Archive of Our Own

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For those who dwelled at 86 Eastleigh Road—tucked away in the quiet heart of Southampton—the morning of July 29th arrived not with grandeur, but with the deceptive stillness of ordinary things. And yet, beneath the surface of such monotony, there was an unease that slithered through the air, unseen but keenly felt, as though the very walls held their breath in some unspoken anticipation.At the chime of seven, the ticking clock—merciless in its indifference—plucked Vytenis Hart from the depths of sleep. He did not awaken so much as he was wrenched from the oblivion of dreams, his body moving with the reluctant grace of one whose existence had long been dictated by routine. His room, though small, bore the unmistakable imprints of its owner’s restless mind—magazines left half-open in defiance of completion, posters affixed to the walls with the haphazard certainty of youth, their edges curled like the pages of a book read too often, too urgently.There was no hesitation in his movements as he crossed the room, his bare feet whispering against the cold wooden floor—though whether they sought escape or confrontation, even he did not know. The door swung open, and with it came the fragile light of morning, filtering through the curtains in trembling streams, casting long, uneasy shadows across the floor—like omens, like ghosts.His gaze swept the house with the precision of someone who knew too well the shape of waiting, his eyes searching—longing, even—until at last, they settled upon the familiar silhouette of his mother, standing in the kitchen, a quiet figure against the pale hush of dawn."Mother," Vytenis spoke, his voice carrying not the weight of inquiry but of something heavier, something unspoken. "Has there been a letter?"Mrs. Judy Hart, that small yet unyielding force around which the household revolved, did not lift her gaze immediately. Instead, she lingered in the sacred ritual of her task, as though unwilling to grant the moment its inevitable weight. The warm glow of the kitchen light caught in the strands of her pale hair, lending it an ethereal shimmer, a soft contradiction to the sharpness of her quiet resolve. There was something sculptural in the way she stood, not rigid, but measured—as though her very being had learned, through years of practice, the fine art of holding things together without ever appearing to do so.The sound of the spatula meeting the pan was crisp, final. The fries turned in the oil with a gentle sizzle, their edges curling into a deep, golden brown—a quiet, poetic commentary on time itself, on how even the mundane is altered, shaped by heat and patience, until it is something else entirely."I'm sorry, dear," she murmured at last, her voice a delicate thing, too careful, too composed. This was not an apology, not truly. It was an offering, a balm for a wound that had yet to bleed. "It seems that it hasn't arrived yet."Vytenis did not flinch, nor did he sigh. He merely absorbed the words, allowed them to settle into the hollow spaces of his expectation. A nod—small, resigned. A turn of the heel, as if motion itself might stave off the encroaching stillness of another unanswered day.“Your father is waiting outside.”Vytenis did not look back. There was no need. He could feel the quiet tether of her gaze following him, even as he stepped away. A mother’s concern is not a thing that vanishes with distance. It lingers, hovers in the spaces between words, in the air left undisturbed in an empty room.Vytenis stepped onto the threshold, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality, the kind that feels heavier than it should.Before him, his father—Mr. Eric Hart—paced like a man whose thoughts had outgrown the confines of his own skull. Each measured step was sharp, deliberate, and yet there was a restlessness to it, a quiet desperation disguised as purpose. It was a familiar sight, one Vytenis had long since learned to recognize, to decipher. This was not mere movement. This was something far older, something ingrained—a ritual of unease, a carefully choreographed dance between expectation and restraint.For all his years of discipline, of control, his father had never been good at stillness.“Father.” Vytenis’s voice was soft, almost amused, yet there was something else folded within it—something knowing. He let out a quiet chuckle, the kind that comes not from humor, but from the strange, weary understanding that comes with watching someone repeat the same motions, over and over, as though each time might yield a different result. “There’s no need to be so nervous.”A simple word, nervous —harmless, almost. And yet, the moment it was spoken, Vytenis saw it settle into his father’s skin, felt the weight of it shift the air between them.“Nervous?”The word rang out, firm, unyielding—an attempt at dismissal wrapped in steel. And yet, for all its strength, it was brittle, cracking at the edges. His father’s jaw tightened, the muscles clenching in quiet rebellion against the truth that had already slipped free. His hands, though still, bore a tension that could not be ignored—fingers curling, twitching ever so slightly before locking into place, as though willing themselves not to betray him further.Then, for the briefest of moments, something flickered across his face—something raw, something unguarded. It was there in his eyes, in the way they hesitated before meeting Vytenis’s gaze, in the way they seemed to search for something they could not name.And then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.“I’m not nervous at all!”Too fast. Too sharp. A declaration made not for the sake of honesty, but for the sake of performance. The laugh that followed was just as empty—brief, clipped, a mere shadow of real amusement.But Vytenis had already seen the truth.The boy's gaze lingered, sharpening, though he made no move to press the matter. He had long since learned that there were things his father would not say, truths buried beneath carefully measured words, masked behind the kind of composure that had been worn for so long it almost seemed real.Almost.But Vytenis had spent years reading between the lines, parsing the unspoken language of his father’s silences, the weight behind his pauses, the way his hands flexed and stilled as though wrestling with something unseen. This was no different. The nerves were there, barely restrained, humming beneath the surface like the first tremors before a storm.And yet, Mr. Eric pressed on, determined to play his part, as though speaking the words with enough conviction might make them true.“The old professors at Windsor Palace should feel honored,” he declared, his voice striving for steadiness, only to betray itself in the slight tremor at its edges. “That Eton has such an outstanding freshman as you.”It was meant to be light, almost teasing, but the delivery was off—strained, a note played just a fraction too sharp. The smile that followed was no better, stretched too thin, a flimsy mask that did little to disguise the weight behind it.Vytenis did not laugh.To the outside world, Mr. Eric Hart was the embodiment of success—an architect of legal victories, a man whose very presence commanded attention. He did not argue; he persuaded, bending the rigid lines of the law with an eloquence that made even the most unyielding statutes seem pliable in his hands. There was a sharpness to him, a precision that extended beyond his work and into the very fabric of his being. His suits were never rumpled, his shoes never scuffed. His reputation, like his demeanor, was spotless, a carefully polished artifact of relentless ambition.And yet, control is a fragile thing.Beside him, Judy Hart stood as his equal—not merely a wife, but a force in her own right. If Eric sculpted his influence in the courtroom, Judy wove hers into fabric, each stitch a testament to her mastery. Her designs were not merely garments but statements—works of art that graced glossy magazine pages, whispered over in fashion circles with the kind of reverence reserved for those who had arrived. She understood aesthetics the way her husband understood law: as a language, a weapon, a means of shaping the world to her liking.In Southampton—a city that thrived on both industry and indulgence—they moved with the quiet assurance of those who had secured their place at the top. Money was no object; it was merely the air they breathed, the foundation upon which their carefully curated lives rested.But it was not their wealth, nor their achievements, that defined their greatest triumph. No, that honor belonged to their son—Vytenis.To the world, he was a promising young man, bright and capable, the kind who left an impression long after he had left the room. But to Mr. Eric and Judy, he was more than that. He was theirs . Their creation, their legacy, their most exquisite accomplishment. They had built careers, shaped reputations, amassed fortunes—but none of it compared to the quiet, absolute certainty that Vytenis was the best thing they had ever brought into the world.And it was not blind adoration, not the indulgent affection of doting parents. No, their pride was rooted in something more concrete, something undeniable. Vytenis was different . He had been from the very beginning.While other children clung to their parents’ legs, overwhelmed by the great, messy enormity of existence, Vytenis stood apart—watching, calculating. While others wailed over broken toys, he sat in quiet contemplation, already dissecting the nature of loss, the mechanics of cause and effect. Where most children were enamored with bedtime stories, Vytenis was leafing through texts that should have been beyond his comprehension—dense, technical, the kind of literature that made even adults hesitate. But he did not hesitate. He devoured knowledge with the same ease that other children devoured sweets, as though the world itself existed to be unraveled and understood.It was remarkable. It was unsettling.It was a source of immeasurable pride.And so they watched him grow, knowing, believing—expecting—that whatever he became, it would be extraordinary.Because how could he not be?He was theirs.It was no surprise, then, that by the age of five, Vytenis had already transcended the trivialities of childhood, carving out a name for himself in a way that was both bewildering and inevitable.It had started as nothing—just another street interview, the kind where reporters ambushed unsuspecting pedestrians with questions that, in the grand scheme of things, meant absolutely nothing. A harmless gimmick, a fleeting distraction. But Vytenis, standing among a crowd of much older, much taller strangers, had not treated it as such.When the microphone was thrust toward him, when the question of the day was posed—some banal inquiry meant to tease out a laugh or a dismissive shrug—he had responded with something else entirely.The Falkland Islands.With a conviction that did not belong in the voice of a child, Vytenis declared, with absolute certainty, that the islands were “an inseparable part of Great Britain since ancient times.”It should have been ridiculous. It should have been dismissed. But something in his delivery—the precision of his words, the unshaken clarity in his gaze—made it impossible to ignore.And so the moment did not pass. It did not fade. It spread, rippling outward, growing larger than any of them had intended.The footage made its rounds, replayed again and again, each time accompanied by that strange, familiar awe—the quiet disbelief of those who had not expected wisdom to emerge from such a small frame, from a voice still untouched by age. People spoke of him in hushed, admiring tones, their praise laced with the sort of reverence usually reserved for prodigies, for those born with something inexplicable, something more.But Vytenis did not dwell on it. He simply moved forward, as he always had.His life unfolded in much the same way—undaunted by the simplicity of childhood, unburdened by the limitations placed upon those his age. It was never a question of if he would succeed, only how soon.And then, just one month ago, he had done what no other student in Hampshire—perhaps in all of England—had done before.The UK SATs, a national examination marking the completion of primary school, had been reduced to a mere formality. Vytenis did not simply pass; he obliterated the test, scoring full marks across all six subjects—a feat so unprecedented that officials had combed through a century of records and found nothing to compare it to.His name was spoken with something beyond admiration now. It was an expectation. It was inevitability.Vytenis Hart was no ordinary child indeed.Because he was a time traveler.Not in the whimsical, science-fiction sense—not the kind who stepped into a machine of polished brass and humming electricity, nor the kind who flickered in and out of existence at the mercy of paradoxes. No, Vytenis had traveled through time in the cruelest, most relentless way possible: