The morning broke grey and damp over the Thark household, the sort of weather that clings to chimneys and clutches at bones. Inside, it was warmer, hearth-lit and laced with the scent of old oak, boiled tea, and coal ash. The fireplace murmured softly to itself as it digested its morning embers, throwing ribbons of orange across the threadbare rug. A kettle on the hob gave a low, steady hiss, as though grumbling about being up so early.
Marcus sat on the edge of a low trunk, buckling the final strap. The leather was cracked, scarred in places, marked by old charms and travel dust. Eustace Thark stood nearby, arms folded, watching his son with a gaze that was neither indulgent nor distant. The old man's frame, wiry beneath his worn house robe, carried itself with a quiet kind of gravity.
"You've packed your warding salve?" Eustace asked, voice rough like unpolished stone.
"Top pocket. Next to the ink," Marcus replied, adjusting the trunk's latch.
A chattering clatter broke through the moment. From its perch above the mantel, the brass Niffler-shaped clock sprang to life, its paws twitching, tongue clicking against its teeth.
"Eight forty-two and you'll miss your train, boy!" it chirped.
"Thanks!" Marcus called over his shoulder, already quickening his pace. His steps grew lighter, urgency settling in.
From the far wall, a portrait stirred. An elderly witch with a hawk nose and embroidered bonnet glared down from her painted armchair.
"Don't forget your socks, boy," she barked, adjusting her shawl.
"Auntie, I'm not charging into a frost troll's den. It's a train ride."
Eustace stepped forward, reached into the pocket of his robe, and pulled out a small item wrapped in a scrap of old velvet. He unwrapped it slowly, reverently. Inside lay a brass amulet, oval-shaped, etched with runes so worn they looked like scratches. The chain was iron, tarnished with age, the charm cold and faintly humming.
"Your grandmother's," he said simply. "Wore it when healing during the Cardiff purges. It glows when dark magic's near—unless the charm's been muffled. Don't rely on it. But keep it close."
Marcus took it without a word. The chain was heavier than it looked.
From the hallway came the shuffle of slippers. His mother appeared, eyes sharp beneath tired lids. She crossed the room briskly, tugged once at the collar of his cloak, and smoothed it down with a mother's precision.
Her voice was softer than Eustace's, wrapped in gentleness worn thin by years of worry. "Keep your head calm," she said, quietly. Then added, her touch still on his collar: "And your heart kind." He gave his mother a small wave, took the trunk, and stepped into the mist that curled like breath over stone. His father walked beside him silently, both of them heading toward the station.
The morning pressed down on London with the weight of old fog and iron drizzle. The air clung to skin and coat alike, damp as cellar stone. At King's Cross, soot-blackened arches loomed overhead, and the pillars glistened slick with rain. The rails sang under the weight of locomotives, and the platform smelled of smoke, steel, and spent magic.
Marcus stood between Platforms Nine and Ten, facing the wall that looked ordinary to Muggles and unremarkable even to some wizards — until it wasn't.
He tightened his grip on the trolley handle. The brass amulet at his neck — his grandmother's once, and now his — pulsed with a slow, rhythmic heat, as though it, too, sensed the threshold ahead.
He stepped forward and vanished through the wall.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was all haze and hustle, swallowed in the low roar of steam and voices. The Hogwarts Express stood majestic at the center, its polished red hull gleaming like dragon-scale lacquer. Iron wheels twice the height of a grown man sat poised on ancient tracks. Brass piping lined the boiler like veins, and silver runes shimmered faintly along the engine's frame — protective enchantments layered over decades. A raven-shaped whistle ornament perched atop the front grill, its beak letting out the occasional sharp cry of steam.
Aurors patrolled the edges in pairs, eyes watchful beneath rain-soaked hoods. One of them, a woman with scarred hands and a wand tipped in blue fire, paused as Marcus passed, studying him for a second too long.
He didn't flinch.
There wasn't a farewell, not really. No hugs, no misty-eyed embraces. Eustace simply placed a hand on Marcus's shoulder, fingers curling once in a gesture that spoke volumes.
"Trust your judgment," he said.
A pause. Then:
"And write when you get the chance."
The train's door clanged open, and Marcus climbed aboard.
He made his way down the corridor — ignoring laughter from one compartment, a floating chessboard in another. Half the rooms were already full or sealed by friends mid-reunion. Eventually, he found an empty one near the back — plain, silent, good enough.
