muttered, “Well… guess that explains why Sibyl’s always seeing you falling.” He paused, awkward but sincere. “But, uh… doesn’t mean you’ve got to keep making her right.”

Freddie turned sharply to Roger, nodding fiercely. “Exactly. See, even your little drummer boy understands!”

“Oi,” Roger muttered, though without heat.

Freddie’s chest heaved like he’d just sung through an aria, every bit of fire and fury blazing out of him. For a moment, silence hung heavy in the music room, only broken by the faint hum of the torches along the stone walls. Brian stayed slumped, half-defiant, half-tired, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to fight or fold.

And then Freddie’s face changed. The sharp lines softened, his lips parting with a quiet inhale, his eyes no longer aflame but wet with something unspoken. Slowly, carefully, he crouched down, the way he had when he hugged John by the lake, until he was on Brian’s level.

“Brian…” His voice was velvet now, low and trembling. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t care?” He reached out, his hand hovering in the air for a second, as if asking permission without words.

Brian frowned, confused. “Freddie— what are you—”

And then Freddie gently, almost reverently, took hold of Brian’s wrist and tugged his sleeve up. His dark eyes scanned the pale forearm, searching for red lines, angry marks—anything. His fingers trembled over untouched skin.

Brian stiffened, caught between shock and indignation. “I don’t—Freddie, I don’t cut.”

“I know you don’t,” Freddie whispered, his voice breaking, “but I wouldn’t put it past you to start. Not when you’re carrying this much weight on those bloody tall shoulders.” He glanced up, eyes burning with tears. “And if you ever did, I want to be the one who sees it first. Who stops it.”

Roger had frozen on the drum stool, wide-eyed, watching something too raw for his usual snark to touch. He fidgeted, drumming on his knees to fill the silence, but didn’t say a word.

Brian swallowed hard. The stubborn tilt of his jaw faltered. “Freddie… I—” He stopped, shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“You nearly flung yourself into the sky twice,” Freddie snapped, though the edge was dulled by the quiver in his voice. His grip loosened, his thumb brushing unconsciously against Brian’s wrist. “Do you know what it does to me, thinking I could’ve lost you? That Sibyl’s bloody nonsense could’ve been right?”

Brian stared at him, really stared, the way he rarely allowed himself to look at anyone. The way Freddie was trembling—not in drama, but in genuine fear—was something he wasn’t prepared for.

Finally, quietly, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Freddie let out a choked laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t be sorry, darling. Just… don’t go. Not like that. Promise me.”

Brian hesitated, then nodded once, slow but firm. “…I promise.”

Roger let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Good. Great. Brilliant. Because if you ever scare us like that again, Bri, I’m personally chaining you to the astronomy tower railings.”

Freddie glanced back with a watery grin. “And I’ll tie ribbons round the chains, make it stylish.”

He stared at Brian for a moment longer, as if weighing the fragile line between restraint and instinct. His hand was still curled lightly around Brian’s wrist, thumb brushing against skin like he was afraid to lose the contact. Then something in him snapped—like a string pulled too tight.

“Enough of this,” Freddie muttered, almost to himself.

Before Brian could react, Freddie surged forward, arms wrapping around him with such force that it knocked Brian back against the wall. His breath left him in a startled oof, his ribs squeezed tight as Freddie buried his face against his shoulder.

“Oh for— Freddie!” Brian wheezed, squirming in the fierce grip. “You’re going to crack something—”

“Shut up,” Freddie said into his robes, voice muffled and raw. “Just shut up, Bri. I don’t care if you’re moody, or clever, or bloody impossible. You’re mine to look after and I am not letting you go.”

Brian froze, every muscle tense. He didn’t know what to do with the sheer intensity of it, the way Freddie’s whole body trembled against him, the way he was clutching like someone who had nearly lost something precious. Slowly—awkwardly, cautiously—Brian’s arms came up and rested around Freddie’s back. Not as fierce, not as dramatic, but steady.

Roger whistled low, slouched on the drum stool. “Well. That’s subtle.”

“Shut it, Rog,” Freddie hissed without lifting his head.

Brian gave a quiet laugh, shaky but real, and tilted his head just slightly so his chin brushed Freddie’s curls. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Freddie shot back instantly, pulling him even closer. “So deal with it.”

Roger rolled his eyes but smiled all the same. “Yeah, well… good luck prying him off, Bri. You’ll suffocate long before you cut yourself.”

Freddie didn’t let go for a long time. His grip loosened only when Brian shifted uncomfortably, muttering something about actually needing to breathe. Even then Freddie peeled himself back with great reluctance, his hands lingering on Brian’s shoulders like he was afraid Brian might vanish if he didn’t keep touching him.

Brian gave him a look—equal parts fond and exasperated—and tugged the sleeves of his robes down over his wrists. “You’re obsessive,” he said, though his voice was gentler than his words.

“You’re lucky I am,” Freddie shot back, straightening his robes with a dramatic flair. “Otherwise you’d be dead.”

Roger groaned, spinning one of the drumsticks between his fingers. “Merlin’s beard, you two are exhausting. Freddie, you hug like a boa constrictor, and Brian, you sulk like it’s a profession.”

Brian smirked faintly. “Takes one to know one, Rog.”

“Oh, shove it.” Roger tried to look annoyed, but he couldn’t quite hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Freddie, meanwhile, gave a lofty sniff. “You’re all just jealous of my natural flair for emotional rescue.” He flicked his curls back and declared, “Someday, you’ll both thank me for keeping you alive through sheer force of personality.”

“Force of personality?” Brian muttered. “Force of strangulation, more like.” But he was smiling now, small and careful, and that was worth more than words.

The three of them lingered in the music room, the late hour heavy around them, the dust motes catching in the candlelight. For the first time, there wasn’t that sharp edge of tension—no death omens, no half-kept secrets, just the strange, unexpected comfort of being together.

Roger leaned back against the drum kit, studying Freddie with narrowed eyes, as though still trying to figure him out. Then, with a shrug, he said, “You know, Freddie, I only officially met you tonight, but… I think you’re an awesome person.”

Freddie’s mouth fell open. Then he beamed, absolutely radiant. “Well, finally, someone who understands my brilliance!”

Roger laughed. Brian groaned. And just like that, the heaviness broke.

John woke up at eight o’clock that Monday morning, the weak sunlight spilling across the corner bed that he was now proud to call his own. It was later than usual for him—he usually rose with the dawn, long before the rest of his dormmates stirred—but the weekend had been so strange and unsettling that his body had begged for just a little more rest.

He sat up slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes, and smoothed down the sheets before reaching for his neatly folded uniform. It was second-hand, slightly faded, and far too big for his slight frame. Still, he dressed quickly and efficiently, buttoning his shirt all the way to the collar and tugging his oversized robes on with careful hands.

Edgar Bones, already lacing his shoes by his own bed, glanced up and let out a low whistle. “Merlin, Deacon, that uniform’s swallowing you whole.”

John looked down at himself, studied the fabric hanging loose around his wrists, the way the hem nearly brushed his shoes, and nodded once. “Yes,” he said quietly, his tone neutral, as if he were simply agreeing with a weather report.

“Why don’t you just shrink it?” Edgar pressed, tipping his head to the side as though the solution were the most obvious thing in the world.

Before John could gather the right words for a reply, Ted piped up from where he was rummaging through his trunk. “Too much magic use ruins clothes, Edgar,” he explained casually, snapping his trunk shut and looking over at John. “Don’t you remember Flitwick telling us? They get brittle and fall apart if you overdo it.”

John gave him a faint smile, grateful, though he hadn’t actually known what to say. Ted grinned back and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, breakfast. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

But John didn’t move. He adjusted the strap of his book bag over his shoulder and fixed his gaze on the floorboards.

“John?” Ted prompted, voice still friendly but with a slight crease of concern in his brow. “Breakfast?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Thank you, but… I’m not hungry.”

That seemed to give both boys pause. Edgar straightened up, frowning slightly. “Do you have a buddy?” he asked abruptly.

John’s brow furrowed. “A… buddy?”

“Yeah,” Edgar said, almost impatiently. “You know, like an older student to help you out? Everyone’s supposed to have one. Makes it easier moving up a year if you’ve got someone keeping an eye on you.”

John blinked, taken aback. “Oh. Yes. Mary Austin.” His tone wavered a little, as though uncertain whether the name was the correct answer.

Edgar raised his eyebrows. “Ah, the one friends with the prefect?”

John shifted again, clutching the strap of his bag tighter. “I— I think so,” he murmured. “Why?”

But neither of them offered him an explanation. Ted just shot Edgar a look, then grabbed his own satchel. “We’ll see you down there, John,” he said lightly, though his eyes lingered on John’s pale face as if wanting to say something more.

Edgar, less subtle, gave a half-shrug. “Suit yourself.”

And then they were gone, the door shutting behind them with a hollow click.

John stood there in the silence of the dormitory, the frown still etched across his face. Why did it matter if Mary was his buddy? Why did they exchange looks like that? He felt, once again, as if he were missing some hidden piece of the puzzle that everyone else had been given at birth.

He sat down slowly on the edge of his bed, tracing the pattern in the stone floor with the toe of his shoe. His stomach gave a faint, uncomfortable twist, but whether from hunger or unease, he couldn’t quite tell.

Still, he reached for his old Hogwarts book, tucking it neatly into his robes as if its weight might ground him. And with a quiet breath, John decided he would skip breakfast today.

The knock at the dormitory door made John jump. It was sharp, purposeful. This one had an authority behind it. John froze on the edge of his bed, heart fluttering in his chest.

Then, with a kind of dawning clarity, he understood exactly why Ted and Edgar had asked if he had a “buddy.”

Mary.

He got to his feet automatically, smoothing his oversized robes as though that might make them fit better, and crossed to the door. For a second he hesitated, hand hovering over the handle—he wasn’t used to people knocking for him. But he turned it and opened the door anyway.

And there she was. Mary Austin, standing with her prefect’s badge catching the light, her tidy hair pulled back and her expression softened the instant she saw him.

“John,” she said warmly. “Good morning. I was hoping I’d find you here.”

John blinked up at her, clutching the strap of his bag so tightly his knuckles whitened. “Hello, Mary.” His voice came out small and strained, and he winced at how weak it sounded.

Mary tilted her head slightly, studying him with that calm, steady gaze that always seemed to cut right through him. “You aren't going down to breakfast,” she observed—not accusing, just matter-of-fact. “Your dormmates mentioned it.”

So that’s why they’d asked. John felt a flush creeping into his cheeks. His eyes dropped to the floor. “I… I'm not hungry,” he murmured, the lie tasting sour in his mouth.

“Hmm.” Mary didn’t press, but she didn’t look convinced either. She stepped closer, lowering her voice so it was just between them. “John, I’m your buddy this year for a reason. You can tell me if something’s wrong. That’s what I’m here for.”

The words landed heavily. John wasn’t used to anyone being “here for him.” His chest felt tight, and he didn’t know what to say, so instead he shuffled his feet and gave a tiny shrug.

Mary let out a gentle sigh but smiled anyway, reaching out to lightly touch his sleeve. “Alright,” she said softly. “But you’re still coming with me. Even if you don’t eat much, you’ll sit with me for a bit. Deal?”

John glanced up at her, nervous and uncertain, but there was something in her expression that wasn’t pushy or demanding—it was patient, kind. The sort of look that made it hard to refuse.

“…Deal,” he whispered finally.

Mary’s smile widened just a little, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. Come on then.”

And as she turned, John followed, his heart racing for reasons he couldn’t quite name. He still didn’t know how conversations were supposed to go, or what he was meant to tell Mary, but some part of him felt quietly relieved that she’d come knocking all the same.

The Great Hall was buzzing with the usual Monday morning chatter. Benches creaked, owls fluttered overhead dropping off post, and the smell of toast and fried eggs filled the air. At the Hufflepuff table, Freddie was sprawled out in his usual dramatic fashion, elbows on the table, chin in his hands, making sure everyone within earshot knew of his woes.

“Brian, do you know what true abandonment feels like?” Freddie called loudly across the aisle to where Brian was sitting with a group of Ravenclaws. “Because I am feeling it. Here. Now. In this very hall. My dear Mary has forsaken me!”

Brian didn’t even glance up from his porridge. “It’s been ten minutes since her usual time, Freddie. She’s probably brushing her hair.”

“Ten minutes is forever in breakfast time!” Freddie groaned, collapsing against the table as if his heart had broken in two. “How is a man meant to survive the cruel pangs of morning hunger without his friend’s guiding presence?”

"You’ve already eaten half the plate of sausages.”

“That is beside the point,” Freddie retorted, pointing his knife dramatically across the aisle at Brian. “Mark my words, one day you’ll understand this pain. One day you’ll wait for someone at breakfast and—”

But whatever Freddie was about to say was lost, because at that moment the doors of the hall swung open. Mary appeared, her prefect’s badge glinting in the torchlight, walking with her usual purposeful stride. And beside her—half-hidden, robe hems dragging a little too long, his hair in its usual long mess—was John.

Freddie’s entire demeanor transformed in an instant. His eyes widened, sparkling like a man who had just been awarded a medal of honor, or better yet, a crown. He shot up so quickly from his seat that his fork clattered to the floor.

“JOHN!”

Half the hall turned at the outburst, but Freddie didn’t care. He waved so hard it was a miracle he didn’t topple his goblet. “Oh, darling, there you are!”

Mary, used to Freddie’s dramatics, merely shook her head with a smile and guided John toward the table. Without giving him much chance to object, she slipped him into the bench seat—directly between herself and Freddie.

John blinked in surprise, a little overwhelmed at being placed so deliberately, but before he could even sit properly Freddie had already scooted closer, eyes shining.

“Look at you! Bright and early, robes all tidy— oh, you’re sitting next to me! This is marvelous, positively marvelous. You’ve made my morning!” Freddie gushed, practically beaming as though he’d just been gifted the best present of his life.

John ducked his head, cheeks warming under the attention. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with Freddie’s joy—it felt enormous, dazzling, impossible to live up to. He mumbled, “Good morning,” in his quiet way.

Freddie clapped his hands together, delighted. “Good morning! Oh, listen to him, Mary, did you hear that? He greeted me! Me!”

Across the aisle, Brian groaned into his porridge. “Merlin’s beard, here we go…”

But Freddie didn’t hear a word. He was too busy fussing with John’s place setting, sliding toast closer, nudging the pumpkin juice within reach, positively glowing as if the universe had conspired to place John in that very spot just for him.

John flinched slightly as Fabian and Gideon’s laughter echoed across the hall, ducking instinctively and pressing his free hand into his lap. His other hand, still holding the book, hovered uncertainly.

Freddie noticed immediately and leaned closer, his voice soft but filled with urgency. “Hey, it’s okay. That was just—oh my god, okay, that was Fabian and Gideon. You know them—they might’ve pranked some first-year Slytherins. You don’t like noise, do you?”

He shook his head, eyes wide, and his fingers twitched around the edge of the book.

Freddie’s expression softened, and with that little sparkle of mischief that always seemed to linger behind his smile, he picked up John’s cup of orange juice. Carefully, he poured it to the brim, then set the cup back into John’s hand—but this time, he gently took John’s fingers in his own and guided the cup upward.

“Drink,” Freddie said, his voice just above a whisper. “If you can’t eat, at least drink. Come on, little one—you’ve got to keep up your strength.”

John stared down at the cup, the cool liquid glinting in the morning light. His mouth opened slightly, hesitation writ across every line of his face. Freddie’s thumb brushed his hand encouragingly. “It’s okay,” he said, “just a little sip. You’re safe. I promise.”

With careful, almost trembling motions, John tipped the cup to his lips. The tangy sweetness hit his tongue, sharp but refreshing, and he swallowed slowly, eyes never leaving Freddie’s. His fingers tightened unconsciously around the cup, and Freddie squeezed gently in return, offering silent reassurance.

“There you go,” Freddie murmured, grinning. “See? Easy. Nothing scary about a sip of orange juice. I’m proud of you, little one.”

John blinked, a faint pink dusting his cheeks, and nodded quietly, letting the first small step toward breakfast pass without words.

"Are you sure you're a slytherin?" Mary asked.

Freddie leaned back in his chair, one elbow resting casually on the table, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Oh yes, Mary. The Sorting Hat was very thorough. Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff—it had me in three minds at once.”

Mary snorted, shaking her head. “Everywhere but being smart, apparently.”

Freddie gave a dramatic shrug, flipping his hair back with a flourish. “Sure, sure, Mary. But listen, the hat said my ambition to love, and my ambition to be brave, are stronger than actually having those traits naturally. And, of course, my life-long dream of being a rockstar.” He winked at John, who was quietly sipping his juice, eyes darting between the two.

Mary laughed, rolling her eyes. “Ambition to love? Really? And here I thought you were just dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Moi?” He feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “I prefer… expressive. Besides, ambition to love is very important. Imagine going through Hogwarts without a little flair, a little passion.”

John looked up briefly from his cup, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, but otherwise stayed quiet, letting the two older students’ banter wash over him.

Freddie leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “And besides, you’ll see, John. Being ambitious is useful. Even if it doesn’t make you the smartest, it can make life… interesting.”

Mary snorted again but smiled, and Freddie’s grin widened, clearly pleased with himself and the tiny ripple of amusement he’d stirred.

Freddie leaned forward, his brown eyes wide and sparkling with curiosity. “John… how did you get this necklace?” He gestured at the silver locket glinting in the morning light around his neck. “This gorgeous thing—you didn’t just… find it lying around, did you?”

John blinked, setting his cup down carefully, fingers curling around it. “Huh?”

Freddie leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The necklace, John. The silver locket. The one you gave me. How did you get it?”

John hesitated, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve. “Oh… um… Mr… Slytherin let me have it.”

“Wait— what? Salazar Slytherin?” His voice shot up, drawing a few glances from nearby students. His jaw practically hung open, eyes wide as if trying to process the absurdity of it. “You… what? How… what do you mean he let you have it?”

John chewed his lip nervously, unsure if he should explain further. “He… um… it was in the founders’ room. They said I could pick something for a friend.”

Freddie’s hands flew to his face, nearly covering it completely. “The founders?! Like… Helga, Godric, Rowena, Salazar? Those people are basically legends, John! Practically immortal, and you just… went in there? They let you take something? For a gift?” His voice cracked a little, part disbelief, part awe.

John nodded slowly, still shy and quiet. “I… I didn’t take it without asking, don't worry. They… they said I could. They offered. It’s for you.”

His mouth fell open, and he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I… I can’t even… You mean… the real Slytherin, from Hogwarts’ beginnings… trusted you to pick something from his vault? For me? Oh my god, John. That’s… that’s insane. That’s… that’s unbelievable. Are you joking?”

John’s eyes dropped to the table. “No… I’m not joking.”

Freddie’s hands flew to the locket, holding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. “I… I don’t even… I mean… the founders! That’s… oh, John. That’s so incredible. They actually… trusted you. With Salazar Slytherin’s… God, John… that’s…” He paused, trying to catch his breath, utterly overwhelmed. “…That’s amazing. And you… you thought of me?”

John gave a tiny nod, barely audible.