through death.In another life, in another world, he had been a man. A doctoral student, hunched over the endless labyrinth of microbiology and immunology, trapped in the sterile, fluorescent-lit purgatory of academia. His existence had been dictated by the cold logic of scientific inquiry, his days swallowed by the pursuit of knowledge, his nights reduced to frantic scribbles in the margins of half-read research papers. He had lived and breathed within the rigid parameters of the laboratory, surrounded by the quiet hum of machines, the acrid scent of ethanol, the relentless ticking of a clock that never seemed to offer him enough hours.And then—A moment. A breath. A cruel, irreversible fracture in time.Blinding headlights. A scream—his own, or someone else’s, he could never quite tell. The screech of tires against asphalt, the sickening crunch of metal folding in on itself, and then—Nothing.Not silence. Not peace. Just absence.A void so complete, so absolute, that it swallowed him whole, leaving behind nothing but the barest remnants of who he had once been.Until he opened his eyes again.Until he woke in a body that should not have been his, in a life that should have been impossible.He was no longer the man who had spent decades chasing an endless horizon of knowledge. He was something else entirely. A child, fresh and unshaped, staring up at a world that had begun again without his permission.And so he learned to exist anew.He learned to carry the weight of two lifetimes in one small frame, to navigate the world with the mind of a scholar trapped within the fragility of youth. He did not cry as infants did. He did not throw tantrums or wail for comfort. Instead, he listened. He watched. He learned, quickly, efficiently, as though his very survival depended on it.Because in a way, it did.He was Vytenis Hart now.But he had never truly forgotten who he used to be.When Vytenis awoke, it was to the jarring dissonance of a world both intimately known and utterly alien. He was not a newborn in the way that infants were meant to be—blank slates, unburdened by memory, existing only in the immediacy of hunger and warmth. No, Vytenis awoke aware, his mind shackled by the weight of a past that no longer belonged to him.He was cradled in unfamiliar arms, swaddled in softness, his own limbs uncooperative, fragile. Above him, two strangers gazed down, their eyes alight with something warm, something tender. They cooed at him, whispered his name like a prayer— Vytenis, Vytenis, our son. But Vytenis knew better.This was not his life.These were not his parents.He had died, had ceased to exist, and yet here he was—small and powerless, trapped in a body that did not belong to him, in a life that had been rewritten without his consent. He was an imposter, a specter wedged between two existences, forced into a narrative he had no hand in shaping.And the world—this strange, too-familiar world—had already made its verdict.This was late 20th-century Britain, a land not so different from the one he had once known, yet unbearably rigid in its expectations. The air hummed with the weight of old class divides, the kind that were not merely spoken of but woven into the very fabric of existence. Here, opportunity was not a right but a privilege, rationed out according to lineage, to wealth, to the whims of a system that demanded unwavering obedience.Once, he had believed in meritocracy. Once, he had been foolish enough to think that knowledge alone could shape a future, that intellect could carve its own path. But this world had no patience for such illusions.Here, ambition alone was not enough.Here, he was not the brilliant doctoral student who had spent years unraveling the mysteries of microbiology. He was not a scholar, a scientist, a man with a future sculpted by his own hands.Here, he was nothing but a child.Yet, if there was any mercy to be found in this absurd, unfathomable fate, it was hidden in the quiet recesses of his mind.It was not a gift in the way most would imagine. There were no grand revelations, no sudden bursts of divine insight. Instead, it was something subtler—a shift in perception, an imperceptible sharpening of the edges of his consciousness. Time had not merely granted him a second chance; it had reforged him.The memories of his past life did not exist as ghosts, faint echoes slipping through his grasp. No, they were alive— vivid, untamed, whole. Every moment, every lesson learned, every paper read and every formula memorized had not faded into the oblivion of lost time but had instead woven itself into the very fabric of his being.And his mind—oh, his mind—had become something else entirely.Once, he had relied on memory as a tool, a means to an end, a way to navigate the relentless demands of academia. Now, it was something far beyond that. It was not simply photographic—it was total. His recollections were no longer confined to abstract thought, no longer filtered through the unreliable lens of human imperfection. He could recall everything , down to the finest detail, as though time itself had been folded neatly into the archive of his mind.It was unnatural.It was supernatural.It was terrifying.Because it was not just the past he could see—it was the texture of time itself, the way events bled into one another, the delicate threads that wove cause and effect into something almost tangible. He could predict, with terrifying precision, the trajectory of a conversation before the first word was spoken. He could map out entire outcomes with nothing more than a glance, calculating probabilities with a certainty that should have been impossible.It was as though the laws of nature had bent themselves to accommodate him, as though his very existence had been altered in ways beyond his comprehension.And yet, for all this power, he remained trapped.Trapped in the body of a child, a body that could not yet wield the vastness of his mind.Trapped in a world that was not his own, a life that had already been set in motion without his consent.Trapped between what he had been and what he was becoming.And worst of all, he had no idea why.A boy born into privilege, yes—but privilege was not power. Privilege was an expectation. It was controlled. It was a preordained path, one that had already been mapped out for him, leaving no space for deviation, no room for the past life that still clawed at the edges of his mind.He was a ghost in his own skin, an anomaly in a world that had already decided who he was meant to be.And so, Vytenis made a decision—one that had germinated, silent and inevitable, within the recesses of his mind ever since his rebirth. It was not merely a choice, but an acceptance, as though the relentless hand of history had left no room for deviation.The past, with all its weight, pressed upon him, whispering of destinies unfulfilled and labors yet to be undertaken. He would walk the path of his former self, for to do otherwise would be to deny the inexorable pull of fate.Vytenis saw his future as if it had already been lived. By five, he had mapped out the next thirty years of his life with the precision of a cartographer tracing old, familiar terrain. Yet this knowledge, instead of freeing him, pressed against him like a weight. He was bound not only by what he knew, but by who he had been before.But he would walk through this.As before. As always.And so, Vytenis carried the quiet burden of knowing.He learned, not with the wide-eyed wonder of youth, but with the hunger of someone reclaiming something already lost.His mind, sharp and insatiable, absorbed knowledge at a pace that left others in quiet awe. When he excelled in the British SATs—the national examination marking the end of primary school—it was not celebrated as a feat, but recognized as inevitability. His success was not the result of luck or even talent, but of purpose.His path had been charted long before his small hands could hold a pen. It was a plan, not of ambition, but of necessity.First, he would seek entry into Britain’s most revered institutions—St. Paul’s, Magdalen, Eton—the proving grounds of those destined for greatness. Not for prestige alone, but for access, for the quiet power that came with belonging to the right rooms, speaking the right words. He knew what these schools meant, what doors they could open.The next step was inevitable—A-Levels, the final proving ground before he would step into the hallowed halls of Oxford or Cambridge. There, among the echoes of the world’s greatest minds, Vytenis would not merely learn—he would refine, sharpen, and cultivate the intellect that had always been his greatest weapon. His path was not uncertain; it had been laid long before he ever set foot in a lecture hall.He possessed an advantage so profound it felt almost divine. His memory, once an asset, had now become something more—something that blurred the line between gift and anomaly.Every formula, every experiment, every breakthrough of the past lingered in his mind with crystalline clarity, not as recollections, but as moments he could step into at will. The mistakes of others would not be his own; the errors of his past life would serve as waypoints, guiding him forward, ensuring he would not stumble where he once had.And so, he would rise—not in haste, not in reckless ambition, but with the quiet precision of a man who knew his own inevitability. He would immerse himself in research, peeling back the layers of the microbial world, unraveling the intricacies of innate immunity. His findings would not simply add to the field; they would shake its very foundations. The name Vytenis would become more than just a name—it would be a force. A whisper in the corridors of academia, a signature on papers that would shift the course of scientific discovery.Vytenis had already seen this future. It was not a dream, nor an ambition—it was a certainty, traced in his mind with a precision that might have unsettled anyone else.By the final years of his undergraduate study, the path would unfold as expected. He would stand before the greats—John Robert Vane, John E. Sulston, Niels Kaj Jerne—men whose discoveries had shaped the very fabric of science, whose names were etched into history as though they had always belonged there.And from there, he would rise. Not as an anomaly, not as a prodigy lost in the tides of academia, but as a mind that could no longer be ignored. His name, his work—each would carve a space in the scientific world, forcing open the doors that led to greater things. With his reputation forged in the crucible of early triumphs, he would step forward—not as a student seeking knowledge, but as one prepared to stand among the titans of science.Within a year, perhaps two, the trajectory would be set. Harvard or MIT would come next. There, amidst the weight of genius, Vytenis would take his next step—not just toward a degree, but toward something greater.For his master’s research, Vytenis had already set his sights on something vast—something that would shape not only his future but the fate of millions. The SARS virus, destined to emerge in the early 2000s, would be his proving ground. Armed with the foresight of another life, he would move before the world even knew to act. He would isolate and culture a strain, peeling back the layers of its pathogenic machinery with unrelenting precision. He would unravel its every nuance—not as a mere scientist, but as a strategist, a mind standing at the crossroads of history. And when the time came, he would go further still, crafting a subunit vaccine, erecting a shield against the storm before it had even begun to rage.But Vytenis’s journey was never meant to end with a single battle. His intellect, restless and insatiable, would seek another frontier, and it would find its home in the silent war waged within the human body: cancer.Through the long hours of the night, when the world lay in the quiet hush of sleep, Vytenis would remain in the solitude of his laboratory, immersed in the delicate interplay of the immune system. He would push beyond what was known, beyond what had been assumed, exploring the intricate dance of activation and suppression. His hands would sift through the fabric of medical science, seeking a way to turn the body’s own defenses into its most formidable weapon.By the time he neared the completion of his doctoral studies, his legacy would already be taking shape. Three to five landmark papers—published not as mere research, but as revelations—would cement his place within the hallowed halls of scientific discovery. Nature, The Lancet, CA: A Cancer Journal for Clinicians—these would not simply bear his name; they would bear his mark. His findings would not whisper of progress; they would roar, challenging the very foundation upon which microbiology and immunology had been built. With each paper, Vytenis would carve his place deeper into history, a name no longer fleeting, but fixed—etched into the annals of human knowledge.And when the time came to step beyond the title of student, there would be no