He sat by the window, trunk secured, wand resting lightly on his knee. The glass was fogged with condensation, but the outside shapes moved: trunks hauled, owls flapping, Prefects shouting orders no one obeyed. Marcus breathed in the scent of old velvet, waxed wood, and dusted parchment.
Minutes passed. Then the door slid open.
A girl stepped in — average height, silvery hair plaited with near-invisible threads of pale blue. Her robes bore the crisp fold of recent tailoring. She glanced at Marcus, then at the empty seat across from him.
She hesitated for half a second before speaking.
"Mind if I sit here?"
He gave a quick nod.
She slid the door shut behind her and took the seat. After a pause, she said:
"I'm Ilse. Ilse Durand. From Nottingham."
Her voice was soft but clear.
"Marcus," he replied.
The door opened again.
A boy tumbled in this time — all elbows and ink stains, a quill behind one ear, and a scroll trailing from his sleeve like a forgotten tail. He blinked at them both, then gave a crooked grin.
"Oh good, people. Was beginning to think I'd end up with the trolley lady."
He plopped onto the seat beside Ilse without asking.
"Thorne Merrick. You two first-years?"
They both nodded.
Then the last figure appeared: a tall girl, robes crisp and dark, her hair black and sleek, parted just off-center. A silver serpent ring glinted on her hand as she pushed the door open and leaned inside.
"Everywhere else is full," she said, almost apologetically. "Mind if I join?"
Marcus gave a small nod. Ilse scooted over slightly, though there was no need.
"Thanks," the girl said, stepping in and taking the seat beside the window. "I'm Evelyn. Evelyn Rowle."
Marcus looked up, trying to smile. "I'm Marcus."
Ilse gave a quick wave. "Ilse."
Evelyn glanced around nervously. "Do you think the food on the train is going to be as good as Mum says?"
Marcus shrugged. "I've heard it's supposed to be amazing. Like, carts full of chocolate frogs and pumpkin pasties."
Ilse's eyes lit up. "I'm more worried about the Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. What if you get the nasty ones?"
Evelyn wrinkled her nose. "I tried them once. Got a toothpaste one. Yuck."
Thorne chuckled, tossing a folded piece of parchment onto the table. "Better than getting a bogey-flavored one. Heard some poor first-years screamed all the way to Hogsmeade."
Marcus laughed, the tension easing. "So, who's planning to try every flavor just to say they survived?"
Ilse grinned. "Not me. I'll stick to the safe ones—chocolate, pumpkin, maybe some treacle tart."
Evelyn smirked. "Where's the fun in that? I'm aiming for the weirdest."
Thorne leaned back, eyes sparkling. "Sounds like we'll have to keep an eye on each other. Hogwarts' first bean survival squad."
Outside the corridor, through the glass, Marcus spotted a familiar silhouette. Silas, hauling a second trunk over his shoulder like a sack of flour, was arguing with the conductor — his voice good-natured but loud:
"It's not oversized! Regulation. I swear on my grandmother's teeth!"
Two compartments down, Anya passed, half-buried in a book. She didn't stop. But her gaze flicked sideways and caught Marcus's for a moment. Her mouth curled into something almost — but not quite — a smirk. Then she moved on.
The train shuddered, then lurched forward with a groan, slowly pulling out of the station.
Inside their compartment, the lanterns had been dimmed to a cozy half-glow, softened by the fog that spread against the windows like creeping frost. Outside, countryside unspooled in blurred brushstrokes — hedgerows, sodden fields, stone cottages crouched low. Within, students began to settle. Cloaks were folded and tucked away, wands laid across knees or slipped into pockets. Someone murmured a warming charm. The scent of peppermint drifted from an opened tin. Chocolate frogs changed hands, jelly slugs were split in half, and laughter crackled like kindling.
Marcus rested his wand across his thigh, then unfastened the leather holster in his lap — long, curved, recently re-stitched. The seams gleamed faintly with binding thread.
Evelyn leaned forward, eyes catching on the craftsmanship.
"You enchant that yourself?"
He nodded.
"Stays tighter than glueweed," he said.
Thorne perked up from his seat, rummaging through the inner lining of his coat before producing a strange, feathered quill with twisting runes carved into the nib.
"Spellweaver's Quill," he announced proudly. "Writes what you mean, not what you actually say. Great until you're cross — then it gets embarrassing."
Ilse chuckled and held up a small mirror, no larger than a biscuit tin lid. Its surface was slightly clouded, as though resisting full reflection.