Freddie’s green eyes softened and welled up a little, the awe giving way to warmth. “You… little genius, you. You didn’t even know the half of how impossible this is. The founders… trusted you, and you… thought of me. You little… little… miracle.” He leaned forward, carefully resting his elbow on the table, lowering his voice. “I… I don’t even know how to say thank you for something like this. You… you actually went into the founders’ room. That’s… legendary.”

John’s fingers twisted the sleeve of his uniform. “It was… I mean… they helped me. I didn’t… I just…” His voice trailed off, shy and unsure.

Freddie leaned forward, practically vibrating with excitement, his hands clasped together on the table. “Wait, John… the founders’ room? The one you went into? What’s it actually like? The room where you got the locket? Tell me, what’s it look like?”

He tilted his head, thinking carefully. “Well… I was exploring the castle, and I… I saw a stairway appear. It wasn’t always there. I… I went up it.” He hesitated for a moment, his voice soft, almost reverent. “There was a door at the top… it… it shrank to my size so I could get in.”

Freddie’s eyes went wide. “Shrank? The door shrank? Oh… wow…” He practically leaned over the table, hanging on every word. “And then what?”

John swallowed, trying to gather the memory. “Inside… it was… huge. Well, not huge… but… there was a big round table in the center. Four goblets on it. And… portraits. Four… four people in the portraits. They… they were the founders.”

Freddie nearly gasped, his fingers twitching in excitement. “Portraits of the actual founders? You saw them?”

John nodded, careful, precise. “I… I can show you if you like?”

Freddie’s jaw practically dropped. “Show me? You mean… draw it? Or…?”

John shook his head, small and serious. “I… I think I can take you there. They… they’re fond of you.”

Freddie blinked. “Fond of me? Wait… they like me? The founders?!” His voice caught a little, half disbelief, half giddy delight.

He nodded again, almost shyly. “Mr… Mr Slytherin gets very happy when I mention you. He… Salazar, I mean. He… smiles.”

Freddie’s hands flew to his face, trying to contain himself. “You mean… Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders, likes me? And you… you actually went in there… alone?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “The first time… I… I ran away. I was scared. It was… too big, too loud… I… didn’t know what to do. I… I wasn’t ready.” He looked down at his hands, remembering. “I… I took ages to go back.”

Freddie leaned closer, eyes bright, almost whispering. “And then… then you went back? You went back for me?”

Green eyes flicked up briefly, then down again. “I… I wanted… to give you the gift. They… they helped me. They… they’re nice. They… like it when I… do things right.”

Freddie’s grin returned, soft but wide, full of warmth. “Well, John… you did something right. Something… amazing. And you made me the luckiest person in the castle. Honestly. You’re… just… wow.”

Chapter Text

Roger had been looking for him since breakfast, and sure enough, he spotted John just outside the Great Hall, clutching his worn book to his chest like a shield.

“Hey, John,” Roger called, jogging up to him, timetable already in hand. “Come on, let’s see if we’ve got any classes together now.”

John blinked, a little startled, but pulled his own folded parchment out of his pocket. Roger stood beside him, heads close as they compared columns.

“History of Magic, same as me,” Roger said with a grin, tapping the first line. “Good, at least I won’t die of boredom alone. Looks like most of yours are paired with Gryffindors or Slytherins, huh? Not so much Ravenclaws.”

John gave a small nod. He didn’t comment, just traced the list quietly with his finger.

“Right then,” Roger said, snapping his timetable shut. “History first. You’ll come with me.”

They set off together. John, instead of going the usual long way, tugged Roger’s sleeve and steered him down a narrow corridor that looked half-forgotten. “Short cut,” he murmured.

Roger laughed. “You’re a bloody genius, you know that? Already sniffed out all the good routes.”

When they slipped into the History of Magic classroom, they found it nearly empty—rows and rows of benches, but hardly anyone seated yet. John instinctively hovered near the door, book still in his hands, but Roger steered him firmly to the very back.

“Back row’s best,” Roger said cheerfully, plopping down on the bench. “No one can stare at us from behind, and we can whisper without Binns noticing. Come on, sit.”

John hesitated, then slid onto the bench beside him, setting his book down carefully.

It wasn’t long before other students trickled in. Roger noticed a few glances—curious, whispering glances. He knew them too well himself: he’d been getting those stares for being moved down a year. And he knew John would get the same, only the opposite way round.

Well, tough luck for them. He was a Gryffindor. He wasn’t going to let John sit there like a ghost.

“Arthur!” Roger hissed across the aisle, catching sight of a boy gawking at a red-haired girl, Molly Prewett, who was very obviously ignoring him. “Stop drooling and get over here, mate.”

Arthur jumped, red in the face. “I— I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger cut him off with a smirk. “Save it for later. Sit.” He thumped the bench on John’s other side.

Arthur blinked, clearly confused. “Why—?”

“Because,” Roger said firmly, “this is John Deacon. He’s my mate. He’s new in our year, so you’re going to be polite, and you’re going to sit here and talk like a normal person.”

Arthur flushed, embarrassed but obliging. He slid onto the bench, giving John a tentative nod. “Hullo.”

John ducked his head, almost hiding behind his fringe. “Hi,” he said softly.

The blond clapped a hand on John’s shoulder, solid and reassuring. “See? Not so hard. John, that’s Arthur Weasley. Ignore him if he starts going on about Muggle engines. He can’t help himself.”

Arthur laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.

More students drifted in, filling the rows. The air buzzed with chatter until it became clear that their professor still hadn’t arrived. Of course, Roger thought wryly. Professor Binns was always late, even though he never had to eat, sleep, or do anything but float around.

John glanced at the empty front of the room, then back down at his book. He opened it quietly, but didn’t start reading—he just kept one hand resting on the page, as though for comfort.

Roger stretched out on the bench, arms folded behind his head. “Well,” he muttered with a grin, “if Binns is late again, at least we can get some peace before we’re bored to death.”

He gave the faintest twitch of a smile, small but real, before lowering his eyes again.

The classroom was nearly full by the time the air began to shimmer at the front. A pale, translucent figure floated through the blackboard as if it were nothing but mist. Professor Binns, History of Magic’s one and only ghostly lecturer, drifted to the desk. He cleared his throat—or made the faint rasp of one—but he didn’t seem to notice that half the class was still talking.

John immediately shrank back in his seat, eyes wide. Roger leaned toward him, grinning. “Don’t worry, that’s normal. He never notices anything. You could set off a dungbomb under his desk and he’d just keep reading about the Goblin Rebellions.”

John’s lips twitched again, the shadow of a smile, though he quickly hid it by ducking lower over his book.

Professor Binns began, voice dry and flat, as though someone had drained all the life from it centuries ago. “Today we begin our study of the Medieval Origins of Magical Law… which began… in the year… 1289…”

Roger leaned closer to John, cupping his hand to whisper, “Merlin’s beard, we’re going to die of boredom. At least you’ve got your book for backup.”

The hufflepuff whispered back, barely audible. “He… he can’t hear us?”

“Nope,” Roger whispered, smirking. “Hard of hearing, hard of seeing, too, I reckon. You could wave a dragon under his nose and he wouldn’t blink.”

Arthur, on John’s other side, stifled a snort, then quickly covered it with a cough when Binns droned on without pause.

“Now,” Binns continued, “the Council of Warlocks convened to discuss the… ehm… establishment of a unified… code…”

Roger muttered, “Code of how to bore students to death, more like.”

This time, John actually let out a tiny laugh—a quick, breathy sound, but real. His eyes flickered sideways at Roger, uncertain, like he was waiting to see if it was okay to laugh in class.

Roger’s grin softened. He leaned closer again, voice low and teasing. “See? Told you. If you survive History of Magic, you can survive anything.”

John closed his book and set it carefully on the desk, folding his hands over it. He still didn’t say much, but he stayed sitting upright, a little more relaxed than before, his shoulder brushing Roger’s just slightly.

And all the while, Binns floated on, unaware, reciting laws no one would remember.

The corridors were buzzing as classes shifted, and John clutched his timetable like it was a shield, following the slow tide toward the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. His feet knew the way but this time his heart was beating a little faster. Different classmates, different eyes watching him.

Inside, Professor Galatea Merrythought was already perched at the front. Her silver hair was coiled neatly at the nape of her neck, her long teaching robes crisp and clean despite the dust of the old castle. She had a sharp but kindly look about her, the sort of teacher who could both praise and scold with equal weight. When she spoke, her voice carried a warmth that settled nerves rather than spiked them.

“Good morning, second-years,” she said brightly as the chatter died down. “I've told you before, wands out—always wands out when you step into my classroom. Defence isn’t theory, it’s survival. And survival doesn’t wait for you to remember where you left your wand.”

Students shuffled in, Hufflepuffs taking one bank of desks, Slytherins another.

“Tiny for a second-year, isn’t he?” John heard from one.

John’s ears burned. He slid into a seat at the far side, trying to make himself as small as possible, his wand already placed neatly on the desk.

Professor Merrythought’s sharp eyes swept the room. “Ah, Mr. Deacon.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “I see you’ve joined us here. Excellent. I hope you’re ready to be challenged.”

“Yes, Professor,” John murmured.

“Good.” She clapped her hands together once, brisk. “Partners, please.” Chairs scraped back as people stood.

The classroom shifted as the desks were pushed to the side, clattering lightly on the stone floor. The sunlight streaming in from the tall windows caught the floating dust, painting the room in a warm, golden haze. The air smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and the lingering scent of old wood—a cozy yet serious atmosphere for learning.

As the students paired up, John ended up opposite Amelia. She looked at him curiously for a moment, then grinned. “You’re John, right? I'm Edgar’s twin- well, non-identical twin sister, but you know what I mean.” Her words confirmed John’s suspicions without him needing to ask, and the corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

John nodded slightly, giving her the faintest of acknowledgments.

Amelia leaned closer, whispering, “He told me you’ll be staying in his dorm now, right?”

“Yes.”

Professor Merrythought’s voice rose above the students, crisp and precise. “Today, we will be practicing the Full Body Bind curse. Remember: precision, control, and concentration. This is not merely about the incantation—it is about directing the magic safely. Misapplied, it can be uncomfortable, even dangerous.”

She demonstrated, wand slicing through the air in a controlled flick. “Petrificus Totalus! Watch the wrist movement, the focus, the pronunciation.” Her voice echoed faintly in the high-ceilinged room. “Control is everything. Power without control is nothing but chaos.”

John watched intently, noting the subtle pivot of her wrist, the angle of the wand, the slight exhale timed with the incantation. "Petrificus Totalus…" he muttered under his breath, moving his wand to mimic the motion.

The class lined up in pairs across from one another. The chatter quieted into an anticipatory hush. When the instructor looked at him, John realized his partner was Amelia. He felt the heat of nervousness creep up, tightening in his chest. John had never directed magic at another person before, especially not something binding.

As soon as the slytherins and a few hufflepuffs noticed his hesitation, some of them snickered and whispered, though no words reached his ears. He didn’t respond. His hand gripped his wand a little tighter, the tip trembling slightly.

Merrythought, watching the hesitation, floated over to him. “Mr. Deacon, are you all right? The spell will not harm your partner; it will bind, but I will place a cushioning charm behind Ms. Amelia to ensure she is perfectly safe. Are you prepared to try?”

John swallowed, his throat tight, but he nodded slowly. The room felt heavier, and the murmurs of the students faded into the background as he focused on Amelia, her calm face giving him a point of reference.

The professor whispered a soft charm under her breath, a barely noticeable shimmer appearing behind Amelia’s back. She gave a reassuring nod. “Now, John. Just focus on the incantation and the wand movement. Do not direct your mind toward fear—let it be control and intent.”

John lifted his wand, raising it in a deliberate, measured motion. He whispered, “Petrificus Totalus…” His voice was soft but clear. His wand trembled at first, but he held the tip steadily, imagining the effect without wishing harm, just the gentle binding.

A faint shimmer spread from the tip of his wand, tracing invisible lines around Amelia. Her eyes widened in surprise as her arms stiffened slowly, and her feet rooted to the spot—but she laughed softly, trusting the cushioning charm. John felt the energy swirl from his wand, aware of every pulse of magic, every thread of motion.

“Very good,” Merrythought said, stepping closer. “Notice how it’s not about force. You’re not pushing her down or harming her—you are controlling the magic with intent, with focus. Keep practicing this concentration, and you will find it flows naturally.”

The class exhaled collectively, murmuring appreciation for the demonstration. Even the slytherins who had been snickering seemed impressed at his precise, careful approach. Amelia blinked and then smiled as Merrythought undid the curse.

John exhaled, lowering his wand slowly. He hadn’t said a word, but the faint flush in his cheeks showed the effort it had taken to focus. Amelia gave him a quiet, impressed nod, and the professor’s approving gaze made him feel… lighter somehow, a little more competent than when he had entered.

Merrythought moved on to the next pair but cast a glance back at John. “Very good, Mr. Deacon. You handled that well. Remember, control is everything; confidence comes from understanding, not from reckless force.”

John nodded once, muttering almost inaudibly, “Yes… I understand.” He could feel the magic linger in the tip of his wand, the hum of power, controlled, safe. It was not a victory of loud applause or praise, but a quiet, personal triumph he could feel settle in his chest.

Amelia whispered as they stepped aside, “You’ll be amazing at this, John. Just… keep focusing. You’re really talented, you know that?”

He inclined his head again, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

The first couple of days after moving up a year were… isolating for John. He kept to himself almost entirely, not because he disliked Ted or Amelia, but because the atmosphere among the other students was so cold. A few hufflepuffs avoided him, whispering and giving him sideways glances, as though he had somehow trespassed into a world that wasn’t meant for him. The slytherins, on the other hand, made their dislike of him very obvious, and John, unsurprisingly, kept his distance. Even Amelia and Ted—who had been kind and welcoming—found themselves largely ignored as John wrapped himself tighter in his shell.

He observed everything, though. Amelia, for instance, intrigued him more with each passing moment. Edgar seemed… limited, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. She was flexible, willing to engage in ideas and debate without shutting down. Edgar, by contrast, appeared stubborn, unwilling to alter his assumptions or open his mind fully. In his quiet way, John made the decision that he preferred Amelia’s company, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.

The lessons themselves were a mix of frustration and satisfaction. On some spells, he stumbled, missing small details and fumbling in ways that made him wince. Catching up with the rest of the class proved taxing, but he was already a quick learner. The teachers noticed—he was around average for now, which kept him in a challenging space without being left behind. They predicted that once he caught up fully, he would likely place in the upper third of the class, a quiet reassurance that John didn’t consciously acknowledge.

Despite all of this, there was one absence that gnawed at him more than the rest: Freddie. He hadn’t been able to find him that day or the next, and the absence made John’s stomach twist with a mix of disappointment and longing. He missed the warmth, the familiarity, the way Freddie’s energy had somehow grounded him during the dizzying whirlwind of catching up and navigating new lessons.

By the third day, however, fortune shifted.

John walked outside before dinner, clutching the book Ted had “given” him—or rather, left for him. It had been waiting on his bedside table that morning with a piece of parchment neatly tucked under the cover: “I thought this might interest you. I found it in the library. When you’re done, just return it there to Madam Prince.” The simplicity of it, the thought behind it, had stirred something deep in John’s chest. He’d smiled then—really smiled—in a way he didn’t often allow himself to.

The book was heavy in his arms now as he wandered down toward the grounds, intending to find a quiet corner to read before supper. But the moment his eyes caught on a familiar silhouette near the lake, the book and the smile from earlier both seemed to shrink in comparison. Freddie, lounging as though the entire world belonged to him, the sunlight catching in the soft lines of his stylish black clothes, head bent as if in thought or music or both.

And suddenly John’s smile stretched wider than he even knew was possible. It startled him—the way his whole body seemed to respond, warmth filling him like he’d been standing in front of a fire. He didn’t think; he just moved. His legs carried him faster, faster, until he was running across the grass toward Freddie, heart thudding like it wanted to leap out of his chest.

“Freddie!” The word burst out of him, more than his usual mutters, uncharacteristically loud. His voice carried with it a tremor of relief, of excitement, of longing.

Freddie looked up at once, eyes flashing wide before softening, his lips curling into the most delighted grin John had ever seen.

When John skidded to a stop in front of him, he hesitated for barely a second before blurting, almost breathlessly: “C-can I have a hug?”

The question shocked even him—John, who so rarely asked for anything, who avoided touch like it might burn. But in that moment he didn’t care. The need was raw and aching. He needed to hold onto something real, something safe.

Freddie didn’t hesitate. His arms opened wide, dramatic and sweeping as ever, before folding down gently around John’s smaller frame. The embrace was warm, solid, grounding. John’s arms wrapped tightly around Freddie in return, his head finding its way to Freddie’s shoulder. His book slipped from his fingers into the grass.

“You sweet little thing,” Freddie whispered, resting his chin lightly on John’s hair. His voice had gone soft, but it still carried that effortless theatricality. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me!”

John shook his head fiercely against Freddie’s chest, unable to say more, too overwhelmed by the relief of being held. He wasn’t used to it—not really—but his body clung as if it had been waiting for this.

For someone like John, who carried no memories of family, of friends, of laughter or closeness, attachment came like lightning: sudden, all-consuming, impossible to control. He tried so hard to keep people at arm’s length, to guard himself behind quiet words and books and distance. But once someone slipped past that wall, once someone showed him kindness and safety, he latched on like they were the sun itself.

And Freddie—dramatic, dazzling Freddie—was fast becoming his whole world.

John pulled away from the hug, still smiling in a way that made his face ache a little, and bent to scoop up the book from the grass. He slipped it carefully into the oversized pocket of his robe, the fabric sagging under the weight but holding firm. His eyes shone with sudden urgency, as though he’d just remembered the most exciting secret in the world.

“I want to show you the Founders’ room!” he blurted, his words tumbling over one another in his haste.

Freddie blinked, then laughed softly, startled by John’s enthusiasm. “Now? You mean right this second?”

“Yes!” John said, tugging insistently at his sleeve, already stepping backward toward the castle. His eagerness left no room for argument. “We agreed, remember? I said I’d show you.”

Before Freddie could gather his usual poise, John’s small hand slipped around his wrist and tugged hard enough to make him stumble forward a step. John wasn’t letting go—he was dragging him along, no matter that Freddie was taller, stronger, or far more accustomed to being the one leading others.

Heat crept up Freddie’s cheeks, a faint blush he hoped John didn’t notice. There was something in the boy’s trust, the way he clung and pulled without hesitation, that made Freddie’s chest squeeze tight. He realised with a sudden clarity that John had taken to him—just as fast, just as fiercely—as he had taken to John.

The idea both thrilled him and made his heart ache. A little brother, that’s what John was becoming. Not in the irritating way Kashmira, his own little sister, could be when she pestered him with questions or sulked when he ignored her. John wasn’t irritating at all. If anything, he was… gentle. Quiet. Endearing in a way that Kash, with all her noise and temper, never managed.

Kashmira was only a bit younger than John, and she’d be at Hogwarts next year—Freddie could already imagine her teasing John, trying to get a rise out of him. But John, Freddie thought with a private smile, would probably just stare at her blankly until she gave up.

As they hurried across the lawn and into the cool shadow of the castle, Freddie let John tug him along, pretending to protest but not really meaning it. His heart was warm in his chest.