uncertainty. Harvard or MIT would be waiting, not with mere acceptance, but with invitation. Professorship would follow swiftly, his work continuing, one breakthrough leading into another, each revelation setting the stage for the next.The course of his life, so carefully laid, would carry him toward the inevitable. If fortune played its part, if the world bent ever so slightly in his favor, then by 2015, perhaps 2020, Vytenis’s name could stand among the greats. A Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine—not as an aspiration, but as a culmination. Recognition not of ambition, but of inevitability.But for all the brilliance of his plans, Vytenis was not blind to reality.Dreams—no matter how meticulously constructed—demanded foundations. And the first stone in that foundation was not a grand declaration, nor an earth-shattering breakthrough, but a simple, unassuming application to one of the top secondary schools in the United Kingdom.Eton College, the most prestigious of them all, seemed the natural choice—on paper, at least. His parents, with their unwavering belief in his academic brilliance, saw it as the obvious next step. But Vytenis, ever the pragmatist, saw further. Prestige alone was not enough. Eton was not just a school; it was an institution steeped in history, a stronghold of aristocracy masquerading as an academy of learning. Though it had, in recent years, opened its gates to those outside the upper echelons of society, the truth remained: entry required more than intellect. It required pedigree.It was a place where names carried more weight than minds, where bloodlines often mattered more than books. And Vytenis, despite all his certainty, knew better than to walk into a battle he did not need to fight.Yet Vytenis’s father, Mr. Eric Hart, saw it differently.For Eric, education was not merely the pursuit of knowledge—it was a game of positioning, a calculated ascent. Success was not built on intellect alone, but on proximity: to power, to influence, to those who shaped the world rather than simply moved within it. To him, Eton was not just an institution of learning, but a gateway—a place where the right handshakes, the right friendships, could lay the groundwork for an entire future.Eton was more than a school; it was a stage upon which the architects of society were forged. Future prime ministers, industry magnates, heirs to dynasties—Vytenis would not simply be a student; he would be among them, shoulder to shoulder with those whose names would one day be written into history.And in many ways, Eric was right.If Vytenis’s memory served him well, he knew what the years ahead would bring. In time, Prince William and Prince Harry, the sons of Prince Charles and Princess Diana, would walk the hallowed halls of Eton College. And in this strange, improbable twist of fate, so would he.A curious thought, wasn’t it? To share not just a space, but a life, with the one who would one day ascend to the throne. The idea held an almost surreal quality, as though the edges of reality had blurred just long enough to allow such an impossibility to take shape. The future King of England and the time-traveling boy—two lives, worlds apart, yet drawn together within the same cold stone walls. Bound not by lineage, nor by fate, but by the strange gravity of circumstance.For a brief moment, it almost felt like a dream.His mind drifted through the corridors of time, weaving through the vast, intricate web of connections that now defined his existence. There was always more to unravel, more to grasp, but before he could sink deeper into the labyrinth of thought, a sharp, decisive sound cut through the quiet—the click of the mailbox outside.It was final, distinct. Like the tolling of a bell.“Oh… God… they’re coming.”Mr. Eric’s voice, so often a pillar of certainty, wavered—cracked at the edges with something unspoken. His face, usually composed, had paled, tension settling in the lines of his jaw, in the stiff set of his shoulders. An unseen weight had descended upon him, heavy and unrelenting, filling the air between them with something almost tangible.Vytenis saw it. He saw it in the flicker of his father’s eyes, in the way his breath came just a fraction too short. Anxiety, unspoken but unmistakable, threaded through his voice like a fault line beneath an otherwise steady surface.“I’ll get the letter,” Vytenis said at last. His voice was measured, controlled. And yet, beneath it, the same anticipation coiled tight, threading itself through every syllable, mirroring the tension that hung thick in the room.With steady resolve, Vytenis pushed open the yard door, stepping onto familiar ground—86 Eastleigh Road. The mailbox stood ahead, its brass edges catching the pale morning light, gleaming as if in quiet anticipation. Upon its side, three golden lions, their claws wrapped around the lifeless form of a brown bear, lay frozen in an eternal struggle.The design had been chosen by Mr. Eric months ago—an emblem of some long-forgotten triumph, or perhaps a victory that had never truly belonged to Vytenis. Its meaning, if it had ever existed, had faded into irrelevance, leaving behind only an odd, misplaced fixture—a relic of something neither celebrated nor understood.But Vytenis’s gaze did not linger on the lions.His attention fell instead on the tabby cat, poised near the mailbox, its green eyes gleaming with an almost unnerving clarity. It did not blink. It did not move. It only watched, its stillness charged with something almost sentient—as though it were not simply present, but waiting.Waiting for the door of 86 Eastleigh Road to open.Waiting for something unseen, something known only to it.For a moment, Vytenis hesitated, sensing it too—that shift in the air, that quiet, imperceptible change in the rhythm of the world.But Vytenis’s patience, as it often did, wore thin. With a sharp flick of his hand, he made a shooing motion toward the stray cat. It hesitated only for a moment before slipping away, vanishing into the periphery of the morning—unbothered, indifferent, as though its presence had been merely incidental to the weight of the moment.He reached into the mailbox, fingers brushing against a stack of letters, their crisp edges carrying the faint scent of ink and paper, the quiet urgency of life’s routine demands. Each envelope bore its own quiet significance—a bill, a notice, a message sent across the miles—but today, none of it mattered.Not today.Vytenis didn’t pause. His gaze swept across the envelopes, his mind already weighed down by the magnitude of what might be there—or what might not . He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone caught between past and future, barely aware of the seconds slipping away as he stepped back inside.By the door, Mr. Eric and Judy stood waiting. Silent, unmoving, their presence felt almost ceremonial, like sentinels standing at the threshold of something monumental. Expectation clung to them, thick in the air, woven into the tension that neither dared put into words.The first letter was nothing—a gas bill, cold and impersonal, a reminder of the quiet monotony of existence.The second, a postcard from Aunt Alia to Judy—a fleeting gesture of affection, carrying warmth but no weight, no consequence.And then came the third letter.The one he had been waiting for.He opened the envelope slowly, as if the weight of the moment demanded it.The crisp paper unfolded in his hands, the delicate rustle somehow deafening in the silence that hung heavy around him. His eyes swept over the words, each letter settling into place, imprinting itself into his consciousness.—
Dear Mr. Hart,

I am pleased to inform you that after our discussion, we all agree that you have enough talent and qualifications to study at Eton College and become one of the 247 freshmen of Eton College in 1992.
Sincerely yours,
Tony Ridman Sr.
Principal of Eton College. —"Oh my God."The words escaped him before he could stop them, carried on a breath that trembled with relief, exhilaration, disbelief. It crashed through him like a tidal wave, breaking against the carefully constructed walls of restraint he had spent years building. The dam had burst—his composure, so meticulously upheld, crumbling in the face of something far greater.Before he could fully process it, Mr. Eric and Judy surged toward him, their voices colliding in perfect unison."How is it?"There was urgency in their words, feverish anticipation in their eyes. This letter had held them all in its grip for what felt like an eternity, binding them in silent expectation.Vytenis let out a breath—a single, incredulous exhale that seemed to release something deeper. A slow, wide grin stretched across his face, unrestrained, unfettered. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of it all had finally found its rightful place."I'm accepted."Two words, simple yet absolute. Like the final note of a symphony.Like the closing of one chapter, and the quiet, certain beginning of another.For a moment, the world held its breath.Time hung suspended, stretched thin between the past and the future, as Mr. Eric and Judy leaned over the letter. Their hands trembled—just slightly—as their eyes traced the words that had already changed everything.Vytenis watched them, unmoving. His breath was a tight coil in his chest, held fast by the weight of anticipation. Waiting.And then—silence.Not the absence of sound, but something heavier. A moment so dense it seemed almost tangible, pressing into the space between them as realization took shape. He could see it in their faces, in the way worry unraveled, melting away like snow under the first touch of spring. The tight lines of apprehension eased, their eyes widening, no longer searching for doubt but accepting the truth written before them.
Relief
.
It rolled through them like a wave, washing away the quiet, creeping fear that had settled in their bones for far too long. The shift was almost imperceptible at first—a flicker, a breath—but then it surged, breaking through the weight of uncertainty, filling the space where fear had lived.And then— joy.Pure, unrestrained, uncontainable. It radiated from them, transforming their faces in an instant. Just moments ago, they had been shadowed by the quiet terror of waiting, their expressions etched with lines of anxiety. Now, those same faces are lit with something else entirely.Their son—their brilliant, destined child—had done it.He had crossed the threshold."Vytenis… honey, I knew you could do it!"Judy’s voice broke through the moment, thick with emotion, as she pulled him into a tight, unwavering embrace. The kisses she pressed to his cheeks were soft yet insistent—each one carrying the quiet weight of pride, of love, of something deeper than mere celebration. He let himself sink into it, just for a moment, feeling the warmth of her affection wrap around him like a blanket—steady, constant, unconditional.From across the yard, Mr. Eric’s voice rang out, bold and triumphant."I will tell all my colleagues!" The words spilled from him with uncontained joy, as though the news was too big, too brilliant to be contained within the walls of their home. "I will tell them how outstanding my son is..." His voice faltered—just slightly—caught somewhere between pride and disbelief, between knowing and finally seeing.Vytenis watched them—watched the pure, unrestrained joy reflected in their faces. He knew what this moment meant to them, how long they had held onto this hope, waiting for it to take form. And yet, even as their celebration swelled around him, his own thoughts drifted forward, toward what lay ahead.It was a triumph, certainly. A rare honor, for someone like him—a student not born into aristocracy—to receive an invitation from a place as revered as Eton College. It was a success that would make any parent proud. And yet, even now, standing at the threshold of their joy, there was something else, something unspoken pressing at the edges of his mind.
Was he more than the sum of their dreams?

Was this his achievement, or merely the weight of generations before him, passed down like an inheritance?
But this moment did not belong to doubt.It belonged to them. To Judy, still clutching him as though she could anchor this feeling forever; to Mr. Eric, his voice ringing with pride, his expression the very embodiment of fulfilled expectation. And so Vytenis let it be.For now.Eton was more than a prestigious institution; it was a world unto itself. A world built not just on academic excellence, but on its own carefully crafted rules, its own unspoken priorities, its own distinct culture. Its philosophy—the so-called “happy education”—was as integral to its identity as its lessons in literature, history, and tradition.Vytenis had experienced this philosophy firsthand. For six years, through the halls of his elementary school, not once had a teacher asked him about his grades, his performance, or whether he struggled. There was only ever one question, repeated like a quiet mantra:
"Are you happy in school?"