"Mirror of Untruth," she said. "Shows people as they were, not how they are."
Evelyn frowned. "That's… unsettling."
Ilse's voice was quiet. "Not always comforting. But sometimes honest."
Evelyn pulled a small pin from her robes — shaped like a moth, its wings made of fine silver thread.
"Follows my voice," she said. "Mum charmed it when I was little. It never gets lost, even in crowds."
Marcus gave a quiet nod, fingers brushing the amulet beneath his collar. He hadn't spoken of it since leaving home.
The train gave a sudden lurch as it cut through a curve in the hills. Rain tapped harder against the glass.
That was when the compartment door burst open.
A girl tumbled inside — red-faced, hair askew, breath hitching. She looked about their age. Behind her came the sound of running feet.
Two older boys appeared in the doorway, laughing. Not cruelly — but carelessly, like children who hadn't yet learned how deep harm could go.
Marcus's eyes sharpened as he took them in, his mind quietly sorting through possibilities. Getting physical was risky. Trying to slip away? Impossible in such a small space. But standing still and doing nothing wasn't an option.
One boy leaned against the doorframe, voice loose but mocking. "We lost something"
The other stepped forward, scanning the group with easy arrogance. His gaze flicked to the girl crouched near Silas, then fixed on Marcus. "You planning to hand her over, or are you just gonna sit there?"
Marcus's jaw clenched, but his voice was steady and measured. "She's not yours to take. That ends here."
A brief silence fell — Marcus felt the familiar pinch of adrenaline, but he kept his hands visible and relaxed, his tone free of any panic.
"Words," the taller boy scoffed, amusement in his voice. "What use are they?"
Marcus glanced at the girl. She was still, tense but watchful — not ruled by fear.
Evelyn's voice cut through quietly, sharp enough to surprise Marcus. "Maybe you should learn to listen."
The boys shifted, the easy confidence in their stance faltering. Marcus sensed the subtle change — the unseen balance of control within the cramped space.
He met their gaze without hesitation.
"Not worth it," the taller one grumbled, stepping back. "Come on."
The second lingered for a moment, then followed, leaving only the faint sound of the door sliding closed.
Marcus exhaled slowly, tension easing from his shoulders bit by bit. No smile. No words. Just a calm watchfulness as he settled back, mind already turning to what came next.
The girl straightened, voice soft but steady. "Thanks."
Marcus gave a brief nod. Words weren't his strong suit — but that said enough.
She glanced out the window, then back at him, hesitant. "You… you didn't have to step in."
Marcus met her gaze steadily. "Maybe. But I didn't like what I saw."
There was a pause between them, the hum of the train filling the space.
Finally, she spoke again, quieter this time. "What's your name?"
"Marcus."
She smiled faintly, the tension easing from her shoulders. "I'm Lina."
Evelyn glanced up from where she'd been watching the window, her voice calm but firm.
"Glad you're okay, Lina. These types can get worse if left unchecked."
Ilse shifted forward, eyes sharp.
"Yeah. They test everyone, especially new ones. You handled yourself well."
Thorne cracked a small grin, leaning against the wall.
"Guess trouble follows us around, huh?"
Marcus didn't smile, but his eyes flicked toward Thorne briefly.
"Better to be prepared than caught off guard."
Lina nodded, her expression steadier now.
"Thanks. I was worried at first. But you all made it clear I'm not alone."
Evelyn's gaze softened slightly.
"We look out for each other. That's the only way."
Ilse gave a curt nod.
"Just remember, Hogwarts isn't as forgiving as the train."
Thorne's grin faded a bit.
"True. Best keep your wits about you."
Lina glanced around, a bit uncertain. "So… did you all know each other before this trip? Before the Express?"
Evelyn thought for a moment. "Not really. Some faces were familiar, but nothing close."
Ilse nodded. "Same here. Hogwarts feels bigger than you'd expect. This train's the first time we've actually talked."
Thorne leaned back against the wall, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Guess this train is the place where most friendships start. Strange, isn't it? How a few hours can change everything."
Marcus tapped his fingers against his knee, then spoke quietly. "It's easier to get to know people when you're stuck in the same compartment. No big crowds. No noise. Just faces and time."
The train rumbled beneath them, the lanterns swaying gently. For a moment, none of them spoke.
Ilse broke the silence. "What do you think it'll be like? The Sorting?"
Evelyn shrugged. "I heard they make you fight a troll."
Thorne snorted. "Right. And then you get a dragon for breakfast."