“Slow down,” Freddie teased lightly, though his steps matched John’s all the same. “You’ll have me running in these shoes, and that would be very undignified.”

John only glanced back with the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes before tugging again, as if to say, come on, this is important.

They slipped deeper into the castle, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the thick old stones and faintly creaking staircases. Freddie quickly noticed something odd—John’s eyes drifted shut as they turned a corner, his hand trailing lightly along the wall as if he trusted it more than his own sight. His pace didn’t falter, though. In fact, he walked more surely with his eyes closed than with them open.

Freddie frowned, slowing a little as he watched. “Do you… know the way?”

John shook his head, eyes still closed, his voice quiet but steady. “The castle takes me.”

“The castle takes you?” Freddie repeated, a note of incredulous amusement in his tone. “What on earth do you mean?”

This time John opened his eyes and glanced at him briefly before looking forward again. “Sometimes I don’t know where to go. But the castle just… shifts to guide me, you know?”

Freddie blinked. “No, I don’t really know,” he said honestly, though his lips quirked in a faint smile. He tried to dismiss it as one of John’s oddities, but as they walked further, he found his mind drifting back. Maybe he had experienced something similar once or twice. That day he’d gotten hopelessly lost on the way to Charms—even though he knew the path perfectly—only to arrive late and discover the entire classroom had been hexed into chaos by a band of pranksters. Was that the castle protecting him? Steering him away? He’d never really thought of it like that.

He tried harder to pay attention now, to memorize the turns, the staircases, the tucked-away corners they passed through. But strangely, the details seemed to slip away almost as soon as he registered them, fading like mist in the back of his mind. He frowned, frustration prickling, and wondered if that too was the castle’s doing. Keeping secrets. Hiding paths it didn’t want revealed.

Then John stopped. His small hand lifted, pointing toward what looked at first like a solid section of wall. But as Freddie blinked, he noticed it wasn’t quite so—it was a narrow gap, barely wide enough for one person to squeeze through. Within the gap, a tight spiral staircase curled upward into shadow, leading to a plain wooden door.

John didn’t hesitate. He slipped into the narrow passage, feet light on the steps. Freddie followed more cautiously, his heart beating faster with curiosity.

Halfway up, John reached the door. It looked absurdly tall in the cramped stairwell—until it shimmered suddenly, the edges shrinking, warping down to John’s exact height as though greeting him. He pushed it open without fear and disappeared inside.

Freddie froze for a beat, eyes wide. “wow…” he whispered under his breath, staring at the door in awe. It was impossible, and yet—

He climbed the last few steps. As he reached the landing, the door shifted again, this time stretching taller until it matched his frame. He laid a hand against the wood, hesitated for a heartbeat, then pushed.

The door swung inward with a quiet groan, and Freddie stepped across the threshold, eyes widening at what lay beyond.

Freddie’s breath caught in his throat.

John’s description—he hadn’t exaggerated a thing.

The room spread out before them in a perfect circle, stone walls softened by the warm glow of torches that burned without smoke or fuel. At the centre stood a great round table of dark, polished wood, its surface gleaming as if it had been freshly waxed. Four high-backed chairs encircled it, each one carved differently, bearing the subtle marks of its house.

And the portraits.

Freddie’s jaw went slack. There they were—four faces that had existed to him only in myth and story, suddenly very real, very present.

Godric Gryffindor was broad-shouldered in his frame, his red robes gleaming with gold thread, a hand resting proudly on the hilt of a sword propped beside him. He looked every bit the lion-hearted founder from the tales, eyes twinkling with the faintest mirth as if he enjoyed being watched.

Beside him, Rowena Ravenclaw was regal and serene, her dark hair coiled beneath a delicate circlet, her expression thoughtful, wise, but not unkind. The faintest shimmer of blue sparkled in her gown, and she seemed to tilt her head ever so slightly in acknowledgement of their arrival.

Helga Hufflepuff radiated warmth even from paint and canvas. Her golden hair was braided neatly, her robes simple but sturdy, her hands folded gently in her lap as though she’d just been listening to someone with complete attention. Freddie felt almost comforted just looking at her.

And then—Salazar Slytherin.

Freddie’s breath hitched. The man’s eyes were sharp, green as cut emeralds, his hair and beard a glossy black streaked faintly with grey. His robes were deep green trimmed with silver, elegant without being ostentatious. He looked stern, yes—but not cruel. And when Freddie stepped further into the room, he could have sworn the corners of Slytherin’s mouth curved into the ghost of a smirk.

On the table sat four goblets, one before each chair, wrought in the colours of the houses. They shimmered faintly, as if waiting to be used.

Freddie turned slowly in a circle, his heart pounding. “Oh my god,” he whispered. “John… you weren’t lying. You weren’t making it up. This— this is—” He broke off, too overwhelmed to finish, and spun back toward John. “Do you understand what this is? People would kill to even glimpse this place, and you’ve just—just found it?”

John ducked his head, suddenly shy, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. “I was… scared the first time. I ran away. I didn’t understand what I was seeing. But… they called me back. They… like me.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr Slytherin especially. He gets very happy when I mention you.”

Freddie froze, his mouth opening, then closing again.

He turned back toward the portrait of Salazar, whose painted eyes now seemed to glint knowingly. A shiver skittered down Freddie’s spine, not unpleasant, but strange. He looked back at John, still trying to find words. “…Fond of me?”

John nodded earnestly.

He let out a shaky laugh, half in disbelief. “This is… this is impossible.” He turned again, eyes darting from one portrait to the next, drinking in the impossible reality of the room. “Impossible,” he repeated softly, but the awe in his voice betrayed him.

A laugh boomed, Freddie actually stumbled back, bumping into John with a startled yelp. His hand clutched his chest, as if to hold his thundering heart in place.

The portraits were alive. He’d known it, of course—John had told him—but hearing Salazar Slytherin himself laugh, that deep, rolling sound breaking through the stern mask of the painting, was something entirely different.

“Not impossible!” Salazar said, the smile still lingering in his sharp features. “Nothing within these walls is impossible. You ought to know that by now, boy.”

Freddie’s jaw worked uselessly, his tongue tying itself in knots. “I—oh hell—he spoke!”

Godric Gryffindor roared with laughter, a booming sound that shook the frame around him. “Oh, that was good! Look at him—eyes like saucers! He looks absolutely terrified!”

“I’m not... t- terrified,” Freddie stammered, though his voice cracked in a very unconvincing way.

“Be kind,” Rowena Ravenclaw scolded, her tone sharp as a whip. She leaned ever so slightly out of her frame, her intelligent gaze flashing from Godric to Salazar. “You frightened the little one when he first came here, and now you’ll frighten this one too if you’re not careful.”

Helga Hufflepuff sighed, her expression soft, but there was a note of disappointment in her voice. “You ought to be ashamed, making sport of children. As if the castle doesn’t already throw them enough challenges without you two adding to it.”

John, still pressed close to Freddie after being bumped, whispered, “They like to argue.” His voice was calm, reassuring, as if this chaos was ordinary.

Freddie blinked at him, then back at the founders, who were now bickering amongst themselves like an old family at supper.

Rowena sniffed. “It’s undignified.”

“Oh, admit it,” Godric grinned. “You laughed too when the boy bolted out of here last month.”

“I did not!”

“You did,” Salazar smirked, his voice smooth as silk. “Though, granted, it was more of a chuckle.”

Freddie, still pale, turned slowly to John and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Are they always like this?”

John gave the tiniest shrug, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “I think so.”

Salazar, who had been smirking, suddenly stilled. His sharp eyes, green as new-cut emeralds, dropped to Freddie’s chest—and lit up like a torch. "My locket,” he whispered, then louder, his voice carrying a strange pride and a thrill that made Freddie’s spine prickle. “My locket!”

Freddie looked down at the little emerald charm resting against his black shirt and instinctively touched it. “Oh—erm—this?”

Salazar leaned forward in his portrait, his dark robes rustling as if alive. His face, usually sharp and forbidding, softened into something startlingly warm. “Yes. You wear it. Proudly. As it was meant to be worn.” His gaze flicked to John. “He gave it to you, didn’t he? Helga's chosen boy gave it to you.”

Freddie blinked rapidly, utterly unprepared for the rush of emotion in the painted man’s voice. “I— yes, he— he did. John gave it to me.”

“Good.” Salazar’s voice was almost a purr, satisfaction rolling off him. “Then the bond holds.”

“Salazar,” Rowena warned, her eyes narrowing. “Careful.”

But Helga was smiling, her warm expression turned toward John and Freddie both. “Oh, don’t hush him, Rowena. Let him have his moment. It’s been centuries since he’s seen the locket worn as it should be. By someone who understands love when he sees it.”

Freddie’s mouth fell open. “Wait— centuries? As it should be? What on earth are you all talking about?”

Godric laughed again, though not cruelly this time, more like a man who knew a secret and found joy in watching it unfold. “Best not to puzzle it out all at once, lad. Just know, you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He frowned, still clutching the locket. “That’s not an answer.”

Ever precise, Rowena folded her painted hands. “Answers in their entirety rarely come at the start of a story. But suffice it to say, you four were not chosen by accident.”

Freddie blinked. “Four? What four?”

John’s eyes flicked up at her, wide but silent. He knew better than to ask.

Salazar cut across smoothly, his voice low, silken, commanding. “You’ll see. In time. For now, I’m satisfied. He wears it.” He looked at Freddie again with something almost tender in his painted gaze. “Protect it well. Protect him well.”

Freddie, though baffled, felt a lump in his throat. He nodded, more solemn than usual. “I will. You don’t even have to ask me that.”

Behind them, John whispered so softly Freddie barely caught it, “I said they liked you.”

Freddie turned and managed a shaky smile at John. “I… think I like them too. Well. Mostly. The jury’s still out on that loud one.”

“Oi!” Godric barked, mock-offended, making Freddie jump again. The whole room erupted into laughter—except John, who simply leaned closer to Freddie, comforted by his presence.

Rowena sat with her painted hands folded on the stone frame of her portrait, her dark eyes sharp with calculation. “They are two now. Two of the four. We cannot ignore that. Surely a token—something to mark the beginning—wouldn’t harm anything.”

Salazar’s smile curved thin and sly, a flash of fang behind silk. “You were the one who hissed the loudest about keeping silent until the pieces aligned. And now you grow impatient, Rowena?”

Rowena exhaled with exaggerated dignity. “Impatient? No. Merely… pragmatic. If they are already seeking us out together, if bonds are being woven without our interference, then perhaps the time is ready for at least a first gift.”

Helga, ever warm and soft, leaned forward in her gilded frame. “I agree. Look at them.” She nodded toward John and Freddie, who stood close, John still half tucked behind Freddie’s sleeve, eyes big with confusion. “They’re bewildered, yes, but they trust. And that trust should be rewarded. Even if the gift is small.”

Freddie blinked. “Gift? Wait—you’re talking like you’ve been planning this.”

Salazar’s chuckle was low and rich, curling through the chamber like smoke. “Oh, my little locket-bearer. Yes, we have planned. We planned before your grandfathers’ grandfathers drew their first breath. But if we must part with a gift…” He straightened, pride gleaming sharp in his gaze. “It should be mine. My protégé came first. My heir found his way here alone. Thus it is my secret room that is revealed.”

Godric barked out a laugh, loud enough to rattle the goblets on the table. “Your room? Please, Sal. A damp snake-hole in the bowels of the castle? What will you give them, mildew and fungus? A pet eel?”

“Serpents,” Salazar corrected, his voice cutting. “Creatures of wisdom, of guardianship, not… slimy fish.”

Freddie wrinkled his nose. “Did you just say sewer system? You mean it literally smells down there?"

Salazar turned his painted glare on him. “Watch your tongue. It is an ancient sanctum, layered with wards no simpleton would dare to breach.”

Shyly tugging at Freddie’s sleeve, John whispered, “I like snakes.” Well, he didn't truly know that, but he knew he liked the look of them. They looked interesting and the various patterns they had was gorgeous.

That made Salazar pause, his stern expression softening instantly. “Of course you do, my little dear. Of course you do.” He glanced at Rowena, smug. “See? He belongs with me.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Rowena sighed. “This isn’t about ownership. It’s about guidance.”

Helga gave a sly little smile. “Still, I say let Salazar give his gift. Perhaps it’s fitting.”

Godric threw up his hands dramatically. “Fine. But when the boy comes back covered in muck and smelling like pondwater, don’t come crying to me.”

Salazar ignored him. His gaze slid to John and Freddie, heavy and deliberate. “Then it is settled. Soon, I shall let you in. To my Chamber.”

Brown eyes widened. “Chamber? That doesn’t sound at all ominous!”

John’s, on the other hand, lit up like a lantern. “A secret room?”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “A gift for those brave enough to step inside.” Salazar leaned forward in his portrait, his painted hands gripping the stone ledge so tightly it almost looked like he might tear free of the frame. His voice slithered through the chamber, low and deliberate. “Can I change my locket back to its original form?”

John blinked, clutching the edge of the table as though it might steady him. “I— I’m sorry?”

Salazar arched a brow, the gleam in his eyes both proud and mocking. “That locket. My locket. It was no simple trinket, boy. It is a relic, a piece of me. I disguised it. Gave it a shape pleasing to your childish eye so that you would choose it for your friend.”

John’s mouth fell open. “You… you only made it pretty so I would…?”

“Pick it for Freddie, yes.” Salazar’s smile spread, sharp and wicked, but also strangely affectionate. “You see, John, I know you. You’d never keep such a treasure for yourself. I only nudged you where your heart was already leading.”

Pale green eyes went wide, his breath caught in his throat. He glanced at Freddie helplessly. “What? I don’t—”

Freddie, who had been fingering the locket absently against his chest, froze. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me…” He looked down at the emerald glinting in the candlelight. “This isn’t just some necklace from your dusty little portrait-vault?”

Salazar’s grin widened. “Dusty? Hardly. That is my soul wrought into silver and stone. My pride, my history, my cunning.” He narrowed his eyes, the humor vanishing. “Do not underestimate what you wear around your neck, boy.”

John’s lip trembled. He gripped his robes with his small fists, overwhelmed. “I… I didn’t know. I thought… it was just pretty. And I wanted to thank Freddie. I didn’t mean to—”

Helga leaned forward, her voice warm and soothing. “Peace, little one. You did right. You gave kindness, and that is what matters.”

Rowena added crisply, “And Salazar should not frighten you. His dramatics are tiresome.”

“Tiresome?” Salazar hissed, but he didn’t take his eyes off Freddie and John. His voice dropped to a softer tone, one rarely heard from him. “The locket chose. As I knew it would. And it sits exactly where it belongs.”

Freddie laughed wetly, clutching the locket like it might disappear and staring adoringly at John. “You’re going to kill me with how sweet you are.”

The locket pulsed faintly as it shifted in Freddie’s palm, growing heavier, its silver sheen deepening into a burnished amber glow. The green gems grew along the front coiled like a living serpent, their facets glinting with sharp intelligence. Strange runes shimmered faintly across the surface, curling around the edges of the crystal casing.

John’s breath caught. “It— it changed—”

Freddie held it up, his eyes wide. “It actually changed. He— he made it bigger—” He fumbled the clasp, and with a soft click, the locket swung open. Inside, faint light spilled out, not quite bright but alive, like a candle flame caught in glass.

Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose, exasperated. “Oh, Salazar. I thought you meant your other locket. Not this one.”

Tilting her head, Helga's brows knitted. “I was under the impression Tom had stolen this piece. Surely he did?”

Salazar leaned back in his frame, smug as a serpent basking in the sun. “He did take it. Fool boy thought himself clever, tearing at his soul like parchment. But when he tried to bind a fragment into this locket…” His grin sharpened. “…I stole it back. Left him howling like a child who’d lost his toy. The fragment he planted was consumed. Destroyed. My locket is clean.”

Freddie’s jaw went slack. “You— you stole from that man?"

The 11 year old shrank a little, pressing his hands to his mouth. “You— how could you— how—”

Rowena’s eyes glittered. “You always did enjoy your games, Salazar. Reckless. Dangerous. But effective.”

“The runes,” Salazar continued, as though their shock amused him, “will shield the one who wears it. My chosen heir. Not by blood, not by lineage, but by intent. By cunning. By worth.”

Freddie, still clutching the locket, froze mid-breath. “…Heir?” His voice cracked, half-squeak, half-accusation. “I’m— what? Heir?”

John whipped his head toward him, horrified. “You? Heir? To Salazar Slytherin?”

His hands shook so hard the locket nearly slipped from his grasp. He clamped it tighter against his chest, staring up at Salazar’s portrait like he might leap out and bite him. “No, no, no—hold on. I— I sing a little, I write silly songs, I don’t— I’m not—” He turned desperately to John. “John, I’m not evil, am I?”

John’s wide eyes darted from Freddie to the locket, then back again. “…N-no?”

Salazar laughed, deep and booming, the kind of laugh that made the walls of the chamber hum. “Evil? Hah! You mistake me, boy. Heirship is not about cruelty. It is about survival. Adaptability. The will to endure when others falter. That, I see in you.”

Freddie’s face went pink, his throat bobbing. “This is ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.” He glanced back at John. “Tell me this is ridiculous.”

But John only whispered, almost reverently, “You’re… special.”

Freddie’s breath came quick, his grip on the locket tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “You—you can’t be serious. Me? Your heir?” He gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Do you know what people say about you, old man? What Slytherins say? The prejudice, the superiority nonsense, the way they strut about as if the rest of us are scum under their boots. I’ve heard it my whole life, even though—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Even though I’m pureblood.”

John flinched at the sharpness in his voice but stayed silent, eyes darting between Freddie and the portraits.

Salazar’s expression changed in an instant. His smug grin slid away, his face settling into something darker, prouder, older. His painted hand curled on the edge of the frame as if he might step forward.

“You dare,” he said softly, venom in every syllable, “to accuse me of such rot? Prejudice? Against my kin? Against those born with magic?”

Freddie stiffened, chin tilting upward. “That’s the reputation. That’s what everyone knows.”

Salazar’s eyes flashed green fire. “Reputation built by fools who could not understand me! By those who wanted to tarnish my name to justify their failures!” His voice rose, filling the chamber, echoing like a storm in stone halls. “I have never hated a witch or wizard for their blood. Magic, no matter how it stirs to life in one’s veins, is a gift. Rare. Precious. Worthy of reverence! Do you think I would despise a child who has been granted such a wonder, simply because their parents had none?!”

Rowena gave a thin smile, almost amused at Salazar’s fury. Helga murmured softly, “Temper, Sal. You’ll frighten them.”

“Good!” He snapped, before turning his glare back on Freddie. His voice softened, but it carried a dangerous weight. “Those who twist my legacy into hate… they are cowards. They take my name in vain. I sought to preserve our kind, not divide it. I fought for our survival, not our downfall. Never confuse my protection of our world with contempt for it.”

Freddie blinked rapidly, thrown off-balance by the intensity of the words. His shoulders dropped a little, though he still looked doubtful. “But— Slytherins—”

“—are children,” Salazar cut him off, “aping shadows of greatness they cannot comprehend. They speak prejudice because they fear what they cannot control. I do not fear. I do not hate. Magic, wherever it is born, is sacred.”