In this atmosphere of relentless optimism, students were not shaped through rigor, but through the freedom of a carefully curated joy. It was a gentle—perhaps too gentle—way of raising children in a world that prized contentment over competition, personal fulfillment over measurable success. And, for the most part, it worked.Vytenis, like his peers, had grown accustomed to this endless current of encouragement. It was soft, warm, ever-present—benign on the surface, yet quietly insidious in its shaping of expectations and ambition.But not everyone thrived in this world.There was, for example, Susan—a girl from Vytenis’s grade whose life could not have been more different.Her father, a wealthy banker from Southampton, carried an air of authority that extended beyond his profession, shaping not only his business dealings but the very fabric of his daughter’s existence. Where other children lingered in the afterglow of their parents’ well-intended indulgence, drifting between extracurriculars with the ease of freedom, Susan’s afternoons followed a different pattern.Every day, as laughter spilled into the schoolyard and friends scattered toward their hobbies, a Rolls-Royce would pull up at the gates, sleek and silent. Susan would step inside without a word, her expression pinched with quiet resentment, as though even the act of leaving school was just another duty to fulfill.In her own words, her life was not her own. It was coercion, routine, expectation—a carefully measured path from which she was not allowed to stray. Piano lessons. Dance lessons. Tutors hired to refine her mind like a blade, sharp and precise, ensuring she met a standard set long before she had a say in it.Her classmates—Vytenis included—could only watch, half in sympathy, half in awe. Somehow. She was not like them.She was not free. Not in the way they were. Her happiness, if it could be called that, had been shaped, sculpted into something so controlled that she could barely recognize it herself.And then the news came.A week ago, Susan—the girl who had no time to play, the girl who lived beneath the weight of an unyielding father’s will—scored above 95 on every SAT paper. She had been accepted into St. Paul’s Girls’ School in London, an achievement that, in Vytenis’s quiet, academic heart, he could not help but admire.She had won.Meanwhile, Vytenis’s peers—those who had basked in the glow of their “happy education”—would continue down the comfortable path to the local public middle school, untouched by the weight of expectation. They would be free to pursue their own happiness—not through discipline, nor through victory, but through the quiet simplicity of joy.The education system was a study in contradictions.On one hand, it championed "happy education"—an idealistic philosophy that placed joy, curiosity, and creativity at the heart of learning. On the other, it was ruthlessly selective, wielding the scalpel of elimination with cold precision, carving a divide between the exceptional and the ordinary.At the center of this paradox lay the SATs—the National Primary School Completion Examination—a singular test that stood as both a gateway and a guillotine.For every 11-year-old student in the country, this was the moment of reckoning. A gauntlet that had to be passed, an unyielding threshold between childhood and the future. In any given year, only 30% to 50% would make the cut.And this test determined more than just grades.It was a key—one that unlocked or barred the doors to secondary education, shaping not only academic prospects but entire futures. In a single examination, a child’s path could be rewritten, their fate steered by a few numbers on a score sheet.Beneath the warmth of encouragement, beneath the illusion of boundless opportunity, lay the unspoken truth:Not all would move forward. Not all were meant to. For those fortunate enough to succeed, the next choice lay before them. But the divide between the elite and the ordinary was vast—a chasm, not a step.On one side stood Eton College, St. Paul’s College—institutions not merely of education, but of legacy. Their doors did not open for everyone. Their standards were unforgiving, their selection deliberate. But for those who passed through their halls, the gates of Oxford and Cambridge swung wide, welcoming nearly half their graduates into the highest echelons of British academia.As for the rest—those who did not quite fit the mold, who were brilliant yet not chosen—they would go abroad, seeking knowledge in other prestigious institutions, yet always slightly outside the pinnacle of British achievement.Vytenis stood amidst his parents’ unrestrained joy, a quiet smile playing on his lips. The path he had so carefully laid in his mind was unfolding, piece by piece, reality bending to meet his expectations.Eton was secured.Cambridge or Oxford were no longer distant possibilities, but inevitabilities.His thoughts stretched forward, imagining the years ahead: the laboratories, the thrill of discovery, the long nights consumed by research, the exhilaration of seeing his name in a core scientific journal. And beyond that, the moment he would stand before the world, beneath the gleam of the Nobel Prize podium, immortalizing his name among the greatest minds of his time.It was comforting. A vision not of dreams, but of certainty.The future had already been shaped by his knowledge.And yet, at times, fate seemed to play its cruel tricks on him.As Vytenis continued his walk through the yard, something else caught his eye—another letter.It was different.The parchment was heavy in his hands, its surface textured with an almost ancient weight. His name was written in emerald-green ink, each letter flowing with a precision that felt deliberate, as though the act of addressing it had carried meaning in itself. The absence of a stamp—a detail so small, yet so unnervingly deliberate—sent a ripple of unease through him, something subtle but undeniable.His breath came a fraction quicker, his fingers betraying a faint tremor as he turned the envelope over.
And then he saw it.
The wax seal, catching the morning light—a shield, intricate and deliberate, its four corners occupied by creatures coiled protectively around a bold, capital H . A lion, an eagle, a badger, a snake.Vytenis had seen this emblem before, in passing—a fleeting image, a half-forgotten symbol buried somewhere in his memory. But here, now, in the cool weight of his hands, it was something else entirely.For a long moment, he stood rooted to the spot.The letter seemed to pulse in his grasp, its presence as real and heavy as the air thickening around him. His pulse quickened, a quiet, insistent unease settling deep in his gut.This was no ordinary piece of correspondence.And it was certainly not from Eton College.With an unsteady hand, Vytenis broke the seal.His heart pounded—each beat loud, insistent, echoing in his ears like a drum calling him toward something he did not yet understand. Slowly, he unfurled the letter, his eyes scanning the words, drinking them in, yet failing to fully grasp their meaning.A chill swept through him.His mind stilled—not in clarity, but in disorientation—as if, for a brief moment, the very axis of his world had tilted. And then, before he could stop himself, before he could contain the sharp, sudden wave of emotion rising in his chest, the words tore from his lips.
“Fuck you.”
The syllables landed with force, jagged and unrestrained—an expletive that felt almost foreign coming from him, unnatural in its rawness. It was not anger alone that shaped it, but a tangled, suffocating mess of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and, above all, an all-consuming uncertainty.The world around him seemed to constrict, pressing inward, closing off, as if the weight of the letter had somehow extended beyond the paper, folding itself around him, binding him to something unseen.He stood there, motionless.
As if the letter were alive in his hands.
As if the ink had already rewritten his path.
The future—his future—had just shifted.
But to what end, he had no idea.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

For a time traveler, meticulously poised to plunge into the world of scientific discovery, his heart aligned with the relentless march of progress, his mind sharpened by the fervor of intellectual pursuit and the heady drive for advancement—For a time traveler whose every waking hour had been shaped by the singular pursuit of knowledge, who had poured over journals labyrinthine in their complexity, who had spent ten years weaving the fabric of his destiny with deliberate, painstaking precision—For a time traveler who, before the age of eleven, had already peered into the core of human discovery, traced the paths of great minds before him, studied theories not as aspirations but as truths already written into the marrow of his being—What, then, could be the cruelest blow dealt to him?What twist of fate could shatter the foundation of a future so meticulously charted?What force, unseen yet insurmountable, could tear through the certainty of a life already lived?It was, unmistakably, this—To be told that the world into which he had been reborn, the world he had placed his faith in, the world he had meticulously prepared for, was not one of sterile science, but one of magic.A world where wands held greater power than microscopes, where potions eclipsed formulas, where alchemy supplanted chemistry, and the empirical bowed before the arcane.A world where every conviction he had nurtured, every vision he had so carefully cultivated, was stripped of meaning in an instant. His ambitions—his dreams of pioneering breakthroughs, of pushing the frontiers of human knowledge—tossed aside like discarded research notes, crumpled under the weight of irrelevance.His worldview—a structure of logic and reason, built brick by brick, unwavering in its foundations—came crashing down with a single, unthinkable revelation.The agony of it was impossible to name.Was it despair?A slow, creeping numbness coiling through him like frost, hollowing him out from within?Or was it something far worse—an abstraction too vast to grasp, an overwhelming sense of futility, of powerlessness?The cruel realization that he was no longer the architect of his own fate, but merely a figure drawn into a narrative not of his own making.That the world was not his to shape, not his to understand, but something unknowable, chaotic—forever beyond his control. With shaking hands, trembling as though the letter itself might betray him further, Vytenis Hart—the boy who had never asked for this, the boy who had never signed up for magic—opened the fourth and final letter.— Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:
Albus Dumbledore (President of the International Confederation of Magic, Head of the Wizarding Association, First-Class Magician of the Order of Merlin).
Dear Mr. Hart,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to study at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment. Term is scheduled to begin on September 1. We will be waiting for your owl to bring you your reply by July 31.
Sincerely,
Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. —The words blurred before his eyes. Each sentence—each impossibility—more incomprehensible than the last.The cold, metallic certainty that had shaped his world—his careful plans, his determination to forge his own path, the scientific precision with which he had laid the foundation of his future—was disintegrating before him.This was no ordinary letter.The ink was real, the parchment weighted, the seals intact—but none of it made sense. None of it belonged.The moment he read the words, something in the air shifted. The ground beneath him—the world he had built, the reality he had so carefully curated—began to slip away.It was 1992.How could this be happening now?This letter, this world—it should not exist.And yet, here it was, tangible, undeniable.His certainty—his grip on logic itself—began to fracture. He could already feel the tremors creeping through his thoughts, breaking apart the rigid structure of everything he had known to be true.It wasn’t just the existence of magic he had to accept.It was the time. The context. The consequences.He stood frozen, heart racing, realization cold and absolute. This—the letter, the magic, the world itself—was real.Yet still, it couldn’t be. He had known his trajectory—his life’s work, his purpose. He had laid it out like an academic blueprint, each step meticulously plotted.But now—
Now, the script was no longer his own.