Ilse smirked. "I'm more worried about the hat. What if it says something embarrassing? Out loud?"
Thorne pulled a face. "Like what? 'This one's got socks older than the goblin wars'?"
Evelyn grinned. "Or 'Definitely not Slytherin — too polite by half.'"
"Or," Marcus added dryly, "'Doesn't know which end of a wand to hold.'"
They chuckled again, but there was something quieter under it now — the laughter of children pretending not to be nervous.
Lina hugged her arms close. "Do you think it really… sees everything?"
Evelyn tilted her head. "Dunno. Maybe just what matters."
"Or maybe it just guesses and hopes no one argues," Thorne muttered.
Marcus gave a faint shrug. "Either way, we'll know soon."
The train slowed, just enough to make the lanterns flicker and the floor hum beneath their feet.
Then came the shift — a subtle pressure in the air, like a storm holding its breath.
Two Aurors stepped aboard.
No words. No introductions. Just tall, cloaked figures gliding down the corridor. One held a rod that glowed like a dying star, tapping the walls with faint, deliberate clicks. The other moved ahead, sliding compartment doors open without knocking.
When they reached Marcus's, the door hissed aside.
Both Aurors looked in.
Not just a glance — they saw them. Eyes like frost settling on warm skin, one by one, pausing just long enough to measure something invisible.
Marcus didn't flinch. Didn't blink. The others sat still, breath held.
The Aurors said nothing. The door slid shut again.
Later, Marcus stepped out, the corridor was quieter now. Fewer voices. More shadows.
He walked.
Past a boy in the middle of an argument — Tobias, loud and red in the face, trying to stake claim to a sliver of bench between three older students who clearly didn't care.
Further on, Clara Mott sat cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a manual thicker than a family bible. Hex Evasion and Urban Dueling, the cover read, scuffed and battle-worn. She looked up once. Her eyes were dark, precise, and far too sharp for someone their age. Then she dipped back into her book, as if the rest of the world didn't matter.
Then came Wick.
Renwick "Wick" Fenloe shot past like a wind-blown scroll — wild hair, soot on his collar, hands full of something clattering.
"Do Nargles eat iron or was that a joke?" he shouted over his shoulder.
He didn't wait for an answer.
Marcus didn't offer one.
Outside, the sky sagged — thick with clouds the colour of old bruises.
The windows misted over, not from breath or warmth, but from something colder, deeper. Like the glass itself was holding back frost that wanted in.
The train cut through a land of long shadows and soaking hills, everything slick and shining as if just rained upon.
And then — something.
Quick. Low to the ground. No shape to name, no sound to follow. Just a blur of motion, gone before the eye could find it again.
Not a Thestral. Not a bird. Not a trick of the light.
Marcus watched the glass for a beat longer than he meant to. His hand moved to the amulet beneath his shirt, fingers resting against the old metal.
It thrummed once — slow and heavy.
The train gave a low groan as it began to slow, its weight dragging against the tracks. The hum of the wards around Hogwarts brushed across Marcus's skin like static — sharper than sound, deeper than touch. He felt it in his teeth. In his bones.
Around him, students pressed to the windows, breath fogging the glass. The rain had passed, but mist curled thick and low, clinging to the hills like old secrets.
Marcus stood without a word, the others moving with him. Bags slung, cloaks tugged tighter. No chatter now — just the shuffle of feet and the hush that came with nearing something vast.
Outside, the lake stretched black and gleaming, still as glass, but with a depth that suggested it was watching back. Lanterns bobbed along the shore, their flames dim and flickering like they too felt the weight of the place.
And there — the castle.
It loomed on the distant cliffs like a crouching beast, its towers lost in swirls of mist, half-shrouded in cloud and legend. The sort of sight that quieted even the loudest mouths.
For a moment, they just stood. A knot of first-years, uncertain and small. Breathing in the cold, the stone, the magic.
Marcus's hand drifted beneath his shirt, brushing the amulet again. Still warm. Still there. That was enough.
Then — a voice.
"Firs' years this way!"
The mist parted as a giant stepped forward, lantern held aloft. Wild beard, broad smile, coat the size of a tent.
"Mind the stones now! No slippin'!"
Some laughed nervously. Others clutched their trunks harder. But they followed.
Marcus lingered half a step behind, gaze still locked on the castle.
Then he moved, boots crunching on the wet stones.
Toward Hogwarts.
Toward whatever waited behind those ancient gates.