The chamber went quiet. The weight of his voice still lingered, humming in the stones, in the goblets on the table, in the runes glowing faintly on the locket.

John, small and awestruck beside Freddie, whispered, “He doesn’t sound like the books at all…”

Freddie’s lips pressed together, eyes darting from the locket in his hand to Salazar’s burning gaze. “…Maybe not. But books don’t lie.”

“Don’t they?” Rowena asked slyly.

Salazar’s painted jaw tightened, and he spat the word out as if it were bitter poison on his tongue. “And half of them,” he said, voice low and sharp, “are incest freaks. Ruined my house. The lot of them. I need to have words with that hat for allowing people to persuade its choices by surname. Manipulating tradition to justify their foolishness!”

Godric, leaning casually on his frame, let a faint snort escape, barely stifling his laughter. “Sal, some things never change, do they?” he murmured, shaking his head.

“Incest?” John’s voice piped up, eyebrows knitting together. He tilted his head slightly, genuinely puzzled, trying to make sense of the word.

Freddie muttered quietly, “Many pureblood houses insist that to keep their blood the purest, they must… breed with each other.” His voice dropped even lower, tinged with distaste and awe. “It’s twisted. I’ve read about it, heard about it. Families, cousins, sometimes siblings. All to preserve bloodlines, they say. It’s… awful.”

Pale green eyes went wide, a faint shiver passing through him. “They… marry family members? That’s… that’s allowed?”

Salazar’s painted features twisted in indignation. “Allowed? No! Merely practiced by those who lack vision, who call themselves ‘noble’ while dragging their house into decadence. They have no sense of magic’s true value. They think lineage outweighs ability, wisdom, cunning! Their obsession with bloodlines— the very essence of their arrogance!—has brought shame to my house for centuries. That is why I insist upon chosen heirs, why I care who inherits Slytherin’s protection.”

Freddie’s lips pressed together. “Wow… no wonder people hate Slytherin so much.”

“Hate me?” Salazar’s eyes gleamed, green and intense. “No. They misunderstand my legacy. They confuse my dedication to magic with cruelty. I do not hate them. I despise their foolishness, yes—but hatred? No, that is wasted on the ignorant. They would ruin everything Slytherin represents. I corrected it where I could, but the rest…” He waved a painted hand toward the locket in Freddie’s grasp, the crystal catching the light. “…the rest is left for my chosen, the clever, the loyal, the brave. Those who see value in true power and knowledge, not mere blood.”

John swallowed hard, looking down at the locket, then back at Salazar. “So… this locket… it’s… for someone good, not just a Slytherin?” His voice was small, tentative.

Salazar’s stern visage softened slightly, though the fire behind his eyes did not dim. “Precisely, little one. Magic, blood, lineage—these are all tools. The tool matters not. The hand that wields it—that is what matters. Freddie Mercury,” Salazar said, inclining his head at him, “you were chosen not for your blood, but for your merit. Your ambition, your spirit. That is why you may wear this.”

Freddie looked at John, then back at the locket in awe. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Salazar leaned back in his gilded frame, eyes glinting with a mixture of pride and mischief. “I mean just wait until the four of you are reunited. The chaos that Wizarding Britain will be in… hilarious.”

Freddie blinked, still processing the sheer grandeur of the situation, and shook his head. “I’m still confused about this… four thing.”

Godric beamed as he gestured broadly. “Our heirs! The two of you,” he said, looking at Freddie and John, “and the two others you already know.”

Freddie raised a brow. “We… already know?”

“Yes,” Rowena confirmed, her voice calm but carrying an edge of authority. “If they can be led here, they are an heir. If not… they are not. But do not test this, and keep it a secret unless it feels right. It is crucial for balance that this remains unknown to the wider wizarding world until a destined future."

Brown eyes flicked to John, who looked pale and small under the weight of this revelation. “Erm… you said two. What… heir is John?”

Helga’s lips twitched into a knowing smile. “Hogwarts. Well, my heir. By blood, actually. But he belongs to all the houses.”

John’s brow furrowed, a hand tightening over his robes. “Hogwarts heir? Heir by blood? But… I’m… I’m muggleborn.” His voice was low, hesitant, and tinged with disbelief.

Her expression softened. “Your family… they are squibs, not true muggles. When two squib families combine, sometimes a magical heir is born. Your brother—quite a strong wizard by his accidental magic—proved that. He was… remarkable, even at a young age.”

John’s head snapped up at the word 'brother,' his eyes wide. “Brother?” he echoed. His mind scrambled to reconcile this information. He had no memories of a sibling. None of the week he spent at home before Hogwarts hinted at anyone else. The memory of that ordinary domestic life felt full, but it was void of brothers or sisters. “I… I don’t remember a brother,” he whispered, voice trembling slightly.

Freddie, meanwhile, was still processing the squib revelation. “Wait—muggleborns come from squib families?” His tone was incredulous, but he spoke softly, as if afraid saying it louder might make it untrue. “I… I never knew that. I mean… that’s… wild.”

John stared down at his hands, twisting them together. The idea of a brother lingered like a shadow he couldn’t quite see. He could feel it, though—the absence of a memory felt heavier than any memory he had. “Did… did my brother go to Hogwarts?” he asked, voice small.

Helga nodded slowly. “He could have, yes. He was a clever boy, like you. But his path diverged before you came to us. The bloodline chose its vessel—you. And the castle itself will nurture you where it nurtured him not.”

Salazar’s voice cut through, firm and resonant. “You are a beacon, John. Your blood is unique, rare, and precious—not because of lineage alone, but because of what you can do. That is why you are here. That is why you were brought to us. And that is why Freddie, you… and the others will play your parts.”

Freddie’s jaw dropped slightly. He reached out, as if to steady John, though John’s eyes never left the floor. “This is… a lot,” Freddie muttered softly. “I… I think I need to sit down.”

“What do you mean my brother’s path diverged?” John’s voice was small, tentative, like a child testing the edge of a cliff. His eyes flicked to Helga, to Rowena, to Salazar, hoping one of them could give him the answer without making it sound terrifying.

“He died, John.” Helga’s words fell like stones in the quiet room. The portraits around the round table paused, their usual chatter silent, as if even they understood the gravity of the statement.

“D-died?” John stuttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. His mouth opened and closed, trying to form questions, but nothing coherent emerged. Freddie’s breath caught in his throat. He had been holding himself steady, but now he remained still, his eyes locking on John, and without a word, he reached out and took John’s hand in his own. It was a small gesture, but for John, it anchored him to the present when the past suddenly felt so vast and unknowable.

“He was six, you were two,” Helga continued, her voice softer now, more gentle. “He died of pneumonia. Had he… been in the magical world, his fate may have been different. Perhaps even brighter.”

John’s lips parted slightly. His fingers tightened around Freddie’s hand, not fully realizing it, as if grasping for reassurance. “What… what was his name?”

Helga hesitated, and Rowena sucked in a long breath. “His name… was Robert Bryan Deacon.”

John repeated it under his breath, rolling the name slowly on his tongue. “Robert…” He didn’t know how to feel. He had never met Robert. He didn’t have memories of a brother to grieve, yet there was a hollow tug in his chest, an echo of something lost he had never had. The name felt heavy, like an anchor in water, pulling at his heart without his conscious understanding.

Freddie squeezed John’s hand gently. “It’s… okay to feel hurt, even if you never knew him. Names carry weight, memories or not.”

The younger boy swallowed, looking down at their intertwined hands. He didn’t want to mourn someone he’d never held, never played with, never argued with or laughed with, but the sadness was undeniable. It was quiet, subtle, like a shadow brushing over his chest.

Salazar’s portrait spoke, his voice low and grave, “The bloodline remembers, John. Magic remembers. Even if your mind does not, the echoes of what came before you linger. Robert’s spirit… even in its brief time, shaped the magic you carry.”

John’s eyes widened, and he felt a tingle, a faint echo in his chest, though he couldn’t describe it. It was as though a puzzle piece had suddenly been placed in a space he didn’t know was empty. He had no memory of Robert, yet the knowledge of him felt deeply personal, intimate, pressing against the edges of a heart that had barely begun to understand loss.

“Do… do you think he’d like me?” He asked softly, almost to himself.

Rowena’s eyes glimmered. “He would be proud of you, John. You carry what he could not, the spark that destiny left unfinished. You are his living echo.”

Freddie’s chest tightened as he watched John, feeling a surge of protectiveness. He wished he could explain the magic of loss, the feeling of connection to someone absent, the way sorrow could exist even without experience. But he simply gave John’s hand another gentle squeeze, letting him process in his own way.

John nodded faintly, though he wasn’t sure if he understood fully. “I… I want to know him. Even if I can’t meet him.” His voice was barely audible. There was determination in it, the first inkling of wanting to anchor himself to the past and to the present, both at once.

Salazar’s gaze softened, uncharacteristically gentle. “Then you will carry him forward, John. Not as a shadow, but as a guide, as part of the magic that will shape your path. Remember… blood may be lost, but essence… essence lingers.”

He exhaled slowly, feeling some small measure of peace despite the ache in his chest. He looked at Freddie, who gave him a reassuring smile, eyes bright despite the solemnity of the moment. John realized, with some quiet understanding, that grief and hope could coexist. That even someone he never knew could shape him, and that people who cared for him now could anchor him in a way Robert never could.

“You must go,” Rowena said firmly, her voice carrying the gentle authority of someone used to guiding young, unsteady souls. “You need to eat, and we know, little one, that you haven’t been.” Her sharp eyes softened ever so slightly as they lingered on John, reading his exhaustion, his quiet retreat into books and shadows.

Freddie’s gaze dropped to John. “Yeah,” he said softly, his hand brushing against John’s in a small, grounding gesture. “He hasn’t been.” He looked back at the founders, a mixture of pride and worry in his eyes. “I’ll make sure he does. Right?”

John nodded faintly, muttering a barely audible, “Yes.”

Godric leaned forward, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his portrait. “But… don’t isolate him from his year.” His gaze flicked just slightly toward Freddie, almost imperceptibly, as though he was thinking of Roger and how he’d been helping John navigate the complexities of classmates and new social spaces. Yet, of course, he didn’t say it aloud. “It’s important he learns to balance… companionship.”

A sudden, gentle but insistent wind pushed at them, brushing against Freddie’s hair. He furrowed his brow and glanced down at John. “What’s that?”

John’s lips parted slightly, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “It’s… the castle,” he murmured, the words barely audible. “It’s trying to get us out. Come on, let’s go.” His voice had that quiet authority it always held when navigating paths and doorways unknown.

His hand squeezed John’s gently. “Right,” he said, trusting the small, strange guide he had come to rely on so quickly.

“Bye-bye, Sirs and Misses,” John added, his small hand raised in a polite wave toward the portraits. His eyes flickered from Salazar’s beaming gaze to Rowena’s softer nod, to Helga’s teasing smirk, before finally settling on Godric, whose eyes twinkled with quiet amusement.

The wind tugged again, more insistently this time, and John took a step forward, Freddie following without hesitation. Together, they moved through the shifting corridors, leaving the round table and goblets behind, but carrying with them the weight and warmth of approval, guidance, and secrets from the four legendary figures.

Freddie’s hand remained intertwined with John’s, silent reassurance passing between them. “You okay?” he asked softly.

John glanced up at him, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. Hungry… but okay.”

He nodded. “Good. We’ll fix the hungry part soon. But first… we get you safely out of here.”

John’s pace was small but determined, the castle seemingly bending and guiding them, corridors lengthening or shortening as needed, until the familiar sounds of the castle beyond the Founders’ room filtered back into their ears. The wind fell away, leaving a calm hush in its wake.

Freddie looked down at him again, quietly amazed. “You really… know your way around?”

"The castle knows better than I do.”

Chapter Text

Roger was waiting for John in the Great Hall, sprawled lazily at the Gryffindor table but keeping his eyes on the entrance. He had half a mind to go sit with the Hufflepuffs just to make sure he caught John the second he appeared, but hesitation rooted him to the bench. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the wood, glancing at the platters of food he hadn’t touched.

Where is he? Roger wondered. The thought gnawed at him—was the eleven-year-old skipping another meal? Was he off hiding with a book again? Or worse, had he fainted somewhere? He hadn’t forgotten the pale, frightening sight of John collapsing before.

With a groan, Roger pushed himself up from the table, leaving his untouched dinner behind. His eyes scanned the hall for any clue and finally landed on a familiar mop of curls at the Ravenclaw table. If anyone knew where John was, it would be Freddie—or failing that, Brian.

Roger marched over, shouldering through the crowd until he squeezed himself unceremoniously onto the bench beside Brian, drawing an annoyed grunt from the older boy.

“Ugh, Roger, what is it?” Brian muttered, shifting his plate so Roger’s elbow wouldn’t knock it.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Have you seen John? Or Freddie?”

Brian gave him a sharp look, as if trying to decide if this was worth his time. “Err… yeah. I saw them. Must be… forty minutes ago?” He frowned, tapping a finger against his goblet. “They were walking back from the lake.”

Roger’s heart skipped. Forty minutes was a long time, even with John’s tendency to dawdle or get stuck in awe in the castle’s tricks. “The lake?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Yes, Roger, the lake. You know, big body of water, squid in it. Honestly, do you ever—”

But Roger wasn’t listening anymore. His mind was already racing, trying to piece it together. John and Freddie, together, wandering back from the lake. Where had they gone? Why hadn’t they come straight here? And more importantly—what if John was in trouble and Freddie had no idea what to do?

Roger stood up abruptly, nearly upsetting Brian’s goblet in the process. “Thanks, Bri. You’re… you’re brilliant.”

The prefect scowled, watching him dart off. “Honestly,” he muttered, shaking his head. 

Roget's stomach knotted with worry, but beneath it was something else too—a tug, a fierce sort of loyalty he didn’t quite understand yet. John might have been small, quiet, and odd, but Roger had already decided he was someone worth looking after.

He hurried toward the entrance of the hall, ready to search the corridors until he found them.

Roger then stormed down the corridor outside the Great Hall, his strides sharp and impatient, the heels of his shoes clicking on the stone. His eyes darted left and right as he muttered to himself, If he’s fainted somewhere again, if he’s hiding in some bloody cupboard— His chest tightened. He didn’t want to admit it aloud, but he was worried sick.

He rounded the corner and collided with someone.

The impact knocked him back a step, and he let out a sharp, “Ow!” before he realised he hadn’t just hit someone, he’d practically bowled into Freddie.

Freddie staggered but caught his balance smoothly, one hand shooting out to steady Roger by the elbow. “Careful, darling,” he said with a wry grin, brushing off his robe with the other hand. “Charging around corners like a wild hippogriff."

But Roger barely heard him. His eyes were already fixed on the very obvious, very lumpy, very moving bundle squirming against Freddie’s chest.

John.

The eleven-year-old was curled in, head burrowed under Freddie’s robe like a rabbit hiding in its burrow. The problem was, he was terrible at hiding. His knees jutted out awkwardly, the robe bunched and wriggled with every tiny fidget, and every so often a tuft of his brown hair poked out from under the fabric. The whole sight was ridiculous—ridiculous, and oddly… sweet.

Freddie glanced down at the bundle, amused. “Well, that’s subtle, isn’t it?” he teased softly, patting the lump where John’s head must have been. He looked back up at Roger, eyes sparkling with both humor and fondness. “I think someone doesn’t want to be seen.”

Roger blinked, then snorted. “He looks like a bloody Christmas present shoved under the tree. Worst disguise I’ve ever seen.”

Inside the robe, John froze. He peeked out, wide-eyed, cheeks flushing crimson the moment he realized who it was.

“R-Roger…” he mumbled, already tugging frantically at the fabric. He wriggled and flapped his arms, trying to escape the cocoon Freddie had kindly—but very firmly—created. His movements were all jerks and panicked tugs, like a bird tangled in its own nest.

“Easy, John, easy,” Freddie chuckled, loosening his hold so John could stumble out. He smoothed the boy’s hair as John blinked up at them, embarrassed and red-faced. “There we are. Whole world can see you again.”

John huffed, eyes dropping to the floor as if it might swallow him whole. “I… I thought—”

“—that it was someone else,” Freddie finished gently for him, crouching a little so their eyes nearly met. “I know.”

Roger’s laughter died down as he really looked at John, at the way his hands fidgeted and his shoulders hunched. The words slipped out before he even thought about it.

“Don’t worry, Deaky,” Roger said with a grin, trying to sound light, to cut through the awkwardness. “You’re safe. It’s just me.”

John’s head jerked up at the nickname. His eyes went round, blinking fast like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “…Deaky?”

He shrugged, pretending he hadn’t just decided in that moment that John needed a nickname, something that meant he wasn’t just another kid in a sea of faces. “Yeah. Suits you better don’t you think? It's from you last name and... you look like a Deaky."

Freddie’s grin widened as he looked between them, warmth curling through his chest. He didn’t say it aloud, but the sight was perfect: Roger, bold as anything, reaching out in the only way he knew how—by teasing, by naming, by claiming—and John, so small and startled, but already softening under it.

John ducked his head again, hiding a tiny, shy smile. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The name hung in the air between them, new and fragile, and yet it felt like it had been there all along.

They stepped into the Great Hall together, Freddie’s arm draped loosely across John’s shoulders like a protective wing, Roger marching a half-step ahead like he was guarding their path. The hum of dinner rolled over them—laughter, cutlery clinking, the odd burst of magic from overeager students—but it all dimmed for John as his stomach knotted.

“Ravenclaw,” Freddie declared, ignoring the wide-eyed looks from his own table as he veered away from Slytherin’s corner. “Our Brizie’s looking positively stormy. Let’s cheer him up.”

“Brizie?” Roger snorted, falling into step beside him. “Oh, he’ll love that.”

John blinked, bewildered, but followed without protest. He didn’t want to be left behind, and Freddie’s hand was steady on his shoulder, guiding him forward.

Sure enough, Brian sat a little ways down the Ravenclaw table, long arms folded and eyes narrowed at a small pile of books that lay shut in front of him. His dinner plate was hardly touched. He looked up as they approached, eyebrows lifting.

“Great,” Brian muttered, though there was no real heat in his tone. “The circus has arrived.”

Freddie only beamed, ushering John down onto the bench beside Brian before Roger slid in across from them. In the shuffle, John found himself pressed on both sides—Freddie warm and chatty to his left, Brian tall and stiff to his right. He froze for a beat, unsure if he was meant to move, but Freddie’s arm stayed behind him, a quiet reminder to stay put.

Roger immediately reached across the table, grabbing a serving spoon before John could even look at the platters. “Here,” Roger said, plopping potatoes onto John’s plate with reckless enthusiasm. “And chicken. And— Merlin, you need greens. You’re skin and bone.”

John stiffened, watching his plate fill without a word. He’d only just managed a sip of pumpkin juice earlier, and now the sight of food piling high made his stomach twist.

Brian’s long fingers tapped the table. “Rog, he’s not a baby bird you’ve got to cram feed into.”

The gryffindor only grinned. “He’ll eat if I make it easy for him.”

Freddie chuckled under his breath, clearly amused at the sight of John being fussed over from both directions. “He’s right, darling,” he teased, nudging John lightly with his elbow. “You’re outnumbered. Best surrender.”