His fingers trembled as he loosened his grip, staring at the letter as though it had become the heaviest thing in the world."What's wrong, honey?"His mother’s voice—soft, yet suddenly piercing—cut through the haze of his thoughts."Nothing… nothing…" Vytenis murmured, his voice tight, his fingers still locked around the letter, his grip feverish. He handed it to her without meeting her gaze—not because he doubted her, but because he doubted the world itself.Because once she saw the words, once they all did, the illusion of certainty would break.Eric and Judy stood frozen.For a long moment, they only stared, their expressions shifting from confusion to something deeper, something closer to incredulity. The silence between them stretched—vast, impassable, a chasm neither of them knew how to cross.Then, after hurried murmurs, after the shared weight of disbelief settled over them, his father’s voice finally shattered the quiet—sharp and desperate, like a hammer through glass."I think this must be a prank!"Eric’s tone, so often grounded in certainty, now carried a tremor—a hesitation that betrayed the fact that even he did not fully believe his own words."Yes, what this letter says is too bizarre," Judy added, her voice rising in pitch, thin with unease. "A magic school? How is that even possible?"Vytenis let out a breath—not laughter, not frustration, but something in between, something bitter and knowing.He had seen this unfold before. He had known exactly how they would react. Because how else could they?His previous life—his work, his studies—had been built upon logic, precision, reason. Yet here he stood, holding undeniable proof that all of it had been incomplete.Magic.Wasn’t it just a fairy tale?No.No, it was his reality.And soon, whether he wanted to or not, he would have no choice but to let it consume him.Vytenis stood there, watching his parents in their stunned confusion, but already, the world outside felt distant. Fading into the background, blurred by the sheer weight of what this moment meant.Because the real question was no longer whether they would believe.It was how long it would take before they, too, had no choice.And then—before he could speak, before the air had settled—there came a knock at the door."Are there guests coming?"Judy, ever the graceful hostess, smoothed the fabric of her apron with a light touch, her fingers grazing the material with habitual precision. There was no urgency in her movements, only the quiet assurance of someone accustomed to presenting herself with effortless composure.As she stepped toward the door, it swung open—and before her stood a figure both unfamiliar and strikingly out of place.A woman.Rigid in posture, wrapped in an air of unspoken authority, yet carrying herself with a formality that did not extend to warmth. Her glasses, sharp and angular, framed her face with a feline severity, their rigid lines amplifying the precision of her gaze. A cloak of deep emerald green draped over her shoulders, its fabric flowing yet disciplined, while her black hair, gathered into a severe bun, only added to the no-nonsense weight of her presence.And when she spoke, her voice was a study in restraint—measured, deliberate, striking the air like a well-crafted sentence, direct and unyielding."Excuse me, are you Mr. Vytenis Hart’s guardian?"Judy, a woman who had met all manner of visitors in her lifetime, held her ground with the same placid grace she always carried. If this stranger had come with the intent to unsettle, she would find little room for it here."Hello, I’m his mother," Judy replied, her voice soft yet unwavering. "Who are you?"The woman straightened slightly, as if even her name carried weight."Minerva McGonagall," she declared—not an introduction, but a statement.Her tone was clipped, efficient, devoid of pleasantries."I am a professor."Vytenis, who had been quietly observing from the threshold, shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of the exchange.His gaze flickered toward the middle-aged woman, studying the sharp lines of her expression—the air of unyielding seriousness that clung to her like an extra layer of fabric. Too severe to be real, almost theatrical in its precision.And then—recognition struck.A sudden, jarring realization that sent a ripple through his mind.The “wild cat.”The one he had shooed away by the mailbox earlier that morning.How had he missed it?The same piercing eyes, unwavering and sharp. The same no-nonsense demeanor, assessing, dissecting, seeing far more than they should.Before he could dwell on it further, Judy’s voice filled the air, bright and welcoming, cutting through the tension like a warm breeze sweeping into a cold room."Oh, welcome, welcome!"Her face lit up instantly, a soft radiance spilling across her features—as if the mere presence of a guest, any guest, was enough to brighten her world. With practiced ease, she gestured warmly, the embodiment of hospitality itself, inviting the woman inside with the same effortless grace she extended to all visitors."Excuse me, are you from Eton College?"For a fleeting moment, something unreadable passed over McGonagall’s face—a flicker of something between confusion and mild irritation. Her brows knitted together, and with a small, measured shake of her head, she corrected Judy with an air of restrained exasperation."What? No, I work for Hogwarts.""Hogwarts?"Judy echoed the word, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking it aloud might somehow make it more tangible—as though it were something foreign, just beyond the veil of her understanding.Eric, who had remained still until now, suddenly sprang to life. His eyes darted toward the letter clutched in his hands, scanning its contents as though they might rearrange themselves into something comprehensible. And then, as if struck by an unseen force, realization dawned."Wait!"The word burst from him—startled, uneven, too loud for the moment. He looked up, his expression caught between disbelief and something almost laughable in its suddenness."You mean… Professor McGonagall? Hogwarts?"He let out a breathless, incredulous chuckle—one that carried no real amusement."Is this some kind of prank?"The words stumbled from his lips, each one more unsteady than the last, as though he was unsure whether he was truly speaking or merely caught in some strange dream, woven together by the sheer impossibility of it all.Professor McGonagall remained composed.But just barely.Her lips curled—not quite a smirk, yet something close to disdain, something that suggested she had heard this reaction far too many times before.Her gaze, sharp as ever, found Eric’s."Of course," she replied, her voice edged with the kind of certainty that allowed no room for argument."Hogwarts is a school for those with special talents. A magic school. It has a history spanning over a thousand years."The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.Judy visibly paled.Her hands, now clutching the edges of her apron, trembled slightly. Her voice, when it came, rose in a quiet panic—as though speaking it aloud might make it any less surreal."So, what you mean is... what's written in the letter is true?"Professor McGonagall’s expression softened, just slightly.But beneath the composed exterior, the sharpness remained—a quiet certainty that this was merely the first of many impossible truths they would have to accept."As ordinary people, it is understandable that you do not know magic," she began, her voice measured, careful. "But…"She did not finish the sentence.Before Judy could reply, the air in the room shifted.A presence—solid, assured—vanished in an instant.Judy let out a sharp, startled gasp, her breath catching in her throat. The professor—who had stood there so firmly, so impossibly real just moments ago—was gone.In her place, a tabby cat now sat, sleek and dignified, its fur marked with faint, deliberate stripes.But it was the eyes that made Judy stumble back.Sharp, piercing—unmistakable.The same eyes.The same intelligence, the same quiet scrutiny, watching, assessing, waiting."What… is going on?"Eric’s voice faltered—ragged, uncertain, disbelieving. Words, so often his allies, now failed him. He had never spoken with such incoherence, as if the very fabric of his reality was unraveling thread by thread before his eyes.The tabby did not flinch.It did not hesitate.With an air of regal certainty, it strode into the room—a creature that moved not as an animal, but as something greater, something aware.Then, with a single, fluid motion, it leapt—And mid-air, the impossible happened.The feline form twisted, elongated—fur giving way to fabric, paws stretching into fingers, the arch of a back unfolding into human form.And just like that, Professor McGonagall stood before them once more.Unshaken. Unmoved. As if nothing at all had happened."There," she said, her voice even—but beneath it, a whisper of amusement."Magic does exist."Silence clung to the room, thick and inescapable.Then, McGonagall’s gaze settled on Vytenis.He had not moved, had not spoken. He stood at the edge of the room—trapped between two worlds, caught in the weight of a moment that refused to let him go.Something in her expression shifted, softened."Mr. Hart," she began, her voice quieter now—gentle, yet unwavering."Unlike your parents, you are no ordinary person.You are a natural-born wizard.To join Hogwarts will allow you to truly harness your remarkable talent."

Vytenis stood there, motionless, his face frozen in disbelief—as though the very air around him had thickened, trapping him in the weight of the moment.The words lingered, echoing in his mind, as though they had yet to fully take root.Professor McGonagall watched him carefully, her sharp gaze assessing, measuring.She had seen this before—many times before.Muggle-borns often stumbled beneath the weight of their heritage, caught between the world they had always known and the one that had just revealed itself to them. The shock, the disbelief, the quiet unraveling of everything familiar—. And so, with patience woven into her voice, she pressed forward."Perhaps you still doubt what I have said, Mr. Hart."Her tone was steady, but there was an edge of gentleness, a note of understanding."But tell me this—have you ever experienced anything… unusual? Something strange that happens when you’re afraid or angry?"Vytenis’s mind whirred.Extraordinary talent… Could it be?His sharp memory, his ability to recall even the most minute details with flawless precision—was this magic? A gift? Was he… a Memory Magus?The thought took hold, winding through his mind like a thread of fate, pulling forth fragments of moments—memories of things that should not have been possible.Times when, in moments of intense emotion, odd things had occurred—things he had dismissed, rationalized, buried beneath the weight of logic.Because he had never allowed himself to believe.Because he was not like other children.His mind, aged far beyond his years, had always kept him grounded, controlled, detached. He did not lose himself to emotion. He did not falter.And yet—Could his gift have been there all along, waiting?Was he truly a wizard?A Mudblood—born of Muggles, yet destined for a world unseen? A world where magic was not a story, but a force woven into the very fabric of existence?Vytenis felt the question settle deep within him, stirring something uncertain, restless, undeniable.Professor McGonagall, keenly observing the subtle shifts in his expression, recognized the conflict that had begun to take root. Rising from her seat, she regarded him with quiet intensity—not pressing, not demanding, but waiting."Mr. Hart," she said, her voice carrying the full weight of the moment. "Now is the time for you and your parents to decide. Do you wish to come to Hogwarts and become a true wizard?"She let the words linger, allowing them to settle, to take hold.Then, with practiced composure, she continued."The list of books and supplies you will need has been included in the letter. All of it can be found in Diagon Alley, in London."From the folds of her cloak, she withdrew a slender object—a wand, its polished surface catching the light as she lifted it with quiet precision.With a single, effortless flick—Words etched themselves onto the wall.
[117 Charing Cross Road, Westminster, London.]