John ducked his head, his fingers twisting in his lap. He felt trapped between them, not in a bad way, but in a way that pressed something sharp and tender in his chest. He forced himself to glance up—at Brian.

The Ravenclaw prefect was studying him with a mix of exasperation and curiosity, as though trying to figure out what exactly Freddie and Roger saw in this quiet, awkward boy. John met his gaze for a second, then blurted before he could stop himself, his voice small and uneven: "I’m sorry.”

Brian blinked, caught off guard. “…Sorry? For what?”

John swallowed, his throat dry. He couldn’t quite explain it, not without sounding mad. But the name—Brian. It weighed differently now, now that he knew it belonged to someone he’d never get to meet. Someone he should have known.

“For… for bothering you,” John muttered at last, eyes dropping to his plate. “For… sitting here.”

But it was the slytherin's head that snapped toward him, indignant. “Nonsense. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

Roger leaned forward across the table, frowning. “Deaky, no one’s upset you’re here.”

Brian’s brows drew together, his expression softening. He shifted slightly, angling his body so John didn’t feel boxed in. His voice, when it came, was quieter, calmer than his usual clipped tone.

“You’re not bothering me,” he said simply. “Really. Sit. Eat if you can. You’re… fine here.”

John risked a glance at him, and the sincerity there—quiet, steady—let him breathe a little easier. He nodded, a tiny movement, and let his hand hover over his fork.

Freddie caught the moment, his smile turning gentler. “See? What did I say. Perfectly welcome.”

Roger speared a roll and dropped it onto John’s plate with a grin. “And don’t think you’re getting out of trying the bread, Deaky.”

The youngest let out the tiniest huff of air—a laugh, if you listened hard enough.

The clatter of cutlery and soft chatter of the Great Hall blurred around John as he tried to focus on the food in front of him. He barely moved, letting his fork hover above the plate.

Brian, silently observing, leaned forward just enough to slide the fork gently into John’s hand. When John hesitated, he guided the goblet toward him too, tilting it slightly so a few sips of pumpkin juice could be taken without effort. “Here,” he murmured, nonchalant, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. John’s eyes widened slightly, and he muttered a faint “thank you,” barely audible over the hall, and Brian just nodded without a word, retreating back into his usual composed posture.

Freddie and Roger had noticed the small acts, but they didn’t interfere. Instead, they used the time to finally get to know each other, sitting casually with arms stretched across the table and leaning back against the bench.

“So you’re telling me,” Freddie said, eyebrows raised, “you actually went to a muggle primary school? For how long?”

Roger smirked, leaning forward on the table. “Until I was eleven. Almost my whole childhood. Well… mostly. Mum wanted me in full magic school, of course, but Dad argued for muggle school first. Said it would give me stability, especially after the wizarding war.” He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth as if to punctuate the story. “Apparently, wizarding schools weren’t exactly safe for kids during that time. And it was boring as hell.”

Freddie chuckled. “Boring, you say? A life without magic spells and pranks?”

“Yeah,” Roger said with a shrug. “You have no idea. I still had some tutoring, mostly magical subjects, but muggle-style. Writing, maths, history… the works. But Dad… well, he wasn’t around in the end. Left Mum and me.” His tone grew quieter, a shadow passing over his face, but he shook it off and grinned again. “Anyway, that’s why I know a little of both worlds. And trust me, being bored for seven years makes you… inventive.”

Freddie leaned back and laughed, clapping his hands together. “Inventive, huh? I can see it already. You must have so many stories.”

Meanwhile, John watched quietly, holding his fork with trembling fingers as Brian subtly guided him through taking small bites. Every now and then, Brian’s dark eyes flicked toward him, checking if he was eating enough, repositioning his hand or the goblet just enough to keep him from fidgeting. John felt a warmth in that quiet attentiveness, a kind of patient care he hadn’t known he needed.

Freddie, glancing at John, saw the way Brian handled him and felt that familiar pang of protectiveness and admiration for this quiet, careful presence. Roger noticed too, nodding subtly to himself, appreciating Brian’s approach. It was the kind of understanding John needed, the silent support that didn’t demand words.

John finally managed to take a proper bite of food, his fork shaking slightly. Brian gave him a small, approving nod, almost imperceptible, before returning to his book.

He chewed slowly, letting the warmth of the food settle in his stomach, though his mind was elsewhere. He told himself he shouldn’t feel this way, that he didn’t need anyone fussing over him. Yet every subtle movement Brian made—the gentle guidance of his hand, the quiet adjustment of the goblet—stirred a strange, unfamiliar longing in him.

He wondered what his older brother, Robert Bryan Deacon, would have done. Robert would have been about Brian’s age now, and John could almost picture him doing exactly what Brian was doing: patient, quiet, careful, protective without making a fuss. The comparison made his chest tighten. He didn’t mourn Robert in the usual way—he didn't remember him—but in this moment, in the midst of laughter from Freddie and Roger, he felt the absence he never knew sharply.

Brian leaned slightly closer, subtly pushing a piece of toast toward John’s plate. John’s fingers brushed it, and he froze, a small gasp escaping him. He quickly pulled back and muttered, almost to himself, “I shouldn’t…”

Freddie noticed instantly. His eyes softened, concern flaring beneath the blush on his cheeks. “John, it’s okay,” he said quietly, not wanting to draw attention from the others. “Eat. You need it.”

Oblivious to the subtleties, Roger leaned back on the bench, grinning. “Yeah, Deaky, food is important. Don’t make me scold you.”

He blinked, startled by the nickname once again coming from Roger. He looked down at his plate again, hesitant. Brian adjusted his fork in John’s hand again, and this time, John didn’t pull away. He took a small bite. The taste of food, the quiet attentiveness, and the faint smell of books and leather from Brian’s robes mingled together, and he felt… something he hadn’t felt before. Safety, perhaps, or the beginnings of trust.

A quiet thought crept in, one John didn’t voice aloud: maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let someone care for him. Maybe it wasn’t weakness. Maybe it was what Robert would have done, if he were here.

Freddie noticed the way John relaxed slightly, how his shoulders dropped just a fraction, and he grinned. “See? Not so bad, is it?” he whispered, and gave John a light pat on the back.

John looked impossibly small sitting between them—four foot seven at eleven, a fragile figure in his oversized Hufflepuff robes. His pale green eyes flicked everywhere, almost constantly searching, taking in every shadow of the hall, every movement. His brown, wavy hair fell in soft tufts around his face and down past his shoulders, giving him an almost lost, vulnerable air.

Brian, towering at six foot two, with his wild mop of dark hair, seemed like a mountain beside him. And Freddie, at five foot ten, carried this huge presence, an almost tangible aura that seemed to bend the light around him. John’s size and subtle quietness made him appear like he could vanish entirely if someone so much as breathed too loudly.

Roger watched, head tilted, eyebrows raised. Was John short for his age? He reminded himself that John had just turned eleven and had only recently moved up a year so Roger was mostly seeing him with older people than John. That might explain it… but still, compared to Brian and Freddie, he looked like a sprite between them. He wondered silently if John would catch up in height. Would he eventually tower over them all? The thought made Roger smirk. The image of this little, wary Hufflepuff suddenly standing taller than the others was… almost comical.

And yet, despite John’s small size, there was something commanding about his presence. His eyes weren’t shy in the timid way of some younger students—they were curious, alert, scanning everything with an almost analytical precision. He didn’t speak much, but every movement, every glance felt intentional, as though he was silently measuring the world around him.

Freddie couldn’t help but grin as he took it all in. The four of them together—Roger, Brian, himself, and John—was utterly bizarre, almost chaotic, and yet there was a strange balance to it. Hogwarts wasn’t exactly known for friendships that spanned houses so easily; mixing Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff in a circle of trust was unheard of. And years? Forget about it. Freddie had always been close to Brian for a year now, but the fact that he was technically a year older than Brian made things interesting—he’d already turned sixteen right at the start of the school year, while Brian would just be approaching sixteen as the final term of the year wound down.

Then there were the younger ones: Roger, thirteen, and John, barely eleven, sitting quietly but observing everything like a tiny, meticulous little strategist. One had been moved down a year, one had been moved up, and both had experienced far more in their short lives than most kids their age at Hogwarts could even imagine.

It was a jarring mixture of ages, houses, and personalities, but Freddie realized it worked. There was something in the way each of them complemented the other. Roger brought the reckless energy, Brian the calm, measured intelligence, John the sharp, cautious curiosity—and Freddie? Well, Freddie was just… Freddie, the loud, dramatic chaos that somehow tied them all together.

He shook his head slightly, laughing to himself. Friendships like this didn’t exist at Hogwarts. They shouldn’t exist. And yet here they were, four utterly mismatched students, somehow forming a unit that was quietly unstoppable. Odd? Absolutely. But brilliant.

Helga Hufflepuff’s words echoed in Freddie's mind thatJohn belongs to all houses. It was a strange thought, surreal almost, but looking at John, Freddie could believe it. He belonged everywhere and nowhere, a little anchor of calm and curiosity floating in the chaos of Hogwarts.

Brian’s voice broke through, sharp and slightly amused: “You’re peaking at my book.”

John flinched, jolting slightly against Freddie’s side. Freddie instinctively tightened his arm around him, protective and steady. “It’s… interesting,” John muttered, eyes on the page, but his voice was quiet, neutral, as if he was measuring his words before sending them out into the world.

Brian rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “It’s for sixth years.”

Green eyes flicked up briefly, taking Brian in. “You’re not a sixth year.”

“No,” he said, a hint of pride creeping into his tone, “but I’m closer than you are.”

John frowned slightly, tilting his head as if considering the concept. “It’s on the founders. How is that a sixth-year book?” His voice had a subtle edge of curiosity that surprised Freddie—he had never heard such questioning fire from John before. Brian blinked, half-expecting him to protest further, but John’s expression softened almost immediately. “I’m sorry for not asking if I could read it too,” John said calmly, the fire fading like mist.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t accusing you. I was merely noting.”

“Why did it sound so then?” John asked, quiet but persistent, genuinely wanting to understand.

He shook his head, smiling faintly, slightly amused. “Never mind. Have you always liked books?”

John tilted his head again, that tilt that made him seem so small, so thoughtful. “I don’t know.”

Freddie exhaled slowly. He knew why John answered that way. No memories, barely a of week's worth outside Hogwarts, around a month including Hogwarts. How could he possibly know if he had always liked books? He only knew what he knew now, what interested him now. That was all. And he accepted it, calmly, almost academically.

Roger sighed quietly in front of them, though for a completely different reason. He didn’t understand the nuances, the depth behind why John always answered “I don’t know.” To Roger, it was frustrating, infuriating even at times, like talking to a puzzle he couldn’t solve. But he also knew it wasn’t meant to be irritating—it was just… how John navigated the world. A world in which he had only just begun to anchor himself, where certainty was scarce and observation was everything.

Brian leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s fine not to know,” he said, glancing at John with a tilt of his head. “As long as you like books. Unlike that brat,” he added, pointing a finger at Roger.

“Hey! I do like books!” Roger protested, throwing up his hands.

“You like Quidditch magazines, there’s a difference,” Brian shot back, deadpan.

“Yeah, Roger!” Freddie mock-sneered, leaning closer to John, his voice playful and teasing.

“Freddie, you only like fashion books, you can’t talk,” Brian muttered under his breath, eyes flicking to his own tome but keeping one ear on the exchange.

John let out a small, soft laugh. It was brief, almost a puff of sound, but it carried warmth and ease. Roger’s eyes widened as he caught the full view of it—John’s lips curved in that rare, precious, almost cheeky smile. His pale green eyes nearly fully closed in delight, as if the world had compressed into that single, perfect expression.

Freddie’s chest warmed with a fondness he didn’t bother hiding. He couldn’t see John’s face fully, but he heard the laugh, the inflection, and it stole his breath for a moment. He leaned ever so slightly closer, letting himself simply enjoy it.

Brian, absorbed in his own thoughts, didn’t notice the effect John’s laugh had on Freddie—or the way Roger froze for a split second, stunned by how genuine and alive it seemed. To him, it was just another moment with John, a kid he barely knew.

John’s small hands moved deliberately, almost ceremoniously, as he picked up Brian’s fork, mimicking the same gentle nudges Brian had been giving him earlier. Carefully, he placed it back into Brian’s grasp, then nudged Brian’s half-empty plate closer so it was squarely in front of him, subtly shifting Brian’s open book out of the way.

Brian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes darted from the plate to John, then back to his fork. He didn’t immediately eat—he was too busy processing the tiny, thoughtful gestures. The corners of his mouth twitched, a half-smile forming, but he said nothing.

The hufflepuff leaned back slightly, his pale green eyes narrowing just the faintest amount. He muttered under his breath, barely audible, “Hypocrite.”

Roger and Freddie glanced at each other, smirking. Freddie stifled a giggle behind his hand, charmed by John’s quiet sass. Roger’s eyes widened as he realized John had just called Brian a hypocrite in the gentlest way possible, yet it somehow carried all the weight of truth.

The ravenclaw finally let out a soft sigh, shaking his head, and picked up the fork. He could feel the unspoken care behind John’s actions, and for a moment, he allowed himself to just appreciate it, putting a small, almost imperceptible amount of effort into taking a bite of food. John watched, satisfied, his hands folding neatly into his lap, his expression calm but eyes flicking subtly between the two of them.

Then John's fingers closed around Brian’s book as if it had been there for him all along, his movements precise and careful. He plucked the bookmark from Brian’s pocket—a long, thin strip of ribbon with tiny runes etched faintly along its edge—and tucked it neatly between the pages. He held the book close for a moment, eyes scanning the cover with a faint hum of satisfaction.

“Thank you, Brian,” John muttered softly, almost reverently, before flipping to the first page. His pale green eyes flicked across the lines, absorbing the words. Soon he jumped ahead to information he didn’t already know, his focus absolute. The book felt heavy and important in his hands, and he treated it with a delicate care that suggested this was more than just reading—it was learning, staking his claim on knowledge he had yet to fully understand.

Brian, meanwhile, had paused mid-forkful, his hand hovering inches above his plate. He had been watching John carefully from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his intentions. When John began reading, Brian’s expression softened into a bemused “what the hell” smile, a mixture of disbelief, amusement, and affection. 

Roger leaned over to Freddie, whispering with genuine surprise, “Did you notice he was sassy? I never noticed he was sassy.” He nodded subtly toward John, who was now completely engrossed in the text, flipping pages with a quiet intensity that made his earlier audacity even more striking.

The slytherin laughed, shaking his head, his eyes sparkling. “No, but it’s adorable.”

But then John gently closed the book, placing it carefully beside Brian as though setting down something fragile, and muttered, “That book’s awful. I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s wrong.”

Brian blinked at him, eyebrows raising in surprise. “What?”

“It describes the founders incorrectly,” he said simply, eyes flicking to Freddie as he spoke. He didn’t elaborate further, but the weight in his voice made it clear he had already decided this was a matter of fact, not opinion.

Freddie, curious, reached over to take the book, holding it out to John to help him find the page in question. John’s pale fingers guided Freddie to the exact passage, pausing on the words without commentary, letting them speak for themselves.

Freddie read the lines carefully, frowning. “It says Salazar was… a black man?” His voice was incredulous. “That’s… not him.”

“No,” John said softly, his green eyes meeting Freddie’s, calm but firm. “We’ve both seen Salazar. That’s not how he looked.”

Flipping the page, Freddie’s eyes scanned the description of Helga Hufflepuff. “And here it says she had platinum blond hair and blue eyes?”

John shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Honey brown hair. Brown eyes. White, yes. Welsh. That’s all.” His tone was measured, almost clinical. No need to embellish. Just facts.

Brian, mouth slightly agape, spoke. “Really?”

“Yes,” John replied simply, his voice quiet but unwavering. He gestured toward the book with a small, deliberate movement. “Erase whatever you remember is in this book if you want your facts right.”

Freddie nodded, eyes narrowing as he thought. “If they’re willing to bend this part of history,” he added, his tone more pointed now, “they’re willing to bend more. The lies, the biases… all of it. That’s how misinformation spreads.”

John’s gaze flicked briefly to Freddie, almost approving, though he didn’t say anything else. He folded his hands in his lap and stared down at the book, calm as ever, letting Freddie’s words carry the weight that John himself did not need to voice.

“That’s… unbelievable. I can’t believe anyone would just… change history like that.”

The 11 year old merely muttered, “They did.”

Roger chuckled, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it’s not every day you get fact-checked by an eleven-year-old, Brian.”

Still half in disbelief, Brian ignored Roger and turned to John. “Wait… how do you two know that? About the founders, I mean. That’s… that’s insane.”

John’s green eyes flicked up at him briefly, calm as always. “Portraits,” he muttered, almost as if saying anything more would be unnecessary.

“Portraits?” Brian repeated, voice a mix of shock and skepticism, his tall frame leaning forward. “You mean… like, the founders themselves?”

“Mhm,” he replied simply, tilting his head, clearly uninterested in giving any more detail than necessary. Then, without pause, he changed the subject, his attention already elsewhere. “Ravenclaw serves different food to Hufflepuff. Why is that?”

Roger raised an eyebrow, glancing at Brian with a smirk. “Well, that’s a shift in topics.”

Brian’s frown deepened, running a hand through his curly hair. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s… house preference? Or maybe something to do with the way the kitchens are organized? I never really thought about it. Hufflepuff just always gets what they put out first, I guess.”

John nodded slightly, eyes scanning the plates around them as though analyzing the arrangement. “But it’s not just different dishes. The quality… ingredients. Hufflepuff has more vegetables, Ravenclaw has more… grains and cheese. Why?”

Roger shrugged, trying not to laugh at John’s intensity. “Maybe the house elves just like variety? Or they think Ravenclaw kids need more brain food?”

The hufflepuff considered this, tapping his lips lightly with one finger. “Hmm. That makes sense,” he said finally, but the thoughtful way he said it made it clear he was already processing, cataloging, connecting dots in his head.

Brian chuckled, shaking his head in amazement. “You know, Deaky… you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met. Eleven years old and already dissecting Hogwarts’ meal planning like a professor.”

John only shrugged, picking at a piece of bread, eyes still observing, still calculating, still curious in that quiet, intense way that made the others lean a little closer just to see what the small, serious Hufflepuff would notice next.

They watched as John's gaze drifted back over the tables, scanning quietly. He tapped a finger against the edge of his plate, brow furrowed slightly. “The lights…” he murmured, almost to himself.

“The lights?” Brian asked.

“Yes,” John said, voice low, precise. “Not just the candles. The enchanted ceiling… it reflects the sky, yes, but the brightness changes subtly depending on where you sit.” He tilted his head, staring at the Ravenclaw ceiling above. “Hufflepuff… it’s warmer there. More amber tones. Ravenclaw… cooler. Blue-white.”

Freddie gasped softly. “You… you noticed that? Most people don’t even look up.”

John shrugged slightly, though his eyes were fixed on the ceiling like he was mapping it in his mind. “It’s… deliberate. Different houses… different atmospheres. The founders knew. They tailored it.” His voice was almost a whisper, but so certain.

Roger raised an eyebrow. “You mean… the founders planned… lighting moods for each house?”

He nodded once, minimal, concise. “Mood affects learning. Attention. Focus.”

Brian’s mouth dropped open slightly. “This… this is insane. You just… notice all this stuff.”

John didn’t reply, only adjusted the book in his lap and glanced down at the words, as if the ceiling observation was just another fact in a long chain of facts to file away. Freddie reached out, lightly brushing John’s hand, a quiet gesture of admiration and wonder, which John noticed, though he didn’t comment.

Then, after a beat, John muttered, almost distractedly, “And… Slytherin’s… it’s the shadows. Darker corners… like the castle expects you to hide and watch.”

Brian leaned back, stunned. Roger’s jaw dropped. Freddie whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief: “You… you see everything, don’t you?”

He only tilted his head and returned to the page in front of him, quietly noting patterns the others hadn’t even imagined.

John was more talkative than Freddie had ever known him, which wasn’t much, granted, but still it had been… noticeable. But now, as the clatter of plates and silverware faded into the distant hum of conversation and desserts appeared before them, John’s energy seemed to ebb, and he sank back into the quiet, almost imperceptible self he usually inhabited. His green eyes flicked around lazily for a moment, then settled on Freddie, and the movement was almost dreamlike, languid with exhaustion.

Without warning, John shifted and, with Freddie’s gentle guidance, found himself settling onto Freddie’s lap. Freddie froze for a heartbeat, startled, but then his instincts took over: he draped an arm lightly around John, careful not to crush him, allowing the little Hufflepuff to nestle close as though this was the most natural thing in the world. Roger and Brian froze in the background, staring in disbelief, each processing the scene in their own way. For Roger, it was pure “what is even happening?” bewilderment; for Brian, a mix of fascination and concern.

Roger had never seen John approach someone so freely, let alone sit in their lap. The boy usually kept himself contained, careful, deliberate, like he existed in a bubble no one could penetrate. But now, here he was—letting himself be soft, letting someone else hold him.

It hit Freddie immediately. John was tired—more tired than even John realized. The little one hadn’t had an easy life. Eleven years old, yes, just entering pre-teen territory, but his memories so far had been a threadbare tapestry of neglecting himself, short nights, small meals, and long days.

Freddie could feel it in the way John sank into him, in the subtle weight of his body, the faint tremble in his small shoulders, the way his hands rested limply against Freddie’s robes. It wasn’t just exhaustion—it was accumulation, layers of fatigue that had been piling up.

The slytherin adjusted slightly, shifting to support John’s small frame more comfortably. He whispered softly, “It’s alright, little one… just rest.” His voice carried warmth, reassurance, a quiet shelter in the noisy Great Hall. John didn’t respond verbally, of course; he barely needed to. His body relaxed against Freddie, his head tucked close to Freddie’s chest, a faint sigh escaping him—a sound almost drowned by the distant clamor of students and dessert plates.

Roger’s eyebrows rose higher and higher as he watched. “Uh… is this… normal?” he muttered, mostly to himself. Brian gave a noncommittal shrug but kept his eyes on John, analyzing each subtle movement, each flicker of expression. The little Hufflepuff had not spoken since, had not protested, had not flinched. He had simply… leaned into the comfort offered. 

Freddie, meanwhile, felt a protective warmth rise within him. He’d known the boy for a short time, but the intensity of attachment—the need to guard, to cradle, to soothe—was instantaneous. John had latched on quickly, but not in a clingy, demanding way. It was innocent, instinctive, as if he recognized that Freddie was safe. And Freddie wanted to honor that completely.

Minutes passed in quiet. Dessert was ignored by John, left to sit untouched on the plate. Freddie gently guided one hand to cradle John’s, a soft, protective gesture that spoke more than words could. Occasionally, John’s eyes would flutter open, green orbs meeting Roger's, and then he would relax again, slipping further into the quiet sanctuary of the moment.

Roger whispered to Brian, incredulous: “Is… is he really just… sleeping on him?”

Brian’s reply was quiet, almost awed: “Seems like it.”

Freddie caught the whispered exchange but ignored it, focusing on the small weight in his lap, the steady rise and fall of John’s chest, the faint breath that spoke of weariness, trust, and an unspoken bond forming in a way only those who’ve experienced hardship could fully understand.

The Great Hall had emptied considerably, the clatter of plates and chatter fading to soft echoes. Dessert trays had been cleared, most students had either left for common rooms or were lingering in small clusters, and even some of the teachers had departed. The hall felt quieter, more intimate than it had all day, but professor Sprout had noticed something that drew her over immediately.

She spotted John, asleep, curled protectively against Freddie, his fingers gripping the folds of the older Slytherin’s robes. Freddie sat rigid but tender, careful not to disturb him, his eyes flicking to the floor as if aware of the few lingering students, but unmoving otherwise. The Ravenclaw prefect, Brian, sat next to him quietly, leaning slightly toward Freddie, his presence calm, unobtrusive. And on the opposite side of the trio, Roger sat in the same poised, protective way, aware of the fragile bubble surrounding John but unsure how to contribute.

Pomona’s gaze softened. She had seen many students in her years at Hogwarts, but this was different. John’s posture, the way he nestled into Freddie, the faint rise and fall of his shoulders as he slept… it struck her. Could this be the first real comfort he remembered in his short, fractured recollection of his life? 

“Evening,” she said gently, her voice carrying over just enough to get their attention without disturbing John. “I see we have a little situation.”

Freddie’s hand tightened slightly around John, instinctively, as though to protect him from the intrusion, but he didn’t wake the boy. “Evening, Professor,” he said softly. “He’s just tired.”

“Yes,” Pomona replied, looking down at John. “But he shouldn’t stay here all night. How are we going to get him back to the Hufflepuff dorms?” She glanced at the trio of students. “Normally, you’d be barred from bringing students into the dormitories. Not that he’s causing trouble, of course, but… rules are rules.”

Freddie’s jaw set. “I’m not letting him go. Not like this. If I pick him up, he’ll wake up and get upset. He’s fine here.”

Pomona pursed her lips. “I understand. But he should be somewhere safe. Not here on the floor.”

Brian leaned forward, consideration clear on his face. “Could we… make it easier to move him without waking him? A spell, perhaps? A feather-light charm?”

Pomona’s eyes softened. “Yes… that could work. If we levitate him, we can carry him gently and the charm will prevent any strain or jostling. That way, he won’t wake until we place him safely in the dormitory bed. I can cast it.”

Freddie shook his head immediately. “No. Not levitating him. If anyone takes him out of my arms, even gently, he’ll struggle. He trusts me. I can carry him. Don’t you see?” His voice was firm, a quiet insistence.

She nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Then we can make it easier on you. The charm will lift just enough of his weight so it’s safe and comfortable, without him being moved magically against his will.” She held out her wand, murmuring softly under her breath, the tip glowing with a soft green light.

Brian leaned closer, whispering encouragement to Freddie. “It’ll be like… carrying a pillow. Easier for both of you.”

Freddie exhaled, relief flooding him. Slowly, he adjusted his hold, scooping John up carefully into a princess carry—arms under John’s small back and legs, holding him gently against his chest. John stirred slightly, shifting in his sleep but remaining relaxed, the soft charm lifting some of his weight.

Pomona watched carefully. “Yes… that’s perfect. The charm will keep him light. Just walk him to the dormitory, Freddie. I’ll grant you access once you arrive. No need to worry about the doors—they’ll open for you with my permission.”

He gave a tiny nod, careful not to jostle John. “Thank you, Professor. He’s… he’s fine with me. I promise I won’t hurt him.”

She smiled faintly. “I know you won’t. Just… be careful, and make sure he gets there safely. I’ll meet you at the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room. No one will question the two of you.”

Brian exhaled, shifting in his seat. “You’re handling this like a pro, Freddie.”

Roger just raised an eyebrow, muttering under his breath, “Yeah… handling… literally.”

Freddie gave a small, fond smile at him, then focused back on John. He could feel the little Hufflepuff’s breathing steady and even against him, small fingers twitching against his robes. This wasn’t just care—it was trust, pure and simple, and Freddie’s chest swelled with an almost protective pride. The enchantment from Pomona made the weight manageable, but the responsibility… that rested solely on him.

“Come on, little one,” Freddie whispered softly, careful not to wake him. “Let’s get you home.”

With that, Freddie began to stand, holding John securely in his arms. Brian and Roger followed closely, ensuring no one accidentally got in their way. The walk through the nearly empty Great Hall was quiet, reverent almost, the only sound the soft rustle of robes and the faint whispers of the two Ravenclaws and the Gryffindor moving behind him.

As they reached the entrance to the Hufflepuff corridors, Pomona’s enchantments ensured the door swung open without hesitation. 

The Hufflepuff common room had a warmth to it that immediately contrasted with the more formal, darker nooks of Slytherin and Ravenclaw or the towering grandeur of Gryffindor. The low ceilings gave a snug feeling, the honey-colored wood paneling glimmered in the soft golden glow of hanging lamps, and the plush armchairs and low tables invited anyone to sink in and relax. Roger’s eyes widened, a pang of reluctant envy prickling at him. Gryffindor had its charm, sure, but there was a comfort here, a feeling of being tucked safely away from the wider chaos of Hogwarts. Brian nodded almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitching in approval. He could see the design encouraged focus and calm—perfect for study, though he didn’t mention it aloud just yet.

Many heads turned as Freddie carried John through. It wasn’t everyday that strangers—especially older students from other houses—were granted access, but the enchantments Pomona had laid made it clear they had permission. Mary’s eyes softened as she caught sight of them. She wisely decided not to intervene, simply pointing toward the circular door that led to John’s dorm.

Inside, Roger let out an audible gasp. “Another common room?” he murmured, voice tinged with awe.

“Im guessing it’s just for this year, more private but still communal,” Brian offered, tilting his head to take in the shelves of books, cozy reading nooks, and small study tables. “Great for joint study.”

“Oh, Brian, stop thinking of schoolwork for once,” Freddie teased, adjusting John in his arms to look at the brass plaques on the doors. Each dorm had a neat, polished plate displaying its occupant’s name. He pushed one open gently. “This one says John’s name.”

Two Hufflepuff boys looked up from their beds, expressions hardening as they initially registered the intrusion. But as soon as their eyes fell on John, slumbering and tucked carefully into Freddie’s arms, their irritation melted into curiosity and eventual warmth.

Roger hesitated in the doorway, unsure how to navigate this more intimate house space. Brian followed slowly, taking in the room’s calming aesthetics but holding back, giving Freddie space. Freddie, however, stepped forward decisively, lifting John slightly to settle him onto his own bed with careful precision.

“Let’s get him comfortable,” Freddie murmured. He gently removed John’s shoes and outer robe, smoothing the covers around him.

“Erm… hello,” Ted said quietly from the corner, voice uncertain. “Is John… alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine,” Brian said softly, a warm smile tugging at his lips. “Just tired. This room is very big for three people.”

“We don’t get a lot of people in Hufflepuff,” Edgar said, peeking from behind his bedpost. “Six people are meant to be in here apparently.”

“Oh,” Freddie murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from John’s forehead. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss there, arranging the blanket carefully so it tucked around him just right. Stepping back, he let his eyes linger on John for a moment. “Aw… he’s just adorable,” he whispered, almost to himself, a quiet pride and affection in his voice.

Roger, standing at the side, blinked, watching the scene unfold. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about the way Freddie interacted with John—the patience, the gentleness, the protective posture—made him reconsider his initial irritation at Hufflepuff’s comfort. Even Brian, normally so composed and restrained, seemed impressed by the subtle care in the room.

John, for his part, murmured softly in his sleep, curling further into the bed, still clutching a small corner of Freddie’s robe. His chest rose and fell evenly now, tension finally easing from his tiny frame. For the first time in weeks, he seemed truly at home, cocooned in the warmth of the Hufflepuff dorm, surrounded by the strange but comforting mix of guardians he hadn’t quite known he needed.

Freddie straightened up, casting a final glance over John before turning to the others. “He’ll be safe now. Really,” he said softly, though his eyes lingered a moment longer, unwilling to let go entirely.

Chapter Text

Roger slung his bag over one shoulder, grumbling about how pointless History of Magic had been. Binns had droned on for nearly the entire lesson about troll uprisings, and Roger was fairly certain he could’ve gotten more information out of the back of a Chocolate Frog card. John, walking beside him, didn’t respond. Not unusual. John rarely did.

“Don’t tell me you actually listened,” Roger muttered as they stepped into the corridor, their shoes clacking against the worn stones. “You’re the only one I know who might.”

John’s pale green eyes shifted up at him for a moment. “I did.”

Roger blinked, then laughed. “You’re kidding. You actually listened?”

He shrugged lightly, holding his book tight against his chest. “It was… interesting.”

The gryffindor shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You’re mad, Deaky.”

They continued walking, but Roger began to notice something strange. The corridor should’ve led them down toward the stairs to the second floor, but as they turned, the staircase simply… wasn’t there. Instead, the wall had shifted, presenting a long, narrow passage that Roger swore had never been there before.

“…What?” Roger stopped short. “That’s— wait. That’s not right.”

John tilted his head, studying the new passageway with an expression that wasn’t confusion at all. It was almost recognition. “It’s alright,” he said softly.

Roger frowned. “Alright? It just—just popped out of the wall!” He reached out and rapped his knuckles against the stone, half expecting his hand to go through like a mirage. Solid. Cold. Real. “That wasn’t here yesterday. Or last week. Or—ever.”

He started forward, calm as you please, his steps light but certain. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess. The passage seemed to welcome him, lamps flickering to life one by one along the walls as he moved.

“Oi— wait!” Roger jogged to catch up, half spooked, half annoyed. “John, you can’t just walk into random passages! It could be dangerous—”

“It’s not,” John interrupted quietly, brushing his fingers along the stones as though greeting an old friend. “The castle… it’s showing me.”

Roger slowed, his heart thudding oddly. “Showing you? What’s that supposed to mean?”

John glanced back at him, expression mild, almost absentminded, as if the question didn’t need an answer. “Sometimes… it moves for me.”

He stared at him. “Moves. For you?”

“Yes.” John’s voice was steady, factual, as though he were stating the weather. He turned back around and continued, his small figure lit by the gentle glow of the lanterns.

Roger felt a chill crawl up his arms. Hogwarts was full of magic, sure—staircases that shifted, doors that vanished, trick steps—but this was different. This was… personal. Directed. Like the castle itself was reaching out to John.

When they finally emerged, Roger gasped aloud. They had bypassed two entire floors, coming out directly in front of the Charms classroom. It should’ve taken them at least ten minutes, maybe longer, but it had been barely three.

John simply adjusted the strap of his bag. “We’re here.”

Roger gawked at him. “How— how did you know it would lead here?”

“It always leads where I need to go.”

“You say that like it’s normal!” Roger hissed, running a hand through his blond hair. He glanced up and down the corridor, but no one else seemed to have noticed their sudden arrival. Students bustled about as usual, chattering, laughing. Completely unaware.

John, however, had already turned toward the door, his hand on the handle. He looked back at Roger once, pale green eyes faintly puzzled at Roger’s expression. “…The castle likes me,” he offered simply.

Roger froze, his heart doing a strange, tight flip. He didn’t know whether to laugh, argue, or drag John straight to Professor McGonagall and demand an explanation. But when he looked at John, small and solemn in his oversized robes, hair falling into his eyes, Roger swallowed hard.

Because somehow… he believed him.

By the time dinner rolled around, Roger was still buzzing from what had happened earlier. He’d gone through Charms in a daze, barely paying attention, his quill tapping furiously against his parchment while John sat quietly beside him, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.

Now, in the Great Hall, Roger scanned the tables until he spotted Freddie and Brian. They were sitting at Ravenclaw again—Freddie squeezed between Brian and the edge of the bench, chatting with his usual flair while Brian chewed with a book propped against the goblet in front of him.

John had followed Roger in, book already in hand, but Roger didn’t give him a chance to slink off to Hufflepuff. He caught the sleeve of John’s too-big robe and tugged him toward the Ravenclaw table.

“Move up,” Roger ordered, sliding in across from Brian. Freddie, seeing John, immediately patted the space beside him. John went without fuss, folding neatly into the gap between Freddie and Brian like he belonged there.

Roger didn’t even wait to serve himself food before blurting, “You’re not going to believe what happened to us earlier.”

Freddie raised a brow, pausing mid-sentence, while Brian sighed and carefully set down his fork. “If this is about Peeves,” Brian muttered, “I already don’t want to hear it.”

“No! It wasn’t Peeves.” Roger leaned in, eyes wide, hands gesturing wildly. “Deaky here—”

John winced faintly at the nickname, but didn’t protest.

“—literally made the castle move for him. Like—like, I swear on my broomstick, a wall opened up into a whole passageway and led us straight to Charms.”

Brian froze, his eyes snapping to John, glittering with immediate curiosity. “The castle moved for you?”

John, unfazed, lifted his goblet. “Yes.”

“Yes?!” Roger nearly shouted, earning a glare from a Ravenclaw further down the table. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Yes’?!”

Freddie leaned closer, draping an arm casually behind John on the bench. “Tell me everything, darling. Did it just… open? Did you feel it?”

John considered. “I was walking. It was there. I walked in. It took us to class.” He took a sip of juice, as if this were the most normal explanation in the world.

His mouth curved into a delighted grin. “Oh, how glorious.”

Brian, however, looked far less convinced. He closed his book with a soft thunk and leveled John with a sharp, assessing look. “The castle doesn’t just… move for people. It shifts on its own schedule, yes. Trick stairs, disappearing doors, the like. But guiding a person? That’s—” He broke off, frowning, his long fingers drumming against the tabletop.

“I saw it,” Roger insisted. “We should’ve had to climb two floors. Instead, one moment we’re walking, next moment—bam—we’re outside Flitwick’s classroom. Don’t tell me that’s normal.”

Freddie tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his goblet, eyes still on John. “Helga said the castle loves him.”

The gryffindor blinked. “Helga? As in—”

But Freddie silenced him with a subtle shake of the head. Not here. Not in the middle of the hall.

Brian caught the exchange but said nothing, only narrowing his eyes slightly. His skepticism was tempered by curiosity now. He’d seen enough oddities at Hogwarts not to dismiss something outright.

However, John had clearly reached the end of his willingness to be examined. He set down his goblet, leaned into Freddie’s side as though the warmth were enough shield from the conversation, and murmured, “May I eat now?”

Freddie’s arm instantly curved tighter behind him, protective. “Of course, darling. We’ll leave the interrogation for another time.”

Roger leaned back, throwing his hands up. “You lot are acting like this isn’t the wildest thing in the world!”

The ravenclaw speared another bite of food, deadpan. “It’s Hogwarts. Wild is the baseline.”

John quietly began picking at the bread roll on his plate, as if none of this involved him at all.

After dinner, Freddie had no intention of letting John wander off on his own. He had told Roger and Brian as much with a wave of his hand, brushing away their questions. “I’ll take him to the library to return his book,” he said, tone final, as though escorting John was less an obligation and more his natural right.

John didn’t protest. He rarely did with Freddie. He simply rose from the bench, book tucked under his arm, and fell into step beside the older boy. His steps were small, his shoulders hunched slightly under the heavy robe, but his eyes were steady, scanning the shifting torches on the stone walls.