She turned back to them, her expression unreadable."Goodbye, Mr. Hart. Mrs. Hart."Her voice, though curt, carried with it a finality—not unkind, but deliberate, like the closing of a chapter.Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.And just like that, she was gone.The air settled into silence.For a moment, Judy only stood there, frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Then, as if breaking free from some unseen force, she rushed toward the door—but there was nothing.No lingering presence. No trace of footsteps.Only emptiness.She stared into it, the absence of the professor feeling more impossible than her arrival.A quiet, stunned breath left her lips."Is this… is this a dream?"The words were spoken softly, almost hesitantly—as if saying them aloud might somehow reshape reality, might tether her back to something understandable.Vytenis, still standing where she had left him, let out a breath that was almost a laugh—amused, resigned, yet tinged with something else.He turned to his mother, his lips curling into a faint, wry smile."Mom," he said, voice laced with quiet certainty."I don’t think so. It’s impossible that all three of us had the same dream."–Half an hour later, the steady hum of the car’s engine merged seamlessly with the quiet churn of Vytenis’s thoughts.The roads wound their way toward London, each turn measured, each mile passing with quiet inevitability.At the wheel, Mr. Eric Hart remained composed—his hands gripping the steering wheel with practiced precision, his expression unreadable. A man navigating more than just the road ahead.In the backseat, Vytenis sat in silence.Not the silence of stillness, but one dense with thought—a mind adrift, pulled by currents both familiar and foreign.Southampton was only two hours from London, yet in that small span of time, it felt as though he were crossing into another world entirely.The quiet of the car offered him space—space to reflect, to unravel, to confront the impossible.Science and magic. Reality and myth.Two forces, clashing within him, neither willing to yield.For so long, he had lived in the realm of logic, of discovery, of unshakable certainty. And yet, here he was, being pulled toward something wholly unexplainable, unquantifiable.The words of Shakespeare surfaced in his mind, whispering like a ghost from another time:"Magic or science? That is the question."Was it?Or had the choice already been made for him?Did he even have a path left to choose?Despite the overwhelming sense of the unknown, Vytenis knew there was no real choice to be made.The wizarding world—however strange, however unexpected—was now his reality.No longer a question of belief, no longer a matter of acceptance. Simply fact.And yet, as his mind drifted through the vast, uncharted expanse of magic, he found himself grasping at the extraordinary, the impossible, the limitless potential that lay ahead.Power.Not in the crude, grasping sense—but in the raw, untapped force that existed in this world.It was a power unlike anything he had ever studied, unlike any principle he had encountered in science. A force capable of warping reality, defying logic, bending time, and reshaping destiny itself.Take the Philosopher’s Stone—a mere stone, and yet, within its unassuming form, the secret to immortality. A relic of unimaginable power, its existence alone rendering centuries of scientific pursuit obsolete.Or the Time Turner—so simple in appearance, yet capable of turning back the very fabric of time without consequence. A paradox given shape, a defiance of every fundamental law he once held sacred.And then, Felix Felicis—the Lucky Potion.An elixir that did not merely bring fortune, but reshaped fate itself. A liquid embodiment of certainty, of invincibility, of absolute success.A world where luck was not random, where time was not linear, where death itself could be undone.It was a world of extraordinary possibilities—each more unfathomable than the last.And now, it was his to explore.The gap between where science stood and where magic now thrived felt like an insurmountable chasm.The greatest feats of science, no matter how extraordinary, could hardly hold a candle to what wizards wielded as second nature—to spells cast with a mere flick of the wrist, to forces that defied reason and redefined the limits of possibility.And yet—there was an unsettling truth to reckon with.Even the most accomplished wizards, for all their mystique, their centuries of accumulated knowledge, their spells woven through history itself, had been criticized for their lack of raw power. Their magic, though potent, was not absolute.Their wands, their incantations—tools of unparalleled force—were bound by something deeper than ability.By regulation.By restraint.The Ministry of Magic, in its unyielding control, had shackled destructive magic—taming it, regulating it, confining it to a system where the true extent of wizarding power remained carefully suppressed.And yet, slivers of truth slipped through the cracks.Peter Pettigrew—a name forever stained with betrayal—had, with nothing more than a flick of his wand, reduced half a street to ruin.And Gregory Goyle—no, Crabbe? No matter. A boy barely competent, a mind unremarkable, a name forgettable. Yet, he had conjured Fiendfyre—an infernal flame so wild, so ravenous, that it had consumed the very embodiment of immortality itself. Horcrux, relics of dark mastery, were nothing before it.And these were not the best of them.They were not prodigies, not legends, not names that would echo in history.They were the overlooked, the expendable, the weak. And yet, even their crude, barely mastered displays of magic were enough to reveal a chilling reality.The true destructive potential of magic had never been fully reckoned with.It had been suppressed, contained, underestimated.But power, by its very nature, does not stay hidden forever.Vytenis Hart, in the face of such revelations, could no longer afford to dismiss the world of magic as mere folly.There was no denying it now.Magic was real.And with that single, inescapable truth, all previous plans for his life lay in ruins—discarded like failed experiments, the remnants of a past that no longer belonged to him.Rebuilding would be necessary.He stood at an unfamiliar crossroads, where the future—once rigid, once meticulously plotted—had become something fluid, malleable, uncertain.Magic demanded his attention now.To ignore it was no longer an option, not when even the dim-witted, the careless, the utterly unremarkable students at Hogwarts could summon powers that far outstripped the greatest minds of science.The stars of this world burned brighter than anything he had ever imagined.And at the center of it all stood Harry Potter.A boy whose name had been whispered as legend before he had even arrived.And yet—in the cold, analytical light of observation, he was nothing extraordinary.A mediocre student, average in skill in some, unremarkable in intellect. And yet, the universe itself seemed to bend around him.He was the Quidditch captain.His closest friend would one day be a prefect.It was evident in the very air around them—they were marked, untouchable, guided by a force far greater than talent alone.And so, Vytenis recognized his second, most vital task:Stay far, far away from the three main characters.From the moment Harry Potter set foot in Hogwarts, his life became a procession of the impossible.In his first year—a three-headed dog, a beast of myth hidden beneath a trapdoor.By his second, a basilisk, a creature whose gaze could petrify souls, steal breath, turn life into stone.In the third, a werewolf and a hundred Dementors, their skeletal fingers stretching toward the very essence of his being.By the fourth, it was dragons, mermaids, sphinxes—and then, inevitably, Voldemort himself.Each year, each challenge, more perilous than the last.By all logic, he should not have survived.And yet—he did.One might call it luck, an absurd twist of fate tipping ever in his favor. Or perhaps, more accurately, an alarming disregard for self-preservation.Because without the protagonist’s halo, surely a dozen resurrection coins would have been spent along the way.But Vytenis?He had no such golden aura.No invisible hand guiding him through fire, bending reality to his favor, ensuring he walked away from every trial with only scars to tell the tale.And St. Mungo’s Hospital, for all its famed healers and miraculous potions, had yet to develop the magic of resurrection.No—Vytenis understood quickly, almost instinctively, that the key to survival was not found in seeking danger, but in avoiding it.Self-preservation was not cowardice. It was intelligence.The best way to contribute, to be of use, was to remain alive.And to do that, he would need to keep his distance—not just from the chaos that surrounded Harry Potter, but from the dangerous forces that seemed drawn to him like moths to an open flame. According to the timeline, Vytenis should have begun his first year when Harry Potter and his friends were in their second.A precarious position.A delicate crossroads where caution would serve him far better than bravery.Because by now, Ginny Weasley was no longer merely a bright-eyed first-year.By now, she had already fallen under Voldemort’s influence.By now, she had already begun opening the Chamber of Secrets—unleashing the basilisk upon Hogwarts.And Vytenis?It was not his responsibility to stop her.Not in his first year. Not ever, if he had his way.Such acts of heroism required a courage he did not possess, nor did he particularly aspire to. If anything, he intended to remain the passive observer—content to watch from the sidelines, untouched, unentangled.But Ginny Weasley was not the only one to avoid.There was also Dumbledore.The legendary Headmaster, the ever-watchful guardian of Hogwarts, a man whose presence alone could shift the course of history.And Vytenis wanted nothing to do with him.Because proximity to power—especially a power as deep and unfathomable as Dumbledore’s—was a risk all on its own.And risks, in a world like this, could be deadly.But Vytenis’s reasons for avoiding the Headmaster ran deeper still.It was not just Dumbledore’s influence that unsettled him, nor the complications that came with standing too close to a man who played the long game better than anyone else.It was Legilimency.Dumbledore was a master of it.A skill that allowed him to dive into the recesses of one’s mind, sift through the shadows of thought, unearth the secrets buried beneath careful words and measured expressions.And Vytenis?A mere first-year could hardly afford to meet that gaze.Because one look—just one—might be all it took.To strip him bare.To reveal everything.And if Dumbledore discovered the truth—that he was not what he seemed, that he had lived before, that he carried knowledge no child should possess—What then?Would the old wizard pull him into some grand scheme, twist him into another piece on his endless chessboard?Would he attempt to fold Vytenis into the so-called 'Potter Development Plan'?Or worse?The very thought sent a shiver down his spine.No.Vytenis would keep his distance.From Ginny. From Dumbledore. From anything and anyone that threatened to pull him deeper into the chaos of this world.Because in a place where secrets had weight and attention was dangerous, the only path to survival was to remain unseen.If Vytenis played his cards right—kept to the shadows, blended in, never stepping too far into the light—he would likely escape Dumbledore’s notice.An ordinary wizard from a Muggle background, unremarkable in every way. Hardly a threat.And that was precisely what he needed to be.If he spent the next few years carefully mastering Occlumency, shielding his mind like an iron vault, he would be free to walk his own path—unwatched, untouched, unburdened by magical scrutiny.Of course, there were other concerns.By his second year, Vytenis had already formulated an escape plan for full-moon nights.Because Severus Snape’s Wolfsbane Potion—for all its promise—had yet to undergo proper double-blind trials.There was always the possibility that it wouldn’t work as intended, that something in its formulation might fail, that a dose might be missed, that a night might turn unforgiving.And the last thing Vytenis needed was to cross paths with a werewolf.Some risks were simply not worth taking.Then, of course, there were the Dementors.Dumbledore had ensured that they would not be allowed on school grounds, overriding the Ministry’s usual oversight. Even those stationed at the perimeter had been placed under strict orders.Still, Vytenis knew better than to rely on someone else’s restraint.The Patronus Charm—yes, that would be wise to learn.If nothing else, a silver light might be enough to keep the encroaching darkness at bay.By his third year, the Triwizard Tournament would present the perfect opportunity.Plans needed to be made.A rapport with Madame Maxime, Beauxbatons’ formidable Headmistress, could prove invaluable.Because if things progressed as they inevitably would—if Voldemort rose again, if Britain became a battlefield of shadows and war—Vytenis would have options.And Paris, far from the coming storm, had its appeal.Ilvermorny, perhaps. A quieter exile, an ocean away.Durmstrang? Absolutely not.The thought alone was enough to send a chill down his spine.What if Voldemort’s forces descended upon the school?What if the entire institution was wiped out in a single stroke?No—Beauxbatons. Or Ilvermorny. Those were the only rational choices.Somewhere safe. Somewhere untouched.Somewhere to wait out the storm.Because by the time Vytenis reached his sixth year, he would be in a position to make a real difference.To return—not as a child caught in the crossfire, but as a force.A leader. A strategist. Someone who knew what was coming, who had prepared.He could rally a group of volunteers—Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, those willing to stand against the tide.And when the time came, when the war reached its crescendo, when the final battle for Britain’s future began—He would be there.With a bit of luck—perhaps a carefully measured dose of Felix Felicis—Vytenis could navigate the battlefield, slip through the chaos, and emerge on the other side.Stronger. Wiser.