The Great Hall fell away behind them, noise and clatter fading to the hum of the castle itself. Freddie walked with a deliberate slowness, hands clasped behind his back, humming under his breath. He’d grown accustomed to wandering the castle’s corridors in his own time, and while the library wasn’t his usual haunt, tonight he wanted to watch John among the bookshelves—see what he reached for when nobody else was watching.

But almost immediately, something felt… off.

They should have taken two left turns and a stairwell. Freddie knew this route well enough. Instead, as John moved ahead, the torches flickered, and the wall slid. A new corridor revealed itself, narrow and dark, curving gently downward.

John didn’t hesitate. He simply turned into it as if it had always been there.

“Darling,” Freddie called, his steps quickening, “that isn’t—” He broke off when the corridor widened, spilling them into a familiar landing. His brows drew together. They had not gone this way. They could not have gone this way. Yet here they were again, staring at the large round door carved with the four crests of the Founders.

John stopped in front of it, head tilted, as though it were perfectly natural. His hand lifted just slightly, fingers brushing the groove of the carved serpent.

Freddie caught up, eyes darting over the stonework. His voice dropped low. “That’s not the library, sweetheart.”

“I know,” John said softly.

“Then why…” he trailed off, watching the boy’s calm face. He didn’t seem confused. Didn’t seem alarmed. Only—accepting. As if this were the obvious destination all along.

Freddie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “Alright. Let’s try again.” He placed a hand gently at John’s shoulder and turned him back the way they came.

They walked three corridors, took a stairwell this time, passed a group of chattering Ravenclaws. Freddie kept careful count of their turns. Yet when John led the final hallway—straight, simple, undeniable—they stepped once more into the Founder’s landing.

Freddie froze. “What in Merlin’s name…”

John walked right up the stairs to the great door again, placing his small palm flat against the crest this time. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “It wants me here.”

Freddie’s heart gave a funny little twist. He looked at the boy—still so pale, still too small for his robes, still clinging to existence in that fragile way Freddie both adored and feared—and something settled inside him. The castle did want him. He could feel it, humming faintly in the stones, pulling the child here again and again.

“I don’t suppose you’ll be satisfied with a book from the library instead,” Freddie murmured.

John lowered his hand, finally glancing up at Freddie with eyes that seemed far older than eleven years. “No.”

Freddie chuckled, but there was no real humor in it. He adjusted his scarf, smoothed John’s hair gently, and said, “Then let’s not fight it, darling. If the castle wants us here, then here we’ll be.”

The moment John leaned his frame into the carved door, it didn’t just swing open—it welcomed him. The stone folded back noiselessly, as though air instead of rock had been parted.

Freddie, brushing down his robes, eyes flashing with sharp curiosity. “Well,” he said under his breath, "Let's go in."

John walked in first, unafraid. Freddie followed, adjusting his scarf like he was strolling into a theatre lobby instead of the sealed chambers of Hogwarts’ very founders.

Only this time, the portraits were already alive with motion, the figures leaning forward, clearly expectant.

“Took you long enough!” Salazar practically shouted. He was standing in his frame, arms spread wide in an exaggerated welcome. “I told you to come back, did I not? And here you are, finally. Come, come, I have something magnificent to show you—my own chambers, my quarters, preserved exactly as I left them!”

Freddie arched a perfect brow, arms folding across his chest. “Darling, it’s been—what? A single day?” He glanced at John. “Has it even been a full day?”

The young boy shook his head. His pale green eyes lingered on Salazar, not judgmental, only wide, thoughtful.

Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose and hissed, “Salazar.”

“Salazar!” Helga snapped, for once not the gentle one. She jabbed her finger toward his frame. “You do not drag children into your obsession with grandeur!”

“They came willingly!” Salazar shot back, his hands raised as though caught out in some prank. His black eyes glittered with excitement. “Did you not see? The castle itself led them here. They tried to go elsewhere, but it brought them back. Clearly, it agrees with me!”

“Or it agrees with John,” Rowena countered sharply. “Do not mistake its intention for your ego.”

Godric slammed a fist on the edge of his frame. “You’re out of line, Salazar. They are children. They should be in the library, or having a nap, or laughing in their common rooms. Not traipsing around after you into whatever snakepit you’ve left sealed beneath this castle!”

“It's not just a snakepit!” Salazar protested, though the gleam in his eyes made Freddie snort quietly. “It’s beauty! Legacy! My private chambers are a treasury of knowledge the rest of you never had the wit to preserve. Would you deny them the chance to learn? Isn’t that what this school was built for?”

“Not to indulge your vanity,” Rowena snapped.

John tugged lightly at Freddie’s sleeve. Freddie looked down, finding those wide green eyes fixed on him. John whispered, so faintly it might not have been heard if Freddie weren’t leaning close already: “He’s excited.”

“Yes, darling, but so is a Niffler when it finds a jewelry box,” Freddie murmured back, voice smooth with amused suspicion. “Doesn’t mean you hand it the key.”

Helga sighed, her shoulders softening as she looked at John directly. “Little one, you don’t have to follow him anywhere. You know that, don’t you? You are not bound to his whims.”

John blinked, then looked up at Salazar’s portrait. “Why?” he asked simply.

Salazar looked momentarily thrown. “Why— what?”

“Why show me?” He asked, his voice so small yet so steady that all four founders fell silent.

Salazar recovered first, his grin returning. “Because you’re not afraid. You’re curious. And curiosity deserves to be rewarded, does it not?” He leaned closer to the edge of his frame, his dark robes flowing like ink. “You could see what no other student in a thousand years has seen. Isn’t that worth stepping through a door?”

Godric groaned and muttered to Rowena, “He’s doing it again. Seducing them with riddles and promises.”

Rowena muttered back, “And yet the boy listens.”

Freddie’s arm slipped protectively around John’s shoulders. He smiled up at the portrait, all charming sharpness. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t immediately trust a man whose greatest accomplishment was storming off in a huff when the rest of you wouldn’t bend to his prejudices.”

Salazar’s grin flickered, just for a second, before smoothing back into place. “Sharp tongue, this one. I like him. Very well, come or don’t—but my door will open only for the boy.”

John shifted slightly against Freddie’s side, his fingers curling in Freddie’s robe. The older boy looked down again, his own expression softening despite the steel in his words. “It’s your choice. Not his. If you want to see, I’ll be at your side. If you don’t, then we walk away, and no ancient painting is going to tell you otherwise.”

The young hufflepuff's lips pressed together. His gaze returned to Salazar, then to Helga, then to Rowena. His shoulders hunched, a familiar quiet settling back over him. But after a long moment, he whispered, “I want to see.”

Helga closed her eyes, pain etched on her face. Rowena swore softly under her breath. Godric looked ready to punch Salazar’s painted nose straight through the canvas.

And Salazar? Salazar beamed like a boy himself, triumphant. “Then come,” he said, pointing off-frame, beyond the chamber’s edge. “I’ll show you what the others were too blind to preserve.”

“You’re forgetting something, Sal,” Rowena said suddenly, her voice sharp as a snapped wand.

Salazar’s grin faltered. “And what might that be, dearest Raven?”

Rowena’s blue eyes narrowed. “Your basilisk.”

The word hung in the air like a thunderclap.

“BASILISK?!” Freddie’s voice shot up nearly an octave. His arm automatically pulled John tighter against his side, as though expecting a monster to slither out of the shadows right now. His whole body went rigid, his usually smooth charm cracking under sheer alarm. “You— you left a basilisk down there? Are you completely mad?”

Salazar waved a painted hand with irritation, as if brushing off an insect. “Don’t be dramatic. She sleeps. She has always slept. Bound by my wards, bound by my command. Unless someone were reckless enough to meddle with magic far beyond them—” His eyes twinkled with wicked amusement. “—she cannot wake.”

“Cannot— Freddie, do you hear him? He’s speaking like it’s a cat having a nap, not a fifty-foot snake of death!” Godric barked, red in the face.

Helga looked ready to faint. “You never told us she survived! We thought she perished with you!”

“She did not,” Salazar said smoothly, clearly enjoying the storm of outrage. “She remains. She waits. As intended.”

John blinked up at Freddie, then at the portraits, then back at Freddie. His brows furrowed in that small, puzzled way. Then he tugged gently on Freddie’s sleeve and said, “Why are you shouting? They’re not dangerous.”

Freddie’s head whipped down so fast his curls bounced. “Darling, it’s a basilisk!”

“Yes,” John said with that steady matter-of-fact tone he often had when he was genuinely confused why no one else saw what he did. “They run on water.”

“…What?” His voice cracked again.

“Basilisks,” John repeated patiently, his pale green eyes innocent. “They’re little lizards. From—” His eyes went hazy for a moment, memory stitched too thin to give him more than fragments. “…from… somewhere hot. Central- South America. They can run across water. Only about this big.” He held his hands apart, no more than a foot and a half. Then after a pause: “Three feet, maybe.”

Roger would have laughed himself hoarse if he’d been there. Brian, had he been present, would’ve pinched the bridge of his nose.

Freddie, however, stared at John in open disbelief. He glanced up at the portraits, back down at John, then clutched his forehead dramatically. “My sweet boy, you’re mixing up mythology with biology! That—what you’re describing—that’s a muggle lizard. Harmless! Quite sweet, even. This—” He jabbed a finger at Salazar’s smug painted face. “—this snake of his is a monster. The stare of it kills! The venom of it kills! Everything about it kills!”

John blinked, looking between them. “…That sounds exaggerated.”

Salazar laughed, a deep rich sound that filled his frame. “See? The boy has a scientist’s mind. He trusts what he knows, not old wives’ tales. I approve!”

Rowena nearly screeched. “It is not an old wives’ tale, it is your own creature, Salazar, for heaven’s sake!”

Helga groaned into her sleeve. “I should never have let him keep the egg.”

The youngest tilted his head, still puzzled. “Egg?”

Freddie put a hand dramatically to his chest, sighing like a man aged twenty years in the span of five minutes. “John, honey, please—for my sanity—believe me when I say: this is no little water-lizard. This is not a pet. This is not… adorable.” He shot Salazar a glare. “It is the kind of thing that gets schools closed down.”

“Not if controlled,” Salazar purred.

Godric swore loudly. “Controlled?”

John frowned faintly, his lips pursing. He leaned closer to Freddie and whispered, as though confiding: “I still think they mean the lizard. Because a fifty-foot snake would be… silly.”

Freddie groaned into his hand.

Salazar’s grin widened as if he’d been waiting for the exact moment Freddie’s protests reached fever pitch. He leaned lazily against the frame of his portrait, fingers stroking his chin. “Words will not convince you,” he drawled. “But perhaps a demonstration will.”

Rowena groaned. “Salazar, don’t—”

Too late. Salazar snapped his painted fingers. The candlelight in his frame flickered and warped, and then, impossibly, a coiled serpent slithered into view. Painted scales gleamed as if wet, the eyes narrow and intelligent. It hissed, its forked tongue darting out.

Freddie froze. His throat went dry, his whole body rigid against John’s side. He’d heard that sound before. In dreams. In whispers he thought were imagination. The language was sharp and liquid all at once, like stone scraping across silk. And against every instinct, his mouth opened.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed back.

The serpent’s head rose, its painted coils shifting. “Master wished to prove us real.”

John blinked once. Then twice. Then he looked up at Freddie with a baffled, almost accusing glare. “Freddie.”

Freddie still looked pale, his eyes fixed on the snake. “What, darling?”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“What?”

“You’re talking to it.” John gestured flatly at the portrait, where the snake’s tongue flicked and hissed. “Like it understands English. And you’re answering. You’re both mad.”

Freddie blinked hard and looked down at him. “Wait— you can… you can hear this?”

John gave him the driest look an eleven-year-old could muster. “Of course I can hear it. You’re talking. You’re always talking.”

Salazar’s smile turned positively gleeful. “Ah, perfect. Both of them. I knew it. I knew it.”

“This is a catastrophe waiting to happen.” Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose.

Helga glanced between John and Freddie, her mouth a thin line but her eyes soft. “It might be… destiny.”

Godric swore again under his breath, rubbing at his temple. “Salazar, this is precisely the sort of nonsense that gets us written about in the wrong kind of history books.”

But Salazar was paying them no mind. His serpent slithered closer to the frame’s edge, its tongue flicking in and out. “Yes. Speak, both of you. Let the words fall from your mouths as easily as breath.”

John frowned harder. “You’re all talking nonsense. It’s just a snake.”

“A snake,” Freddie repeated, his voice faint. He could still hear it, hissing clear as bells in a tongue no one had ever taught him. His hand curled tighter on John’s shoulder without him realising. “And we’re speaking… to it.”

“You’re speaking English,” John said stubbornly. “I don’t know why you think this is unusual.”

Rowena’s gaze sharpened at once. Her eyes moved from Freddie’s pale face to John’s stubborn pout, then flicked sideways at Helga. Helga’s lips parted slightly, colour rising to her cheeks. Salazar chuckled low and dark.

“You see it too, don’t you?” Rowena said, her voice cold with dawning realisation. “Your bloodlines. Twined and crossed until… this.”

“An heir not of one line, but two,” Helga murmured, almost as if in awe.

Freddie tore his eyes from the snake to look at John, utterly bewildered. “Darling… you truly don’t… you don’t think anything about this is odd?”

John shook his head. His green eyes were sharp with exasperation, as though he’d caught everyone out in a joke he wasn’t enjoying. “What’s odd is you convincing yourself you’re not just speaking English. If you want to pretend, fine. But don’t drag me into it.”

The snake hissed something long and winding. Both boys understood it perfectly: Little master does not yet see the gift he carries.

John just sighed and tugged on Freddie’s sleeve. “Can we go read now? Before we both lose our minds completely?”

Freddie, meanwhile, could barely breathe. His whole world had just tilted sideways, and the only one unfazed was the eleven-year-old clinging to his robe.

And in the portraits, Rowena’s eyes still glinted like ice. Salazar smirked with victory. And Helga pressed her hands together at her chest, whispering to herself: “The lines merge. Of course. That’s why he belongs to all of us.”

"John, could you do me a favor and prick your finger to let a drop of your blood fall into a goblet? Just make sure it’s not Helga's," Salazar pleaded, his eyes sparkling with a mix of curiosity and excitement.

"Sorry?" John replied, tilting his head in confusion.

"I'm interested in conducting a blood test," Salazar explained, leaning in closer, his enthusiasm palpable.

John’s brow furrowed in concern. "I read somewhere that blood holds a lot of power in—"

"Yes, yes, I understand the need for precautions," interjected Godric, waving his hand dismissively as if shooing away the very notion of fear. "While it may involve blood magic, it's primarily about tracing our family lineage."

Freddie, unable to contain his intrigue, chimed in, "May I do it too?"

"Fine, fine! The more, the merrier!" Salazar replied, his excitement growing.

John hesitated, glancing at the small vial in Salazar’s hand. "But how exactly do we prepare to prick our fingers?" he asked, his curiosity now piqued.

They blinked at the odd little device that had appeared on the table. It looked… startlingly familiar to John. Plastic. A spring-loaded clicker. A thin metal needle.

“That’s a blood sugar prick test thing,” John muttered, reaching out hesitantly.

Freddie tilted his head. “A what now?”

“You… don’t know? Oh. Right.” John chewed his lip. “I don’t know the actual name. But people with… with diabetes use it. To check their blood sugar.” His voice grew smaller as he talked, as though he was worried the more he explained, the less sense it would make. “You prick your finger, a machine measures the blood. But… this looks bigger. For… more blood?”

Salazar raised a brow, intrigued. “Fascinating. Your instincts remember more than you realise, little one.”

Freddie’s sharp gaze flicked from the device to John. “Darling, you’re eleven. How do you know this?”

He swallowed and shrugged helplessly, his eyes dropping. “You know as well as I do, Freddie. I… don’t know.”

The room was silent except for the crackle of the enchanted torches. Finally, John took the device in his small hand and pressed the spring mechanism against his fingertip. A quick snap, a sting, and bright red welled instantly. He frowned at the tiny sting but didn’t flinch.

“Here,” he said quietly, holding his finger over the nearest goblet—not Helga’s, as Salazar had instructed. A fat drop fell, then another, and then the blood ran freely into the cup. The liquid shimmered unnaturally as it mixed with the ancient goblet’s enchantments, swirling like a storm.

Freddie shifted on his feet. “If he’s doing it, I want to as well.”

Salazar smirked. “Fine, fine. Let the serpent prove his line too.”

Freddie reached out for the device, cocky at first, but when it clicked into his finger he hissed under his breath. “Bloody hell, that stings more than I thought.” He let his blood drip into the second goblet, glancing sideways at John.

John gave him a small, rare smile, almost conspiratorial, like see? not so easy, is it?

The moment Freddie’s blood hit, both goblets glowed. The red turned thick, sluggish, as if the liquid itself had grown heavy. Then—

Two scrolls materialised on the table with a pop of old magic. The parchment looked ancient, edges curled and browned, but the ink shimmered new as if freshly written.

John leaned forward, his pale green eyes wide. “What… is that?”

“Your histories,” Rowena said solemnly, her voice cutting the air. “Family trees. Blood traced back to where your lines began.”

Freddie’s chest tightened. He’d grown up on whispers and boasts of his ancestry, his father’s endless pride in their pureblood roots. But seeing it here, alive on parchment—it felt different. Heavy. Final.

The scroll in front of John kept unrolling until it nearly brushed the floor, the parchment glowing faintly as it stretched across the table. Names bloomed in ink, branching, crossing, then curling together again in places where history had tangled.

John squinted, frowning as his finger hovered over the parchment. “This… doesn’t make sense.”

Rowena leaned forward, sharp-eyed. “Read it.”

He did. Slowly. The letters were old-fashioned, curling like ivy, but clear. His finger traced a line that drew his breath shallow. “Oh. A descendant of Helga Hufflepuff… and—” his eyes lifted, startled— “a Slytherin.”

Freddie stiffened beside him, the words sparking against his own scroll.

John swallowed. “They had a child. But… they both died young. And the child was… adopted?” He tilted his head. “By… someone from Ravenclaw’s line.”

Rowena’s painted mouth twitched, something dark in her eyes.

The parchment shimmered again, filling in more names. “That child grew up. Married into the Peverells.”

At that, the four founders all stiffened. Even Salazar leaned closer.

John’s voice faltered. “But then—here—this son… he wasn’t magical. A squib.” He looked up, confused. “But… it says… the squib was marked heir instead of the magical son.”

“That is unusual. Unheard of, even.”

John’s finger slid down the parchment, through name after name, all unremarkable, most marked as squib in tiny faded ink. “Then just… squibs. For generations. All the way down. All the way down… to me.” He hesitated, tracing his own name, written in fresh ink. John Richard Deacon.

Freddie’s brow furrowed. “So you… you’re not just Helga’s. Or Salazar’s. You’re… technically three. And Peverell besides.”

The name glittered faintly on the parchment, pulling John’s eyes back to it. “Peverell,” he hummed softly, almost to himself. “They’re… they’re a very regal family, aren’t they? I saw their name in Diagon Alley. A potion shop. It must be theirs.” His tone was almost wistful, like he was reciting a memory he didn’t know he had.

His finger followed the Peverell line as it branched, then narrowed, and finally merged into something startlingly familiar. His breath caught. “Here—look—Potter.” He traced upward, eyes widening. “I’m… actually quite close to them. Closer than I am to Freddie. A cousin.”

Freddie leaned over, incredulous. “You— you’re related to the Potters?”

John nodded faintly, almost detached. “Yes. Closer to them than to you. You’re from Salazar’s direct line. I’m… a branch. But Helga’s direct line.”

Salazar’s smirk faltered just a touch. Helga, in her portrait, looked as though her heart had leapt straight into her painted throat.

Meanwhile, Rowena narrowed her eyes. “Bloodline convergence. We are mingled, reshaped, scattered across centuries—and now gathered again in two children.”

Freddie shifted uncomfortably, pressing a hand to John’s shoulder. “Darling, are you all right?”

John blinked at the parchment, still humming softly under his breath as though the branching names made a melody only he could hear. He didn’t look overwhelmed so much as… far away, staring at lines of people he had never known, yet somehow belonged to.

He tilted his head at last, eyes soft but confused. “Family,” he said again, voice faint. “I suppose I’ve always had more of it than I thought.”

The four founders exchanged glances—Helga proud, Rowena wary, Godric intrigued as his name wasn't connected, Salazar calculating.

Freddie glanced between them and John’s scroll. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or more worried than ever.

The parchment under John’s fingers shimmered faintly, as though it had sensed his gaze and wanted to show more. Lines shifted and moved like liquid ink until a new branch appeared: his father’s lineage. John traced it carefully, and the patterns revealed something unexpected. His father’s family had almost no connection to Gryffindor at all, the lines barely touching Godric’s branch at any point.

Then, further down the scroll, a small divergence glimmered. One of his ancestors, married to a Gryffindor-descended line, had… an affair. John blinked. The text clearly marked the affair and a child born from it.

Godric’s portrait stiffened, jaw tight. “I… I didn’t know. My line… my Gryffindor descendants betrayed—how could this have happened?” His painted hands shook slightly, as if the revelation physically rattled him.

John tilted his head, still scanning the glowing ink. “It says… blood adoption.” His voice was soft but precise. “The child was taken in, recognized, and preserved within the line. No one lost their rightful place. It’s… safe.”

Godric’s face softened in relief, a sigh escaping from the painted lips. “Ah… thank Merlin. I was distraught.”

Before any more discussion could unfold, Freddie leaned over to take his own scroll from the founders’ table. The parchment shimmered and shifted differently, tracing centuries of Persian pureblood lines. Intermittent branches showed half-blood lines crossing off, tiny offshoots sprouting here and there. Eventually, the lines converged again on Salazar’s family. Freddie followed one of the tiniest offshoots and—his finger traced all the way back—he realized it intersected with Helga Hufflepuff’s blood, extremely distant but present nonetheless.

He ran his thumb along the faint ink. “So yeah… technically, Helga’s line and mine meet. But only extremely extremely distant cousins. Erm… many generations removed from John and me.”

Salazar’s painted eyes narrowed. “And you are the direct heir?”

Freddie’s expression twisted, a little bitter, a little amused. “Yes. However, the title… it goes to Tom Riddle, or now, Tom Gaunt. Some weird stuff happened in the middle. Lines got… shuffled. Someone was disowned. That whole branch got cut off.”

“Meaning?” John asked quietly, barely moving.

“I’m not truthfully the direct line.” Freddie admitted. He hesitated, then shrugged. “Not technically the heir. Blood-wise, someone else has the title. But…” His green eyes flicked up, daring. “I’m still connected. Just… not first-in-line.”

Salazar stiffened. “What?” The hissing whisper of his painted voice cut through the chamber. “That is irrelevant! I… I name you my heir regardless.” His tone carried finality, authority, and an unmistakable pride.

Freddie blinked, slack-jawed, but his lips quirked in that sly smile he could never suppress. “Well… that’s generous of you.”

John’s mind was already turning over the connections, the tangles, the near-impossible pathways of blood. “So… the Riddles go up to the Gaunts,” he muttered, tracing the faint shimmer of ink on the scroll, “which goes up to the Peverells. Then it comes down a different brother. Which… which means you and I are related anyway, Freddie.”

He froze mid-breath, staring at him. “Wait… what?”

John pointed gently at the intersecting lines. “Look. Even if you’re not the direct line, and I’m from Helga’s line, the Peverells connect us. We’re cousins, in a way. Distant, yes, but… family.”

Salazar’s painted form gave a small approving nod, a rare smile flickering on his face. “Ah… exactly. The heirs are intertwined. Blood, fate… it cannot be undone.”

Rowena leaned back in her frame, eyes sharp. “Which means, once the other two are found… the four of you are more than just heirs. You are a constellation, bound to influence each other, and the magical world.”

Helga’s eyes softened on John, pride hidden in her gentle expression. “It also explains why little one has been so… resilient. His blood remembers alliances and unity even when his memory does not.”

Godric hummed, running a hand over his painted chin. “And now I see why he is drawn to Freddie… and why Freddie feels protective. It is more than mere friendship. It is the pull of the lineage itself.”

The young hufflepuff tilted his head, almost imperceptibly, glancing at Freddie, who blushed slightly under the weight of the revelation. Yet John said nothing, letting the inked lines, the histories, the convoluted branches, speak for themselves.

Salazar shifted on the floor of his portrait, legs awkwardly crossed, the chair behind him looking utterly unused as if it had been forgotten. “Thank Merlin himself that I can choose my heir,” he said, voice full of relief, “and you exist, Freddie Mercury. Because that Tom… he’s going down a dangerous path, mark my words.”

Freddie’s brow furrowed. “Thank you, Salazar, but what do you mean by Tom?”

“That is not your fate to worry about,” Salazar snapped, voice sharp enough to make the frames of the other founders tremble slightly.

“Not… my fate? He’s my cousin. He’s your true heir.”

“Not anymore!” Salazar’s voice cracked like a whip. “You are now my true heir, Freddie. The rest is irrelevant. I chose you, and that is final.”

“Erm…” John’s voice was soft, hesitant, almost drowned by the intensity in the portrait. “I heard people say Merlin was in Slytherin. Is that true?”

Rowena let out a laugh, sharp but melodic, shaking her head. “Yes, yes, that’s true. Though, of course, he lived almost four centuries before any of us. He helped us set up this school while waiting on his King Arthur. For fun, he tried on the Sorting Hat himself. Sat there for over twenty minutes, debating, thinking, analyzing… with nothing better to do. Until the hat finally, reluctantly, placed him in Slytherin.”

“Debating? With the hat?” Freddie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, absolutely,” Rowena said, leaning forward in her painted frame. “He argued with it. Questioned its decisions, asked about the future, questioned the other founders. The hat struggled to contain him, it did not enjoy being challenged, as you can imagine.”

Salazar huffed, shaking his painted head, though a tiny smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “And that is exactly why your fate, little one, should not be muddled with Tom’s. Focus on your studies, on learning your strength. You are already entwined with destiny enough as it is.”

John hummed softly, absorbing this, his attention flicking between the portraits as though reading their expressions like a book. Freddie, leaning slightly closer, whispered, “You mean all of this… all these lines, the heirs… we’re… we’re supposed to figure it out ourselves?”

“You’ll understand more with time,” Rowena said, eyes glinting knowingly. “For now, know that your bond with each other—blood, choice, destiny—is exactly as it should be. The rest will fall into place when the time is right.”

Salazar waved a hand dismissively. “Indeed. But mark my words—Tom Gaunt, Riddle, whatever name he chooses… he will not interfere. My heir will be you, Freddie. And you will have guidance, John, from those who care for you.”

John glanced down at his hands, still clasped loosely in his lap, and for the first time felt the weight of it all—not fear, not excitement, but a strange grounding. He had a place, a lineage, people looking out for him. He had Freddie. 

“Alright,” he muttered softly, almost to himself. “I’ll try.”

Salazar’s painted smile softened, just a hint. “Good. That is all I ask, little one.”

Rowena chuckled. “And perhaps, one day, you’ll make Merlin proud too.”

“Can I show them my chamber now?” Salazar asked, bouncing slightly in his portrait frame, the painted sash of his robes fluttering with every movement.

Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose. “Sal, you’re begging like a child does to his mother for a treat.”

“Can I?” he persisted, wide-eyed, voice almost whiny for a centuries-old founder.

“No,” Helga said firmly, voice gentle but carrying an unshakable authority. “Let them go to bed. It’s late. The little one—” she nodded toward John, who was still holding Freddie’s hand—“has had quite a day. He needs rest.”

Salazar huffed, clearly displeased, but the others ignored him.

Freddie, shifting slightly so that John could lean against him, whispered, “Not that I’ll be able to sleep now.” He tugged John gently to stand by his side.

“Oh, look at how short the little one is compared to him,” Godric murmured, amusement dancing in his painted eyes.

“You just noticed that, Godric?” Rowena teased.

Godric leaned back, smirking. “He doesn’t even reach his shoulders!”

John, now standing next to Freddie, craned his neck slightly, his pale green eyes wide with innocence. He hadn’t thought about his height much before, hadn’t noticed himself in comparison. Freddie’s tall frame towered over him, thin but strong, somehow comforting. John blinked up at him, an almost instinctive trust settling in his chest.

Freddie bent slightly, resting a hand on John’s shoulder, feeling the fragility, the smallness, and the sense that this tiny person had already endured so much. “You know, little one,” he whispered softly, “it’s not how tall you are that matters. You’ve got more heart than most grown wizards I know.”

Salazar, still hovering in his frame, waved a hand in mock frustration. “Hmph! I insist! My chambers are perfectly suited for heirs of Slytherin. Spacious, secure, elegant… you’ll see wonders beyond anything Hogwarts currently has!”

“Sal, please,” Rowena groaned. “If you insist now, you’ll keep them awake all night. And we all know how impossible it is to calm the little one once he’s overstimulated.”

Helga added, “The boy needs sleep more than anything. He cannot handle more excitement.”

Freddie nudged John slightly forward. “Come on, little one. Let’s get you to bed. You can dream about all of Salazar’s wonders for tomorrow.”

The young one blinked, hesitation flickering across his face. He wanted to see Salazar’s chamber—he really did—but he also trusted Freddie. Nodding, he allowed Freddie to guide him toward the Hufflepuff dormitory door.

Godric, still grinning. “Mark my words… he’s going to be a giant one day. Taller than them all. Just you wait.”

Salazar’s painted face turned mockingly indignant. “I’ll hold you to that, Gryffindor. But I do not believe so. And which family carried the gift of seers?"

"That was my family, Sal. Not yours." Rowena said, shaking her head with a soft laugh."

Freddie chuckled, looking down at John, who clung lightly to his robes, eyelids heavy. “Don’t worry, little one. We’ll have plenty of time for all the heirly wonders… once you’re rested.”

John’s lips curved into the tiniest, sleepy smile, and even Salazar had to admit that perhaps letting him sleep was the wiser choice.

They exited the room again, not wanting ot be pushed out by wind.

“My mother’s tall,” John said softly as they walked through the dimly lit corridors, his small hand brushing against Freddie’s as if seeking reassurance.

“Oh yeah?” Freddie asked, trying to sound casual, though his heart tightened at the seriousness in John’s tone.

“Yeah,” he continued, his voice quiet. “When she got out of bed once, I brought her breakfast… she was really tall. But she was still hunched over, crying. So… I don’t know her real height.”

Freddie slowed his pace, letting the boy’s words sink in. The image of someone so physically imposing yet so emotionally fragile made his chest ache. “That must’ve been hard for you,” he murmured gently.

John shrugged, though his shoulders were tense. “I don’t know. I didn’t know why she was crying… not until the funeral.” His gaze flicked down at the floor, green eyes shadowed with that fragile, unspoken understanding of grief. “My sister… she hates me. She said I didn’t care. But I do… don’t I, Freddie?”

The slytherin felt his throat tighten. The hurt in John’s voice, the vulnerability, the smallness of him there—it hit harder than he expected. He crouched slightly, matching the boy’s height as best he could without looking awkward, and whispered, “Yes, you do. I know you do.” He swallowed, holding back the sting of his own tears. “And… it’s okay to care. It shows how much heart you have, little one.”

John blinked up at him, eyes bright and searching, and Freddie’s chest ached with a mix of love and sorrow. Trying to lighten the weight of the conversation, Freddie asked softly, “Do you think you’ll grow tall then?”

He looked up, his face tilting slightly as if measuring Freddie from the corner of his eye. A small, wistful smile touched his lips. “Oh… I hope not. You give the best hugs.”

Freddie smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. He felt his heart swell at the confession. “You’ll always be little to me,” he whispered, brushing a stray lock of John’s brown hair from his face. 

John sighed softly, the weight of the day, the castle, and his memories—or lack thereof—settling over him. His hand found Freddie’s, grasping it with a surprising firmness. He froze mid-step, his fingers tightening around Freddie’s as if holding onto something tangible could somehow anchor the storm inside him.

For a heartbeat, he seemed still, frozen in the memory—or perhaps the absence of one. The feel of his father, his warm, rough hands, the comfort they once offered… it was gone. Erased, like smoke dissipating into the air. And in that void, all the little boy’s grief and confusion bubbled to the surface.

Then he broke.

John’s lips quivered violently, the fragile dam of control shattering. Tears streamed freely down his face, hot and unrestrained, leaving shiny trails across his pale cheeks. His brows pressed together in tight anguish, the redness spreading around his eyes, his nose pink and raw. He tried to stifle the sounds—he always tried—but no words came. No sobs. Just a raw, wordless flood of emotion. His small frame shook, shoulders trembling with the weight of years he hadn’t remembered, years he had never truly lived.

Freddie froze for a heartbeat, heart constricting. Then, instinctively, he dropped to one knee, bringing himself to John’s level. Gently, carefully, he wrapped both arms around the boy, enveloping him in warmth and quiet safety. “Shhh… it’s okay, little one,” Freddie murmured softly, voice husky with emotion. “I’m here. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He buried his face into Freddie’s shoulder, hands clutching at the robes as if holding on for dear life. He could feel the steady beat of Freddie’s heart beneath his cheek, the reassuring warmth, the firmness of his arms. Slowly, the trembling lessened, though the tears kept falling, unabated, because some things had to be felt to even begin to heal.

Freddie whispered gently, over and over, letting the words wash over John: “You’re not alone… not anymore… I’ve got you, I’ve got you…”

Round the corner, Gideon and Fabian Prewett had been laughing at some prank they had just set up, still riding the high of mischief. But as their eyes fell on the scene before them, their smiles faltered. The sight of their friend Freddie, crouched to John’s level, cradling the small boy like a parent with a child in need, left them momentarily speechless.

Freddie’s eyes, usually sparkling with playfulness, were soft and focused, full of gentle determination as he murmured something under his breath. A swirl of blue white light erupted from the tip of his wand, coalescing into the shape of a sleek, powerful panther. The spectral creature leapt and twisted in midair, playing delicately with shimmering butterflies that danced around it in a riot of light. The effect was mesmerizing.

Gideon and Fabian exchanged wide-eyed glances. A Patronus. And here. Now. And coming from Freddie—so vividly strong and so perfectly formed—before even formally learning to cast one. They could feel the raw power radiating from it.

John, still nestled in Freddie’s arms, felt his sobs slow as the panther’s ethereal form twirled near him. He lifted a trembling hand, and the spectral feline, as if aware of the gesture, pretended to pounce gently, soft paws brushing against his fingers. Then it leaned into his palm, rubbing its glowing head against his hand as though to reassure him.

A strange, warm tingle spread through John’s skin at the contact. Magic—not intimidating or sharp, but soft, alive, protective. It brushed along his fingers and palm, a tangible caress that made him gasp softly. 

Freddie held him tighter, smiling through his own emotion. “See, little one? You’re safe. This magic’s ours. You can feel it now. It’s here for you.”

Gideon whispered to Fabian, barely audibly, “Did… did we just see a Patronus? And… from him?”

Fabian shook his head, still transfixed by the golden panther. “Yeah… and it’s… perfect. Incredible.”

John, cheeks still damp but calmer, reached out again, this time more willingly, letting the panther’s magic tickle his fingers. The light flickered across his hair, his robes, and the trembling hint of a smile appeared on his lips. For a fleeting moment, he was suspended between fear, grief, and awe, and yet, under Freddie’s care, he felt like he could finally breathe again.

Freddie laughed softly, brushing a damp curl from John’s forehead. “Magic’s not just spells, John. Sometimes… it’s comfort. And you deserve that.”

The panther purred softly in its own ghostly way before fading, butterflies dissolving into sparkles. But the warmth lingered, leaving John’s hand tingling and his heart a fraction lighter.

Gideon and Fabian, still frozen, finally relaxed a little, whispering to each other, “That… that kid is lucky to have him.”

The twins had stayed tight-lipped about why Freddie had conjured such a perfect corporeal Patronus, but the fact of it didn’t escape their lips for long. By the next morning, they were practically dragging Freddie across the Great Hall and sliding into the bench beside Brian at the Ravenclaw table, their grins wide and conspiratorial.

“Did you know your friend has mastered the corporeal Patronus?” Fabian blurted out before Freddie could even react.

“What! Freddie!” Brian’s head snapped around so quickly he nearly knocked over his goblet. His eyes were wide, a mixture of shock and awe.

Freddie just grinned sheepishly—but that grin didn’t last long. He shot a blazing glare at Fabian and Gideon that could have set fire to toast. “I can. And you two better keep your mouths shut about why I did it.”

Fabian held up his hands defensively, still grinning. “Will do! That little Hufflepuff gave us these lavish haircuts, amazing, don’t you think? I would walk to Earth’s end for him.”

Gideon rolled his eyes but gave a small nod. “That’s an exaggeration. But yeah… we’ll keep our mouths shut. Cross our hearts.”

Leaning forward, still bewildered, Brian looked at Freddie with a mix of incredulity and curiosity. “Even from me?”

Freddie tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Even from you, Bri. But it was just for John, okay? I’m not doing it to make you happy.”

“Fine… wait, for John?” Brian asked again, more incredulous than ever.

“Yes, Brian. John.” He emphasized, letting the name linger like a jewel.

Brian’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Okay… but what memory did you use?”

Freddie’s forehead creased as if the concept was alien to him. “Memory? I thought you… you just put a connection of your happiness in one ball and burst it out. So, multiple memories.”

“That… that’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” Brian muttered, more to himself than to anyone else, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well, it works, doesn’t it?” Freddie shot back, a triumphant twinkle in his eyes. “Looked pretty real to you, didn’t it?”

The twins nodded adamantly.

Brian opened his mouth to reply but hesitated. 

“And just to be clear,” Freddie continued, leaning back with a casual shrug, “I only ever did it for John. Nobody else gets to see my corporeal Patronus before they’re ready. He… he needed it. So don’t ask again.”

Fabian and Gideon exchanged a glance and stifled their laughter, secretly thrilled to have been part of something magical and unique—but no one dared tell another soul.

Brian finally leaned back, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Well… I’ll admit, that little Hufflepuff may have more influence over you than I thought.”

He shot him a playful glare. “He’s eleven, Bri. Tiny, but the little one’s got a bigger impact than anyone here. Don’t forget it.”