–"117 Charing Cross Road, Westminster, London… I think we’ve arrived."Eric, glancing at his notebook, eased the car to a stop.Vytenis sat in the backseat, silent, watchful, his gaze drifting past the tinted windows of the car.And there it was.A curious little establishment, nestled inconspicuously between a large, dust-laden bookstore on one side and a record shop worn by time on the other.The Leaky Cauldron. The sign above the door was faded, weathered, bearing the quiet marks of centuries past—as though it had endured not just the passage of time, but the weight of secrets too heavy to be seen.A place that existed both within and apart from the world.Eric hesitated. His eyes scanned the sign, doubt flickering in his gaze, as though searching for some silent confirmation that this was real."Is this the place?" His voice wavered, uncertainty threading through his words.Vytenis didn’t look away from the door.He simply gave a small nod, the gesture quiet, measured—not of certainty, but of acceptance. "Probably," he murmured.And then—as if conjured from some forgotten corner of reality—a man appeared before them.His head was nearly bald, his skin stretched thin and wrinkled like the shell of an ancient walnut. Yet, for all the years etched into his face, his movements were swift, deliberate, silent, as though he had long mastered the art of slipping through the world unnoticed."Hello, gentlemen!" His voice carried the weight of a thousand conversations, rough and knowing, as though it had echoed through these walls long before they had stepped inside."I am Tom, the owner of the Leaky Cauldron." For a moment, the man studied them—and in that moment, Vytenis felt the scrutiny settle upon him like an unseen weight.Then, an eyebrow lifted."Muggle?" The word was muttered more than spoken, barely more than an exhale, as though it had been pulled from his lips by habit rather than curiosity.And yet, when his gaze rose to meet Eric’s, it sharpened—watchful, assessing.A beat of silence.Then, a shift."New student at Hogwarts?"The question came not as an inquiry, but as a statement of inevitability—as though the answer had been written upon Vytenis before he had even spoken.Vytenis did not hesitate.For all the unfamiliarity of this world, for all the strangeness pressing in at the edges of his reality, the words left him with an ease that surprised even himself."Yes, sir." His voice was steady."I’m Vytenis Hart, a freshman at Hogwarts. This is my father. He doesn’t know magic."For a moment, Tom only watched him, the weight of his stare lingering—not unkind, yet not entirely welcoming, either.Then, the barkeep’s lips pulled into a thin, almost toothless smile.It was a smile that did not quite belong, that sat strangely upon his face—a gesture meant to be reassuring, yet settling uncomfortably somewhere between knowing and unsettling."I think you’ll be wanting to go to Diagon Alley, then," he murmured, his voice lowering just slightly.There was something in his tone—a whisper of secrecy, an unspoken understanding that this was no ordinary conversation.He turned."Please, follow me." Without another word, Tom led them past the bar, weaving through the dimly lit interior where the air carried the scent of old wood and something far older still—something timeworn, something forgotten.They stepped outside, emerging into a small, neglected courtyard.The pavement was cracked, the stones uneven, weeds clinging stubbornly to the edges as if refusing to let go.A lone trash can sat in the middle of the space, absurdly placed—not discarded, but positioned, as though it were the silent guardian of this forgotten world.Tom stopped.His voice, when he spoke, was colder now—more cryptic, tinged with something unreadable."Count three on top of the trash can," he instructed. "Two across it… and knock three times." Then, without waiting, he turned away—his shoulders slumped, weighed down by something unseen."I still have to look after my bar," he muttered over his shoulder."Good luck, Mr. Hart… and Mr. Muggle."And then he was gone.Vytenis exhaled, rolling the instructions over in his mind, the rhythm of the sequence settling into his thoughts.Three up—two down—He whispered it under his breath, his fingers tapping against the rough surface of the brick wall.He waited.A moment passed.Nothing.No shift, no tremor, no hidden mechanism clicking into place. The wall stood silent, unmoved, as indifferent as ever.A quiet, creeping frustration tightened around his chest.“What’s going on?” The words escaped before he could stop them, his voice edged with irritation.This was how Hagrid had done it.Three taps, a twist, and voilà—Diagon Alley.But this?Nothing.Eric, ever the optimist, stepped forward, mirroring Vytenis’s movements—three swift taps, fingers pressing against the stone as if sheer determination could unlock its secrets. Still, no response.Vytenis’s brow furrowed deeper, his mind racing.Wait…Hagrid had used his umbrella.A wand.Magic.But Vytenis had no wand, no spell, nothing to mark him as anything more than a non-magical boy in a magical world. Was that it? Was that the missing piece?A flicker of frustration bubbled beneath his skin, tightening into something sharp, something almost absurd. He had prepared for so much—anticipated, strategized, accounted for every possible variable—and yet he had overlooked something as simple as this.Just as he was about to turn back—to call for Tom, to demand a more traditional method, to reevaluate the very fabric of his expectations—A sound.Boots.Leather against cobblestone, steady, purposeful, unhurried.Vytenis looked up.A middle-aged man, sharply dressed, his glasses perched low on his nose, a briefcase swinging at his side as though this—this entire moment—was nothing more than another day in the city.He was humming.Nelson’s Song.As if the hidden world surrounding them was neither hidden nor remarkable at all."Dr. Granger?"Eric’s voice carried a note of surprise—a flicker of recognition, then warmth, the kind that softened the moment."Oh, God, Mr. Hart!" Dr. Granger adjusted his glasses, blinking in disbelief as his gaze landed on Eric."I can actually see you here." Eric let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. "I’m surprised too." The two men clasped hands, the familiarity between them settling into place as easily as an old habit.Pleasantries flowed—quick, effortless, the ease of old colleagues reconnecting in a place neither had expected to find the other.Then, as if recalling something important, Dr. Granger reached into his briefcase. With practiced ease, he withdrew a small wooden stick—plain, unassuming, almost too humble for the moment.And yet, when he lifted it—when he tapped the wall twice with a quiet flourish—The air itself seemed to shift.Vytenis watched, his mind catching on the sight, on the impossibility of it all, even as the bricks began to tremble.Stone shifted.The wall—once solid, once immutable—parted.A single hole, small at first, then widening, expanding, the opening stretching until it became a grand archway, revealing—Diagon Alley.The street unfurled before them—narrow, winding, cobbled in ancient stone, every turn whispering with the quiet promise of the unknown. Dr. Granger turned back, his expression touched with a small, knowing smile."I assume, Mr. Hart, you’re here for Diagon Alley as well?"Eric, still somewhat baffled, returned the grin."Diagon Alley, it seems," he echoed.Then, after a beat, he added, "I didn’t expect you to be a wizard, Dr. Granger."The mention of wizardry caught Vytenis’s attention. This was no longer just a matter of magic—this was personal.Eric, ever the conversationalist, continued, "Dr. Wendell Granger is a well-known dentist in London. We’ve worked together on a few cases—old friends."Dr. Granger chuckled, shaking his head."Me? A wizard?" The words were met with a wry smile, a shake of the head—then, a pause, a shrug."No, my daughter is a wizard."Vytenis felt the shift—the weight of a name unspoken yet known.Dr. Granger continued, "I just took her suggestion for a second-hand wand that I can use to get into Diagon Alley. And, well, you should feel the same way, Mr. Hart."Eric nodded sagely, still smiling."This is my son, Vytenis. He was admitted to a magic school called ‘Hogwarts.’"Vytenis, still absorbing the strangeness of everything, offered his hand—polite, yet reserved.Dr. Granger, noticing the boy’s cautious demeanor, offered a warm smile—the kind that softened edges, that eased the weight of unfamiliarity."My daughter is also at Hogwarts," he said. "She was admitted last year. I'm taking her to buy a new robe and books. She asked me to meet her at Madam Malkin’s shop at three o’clock, so I have some time. I’ll show you around Diagon Alley first."A glance at his watch, a brief flicker of thought passing across his expression."I think I still have half an hour. Let’s make the most of it, shall we?"And so, the three of them stepped forward—crossing the threshold into the heart of Diagon Alley.An odd trio, to say the least—two men crisply attired in suits, and a boy dressed casually in sportswear.They were, by all accounts, an anomaly.As they passed through the crowded pub, surrounded by a sea of wizards cloaked in black robes, they stood out in a way that was impossible to ignore.A flicker of eyes, a murmur beneath breaths.It wasn’t often that such a blend of Muggle and wizard was seen so openly.Dr. Granger, however, seemed entirely unbothered.With an air of quiet amusement, he leaned slightly toward Vytenis, his voice low yet laced with a tinge of irony."You’ll find that wizards don’t interact with us much." A pause, a glance, a knowing smile."We’re called ‘Muggles’—though, frankly, I don’t think it’s a very polite term."Vytenis nodded, his gaze flickering over the unfamiliar world shifting around him, the strange, unspoken rules that dictated it.Mr. Granger, sensing the lingering discomfort in Vytenis’s expression, shifted the subject with practiced ease."Mr. Hart," he began, his tone measured, thoughtful. "I suggest we visit Gringotts first—the wizarding bank. That’s where you’ll exchange your Muggle pounds for wizarding currency. You can get 100 Galleons for a decent exchange rate of five to one."Vytenis’s brow lifted slightly."One hundred Galleons?" Curiosity flickered in his voice."Precisely."Mr. Granger’s response was smooth, unbothered by the strangeness of the world around them, as though he had long since learned to exist within it without truly belonging to it."The exchange rate is quite reasonable, though they cap it at 100 Galleons. But for a first-timer like you, it should be enough."He gestured ahead."Gringotts is just there."Vytenis followed his lead, his gaze lifting to the structure before them.A towering, snow-white building, standing in stark contrast to the rustic charm of Diagon Alley. Its gleaming façade did not belong among the crooked rooftops and aged storefronts—it loomed instead, pristine and unyielding, a monument to wealth, to power, to something more ancient than the street it watched over.At the entrance, a goblin stood guard.Sharp-eyed. Unmoving. Watching.His scarlet-and-gold uniform cut a striking contrast against the white marble, every detail crisp, immaculate—as though precision itself had been woven into its threads.Vytenis studied him.The goblin was shorter than he expected, his pointed ears peeking through dark hair, his uniform fitting him in a way that seemed almost intentional in its misfit—as though it had been sewn for a creature of greater stature, a silent declaration that size held no bearing on authority.His fingers, long and thin, peeked out from beneath his cuffs—tapered, sharp, resting at his sides as if waiting to grasp at something unseen.There was no mistaking it—this was not a mere banker."Welcome, Mr. Sampark."The goblin’s voice rang out, sharp and piercing, each syllable clipped with a precision that carried more authority than warmth."Are you here to withdraw from your vault?"His tone, though still edged with its usual sharpness, held something approaching politeness—a courtesy afforded not out of kindness, but of protocol.Vytenis watched as the wizard in front of them offered a nod and continued on, the brief moment of civility passing as swiftly as it had appeared.Then, as the goblin’s gaze shifted—falling upon Vytenis and Mr. Granger—the change was immediate.That faint politeness evaporated, replaced by a look that was something colder—not quite a sneer, but close enough to be felt.A subtle, refined sort of disdain."Two Muggles."The words were muttered under his breath, but not low enough to be missed.It was not a question.It was a judgment.Mr. Granger, ever unbothered, stepped forward with his usual ease—as if the goblin’s reaction were nothing more than a mild inconvenience, something so familiar it barely warranted acknowledgement."This is Mr. Vytenis Hart, a freshman at Hogwarts," he said, his voice calm but deliberate, the name placed carefully, almost as though attempting to elevate the boy’s standing in the goblin’s estimation."He’s here to exchange some Muggle currency for wizarding coins."A pause.The goblin’s thin eyes flicked back to Vytenis, scrutinizing him for a beat longer than necessary—then, just as quickly, dismissing him.With a curt motion, he waved them along."Find Borg." The words were clipped, cold, final."He’s in charge of this. Go inside and head to the sixth counter on the left."Vytenis hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering between Mr. Granger and the goblin before following Mr. Granger’s lead into the bank.Inside, Gringotts pulsed with activity, a machine of precise, mechanical efficiency. "Let’s go," Mr. Granger said, his voice laced with the faintest trace of irony."I warned you—we’re not the most welcome folk here."Vytenis said nothing. He didn’t need to.The unspoken weight of it all hung in the air, thick as the silence that followed them."Hello…" Eric cleared his throat—a small, almost reflexive gesture, as though trying to steady himself against the quiet hostility pressing in around them.The goblin before them—Borg, as the others had called him—did not so much as glance up from his ledger."You're here to exchange currency, yes?" His voice was flat, devoid of interest, barely more than a practiced recitation."Just give me a name."Eric hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but out of something else, something more human, something that seemed wholly out of place in this place of numbers and transactions."Vytenis Hart," he answered at last, the name leaving his lips with a faint edge of hesitation.It didn’t matter.Borg barely seemed to register it.With a slow, languid motion, he extended a thin, bony finger, tapping the account book before him."Seems to be on the list," he muttered—more to himself than anyone else."Alright, no problem…"Without pause, without thought, without even a flicker of acknowledgment, he extended two fingers, holding out a small purse—the gesture careless, almost dismissive, as if even the act of touching it was a mild inconvenience.Eric’s fingers twitched slightly, irritation flickering just beneath the surface, but he took the purse anyway.A brief pause.Then, reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a crisp £500 note, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, the weight of the moment pressing deeper.If the goblin noticed, he did not care.The bill was snatched from Eric’s grasp without so much as a glance.With an air of detached indifference, Borg tossed it into a locker behind him—discarded as though it were refuse, as though it held no more value than a scrap of paper carried in on the wind."Can it only be exchanged for 100 Galleons?" Vytenis’s voice was steady, but sharp, his gaze tracking the goblin’s every move—a quiet demand for explanation, for clarity.Borg finally lifted his head, his expression unreadable, though something in his demeanor shifted—just slightly."Yes, Mr. Hart," he replied. His tone was softer now, more accommodating, as if the weight of Vytenis’s attention had altered the dynamic between them."In fact, Hogwarts sponsors this fund. From the first year to the seventh, you'll be able to exchange this same amount annually at this time."A pause.Then, the goblin’s lips twitched—not quite a grin, not quite irritation, but something caught between the two."You don’t think those Muggle currencies would be of any real use to us, do you?" His voice remained casual, but beneath it, a layer of quiet disdain—a sentiment woven so seamlessly into his words that it might have been mistaken for simple conversation.And yet—the goblin had a point.For a wizard, acquiring Muggle money was hardly a challenge—whether through legal means or otherwise.And if the exchange rate between Galleons and pounds was ever allowed to fluctuate too freely, the consequences would be catastrophic.A simple transaction could blur the fragile boundary between two entirely separate worlds—one built on gold and parchment, the other on steel and paper.And from that blur, chaos would follow.Magic, after all, was never meant to be contained within something as fickle as currency.The trio emerged from Gringotts, stepping back into the world outside, the weight of the exchange still lingering between them—an unspoken tension, a reminder of the quiet divide between what was valuable and what was merely accepted.Mr. Granger glanced at his watch, a swift flick of his wrist, his expression shifting with the effortless ease of someone accustomed to measured schedules and well-planned afternoons."I believe it's nearly half past three…" He turned toward Vytenis, offering a smile—warm, inviting, the kind that left little room for refusal."Mr. Hart, would you like to accompany me to Madam Malkin’s robe shop? It might be a good opportunity for our children to meet before school starts."Vytenis hesitated.Only for a moment—a pause just long enough for consideration, for calculation, for the careful weighing of words.Then, with the practiced ease of someone far more measured than his age would suggest, he spoke. His tone was soft, polite, edged with the gentle reverence of youth."I’m truly honored, Mr. Granger," he began, his voice light, considerate, yet firm in its intent."But I think it’s a bit late now. I’d rather have my father take care of the robes and textbooks while I head over to the wand shop first… I heard from a wizard earlier that finding the right wand can take quite a while."He offered a small, almost apologetic smile, the faintest trace of embarrassment touching his expression—not out of uncertainty, but out of the necessity of declining an invitation given in goodwill."I imagine it won’t be long before I have the chance to meet Miss Granger at school. It’s just… a bit late today. I’m really sorry."Mr. Granger, ever the gracious man, inclined his head in understanding, his smile unfaltering."Of course, of course," he said, his voice carrying no hint of disappointment—only patience, only magnanimity."You’re right. The wand will take time. It’s not something you want to rush."His gaze drifted for a moment before settling ahead."The wand shop, I believe, is just over there."And with that, the moment passed—as smoothly as it had come.He glanced at Dr. Granger—still the jovial man, so unlike the stern, know-it-all figure his daughter would one day become.A soft chuckle escaped Vytenis’s lips—half in disbelief, half in something resembling regret.Could he—the time-traveling scientist, the man with a future once precise and calculated, defined by reason and research—really find himself caught up in a world of wands and enchantments?His last name is Granger.He is a dentist.And his daughter is a second-year student at Hogwarts.Vytenis was no fool. It did not take much to put the pieces together.He knew exactly who his daughter was.And yet, he had already made his choice.To keep his distance.To remain on the periphery of the story he knew far too well—to resist the pull of familiarity, the temptation of intertwining fates.Even so, he could not ignore the undeniable sense of déjà vu creeping over him. The Leaky Cauldron, the goblins, the silver gleam of Galleons beneath candlelight—it was all supposed to be fantasy.Nothing more than a story. A story he had read over and over again—one that had once felt distant, unreal, intangible.And yet, here he stood, living inside its pages.For a fleeting moment, his mind conjured ghosts of the past—the echoes of ink and parchment, of narratives he had once followed from the outside.
A young boy with a lightning scar.

A prophecy.

A dark lord who had risen again.

The war.

The magical creatures.
The tangled relationships that would define destinies, forge legends, shape the fabric of history itself.It was all coming, all inevitable, all already written.And Vytenis?He was not meant to be part of this tale.He shook his head, as if the act alone could banish the fog from his thoughts. There was no turning back now, was there?Whether he liked it or not, this was his world now. Harry Potter. Hogwarts. Magic.But it felt so surreal—like standing on the stage of a play he had already watched a thousand times.Only this time, the script was no longer in his hands. No matter whether they were Mr. Watsons or Miss Blacks—what did it have to do with him?Until he had truly mastered a certain level of magic, he had only one job.
To survive.
To keep his head down.And to remain unseen.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

After exchanging seven Galleons for the slim, elegant wand, Vytenis left Mr. Ollivander’s shop, the door closing behind him with a soft chime that felt like a quiet punctuation to his visit. The afternoon had slipped away unnoticed; more than an hour had passed within the dimly lit confines of Ollivander’s shop, his attention ensnared by the myriad of wands laid out before him—each one a whisper of its maker’s intention. But in the end, he was content. Satisfied, even.The wand, the one now tucked firmly in his grip, was worth every Galleon.Its jade bamboo frame felt natural, like an extension of his own hand, smooth but with just enough resistance to make him feel as if he could hold it forever. The texture, both firm and fluid, lent the wand an air of quiet strength. Different from the conventional oak, holly, or yew of other wands, this one seemed to possess something else entirely—an almost palpable resilience. A toughness, a sinewy strength that could bend but never break, like a bamboo stalk that could bend with the wind but would never yield to it.It was, in some strange way, more than just a tool for magic. It could be something more. Something far more practical.Vytenis’s fingers tightened around it, testing its grip once more, his gaze drifting briefly to the passersby on the busy cobblestone streets. If the need arose—should the circumstances turn... uncomfortable—he wouldn’t hesitate. The wand was sturdy enough. It could easily serve as a weapon. A melee weapon, even.The thought was both pragmatic and somewhat amusing, a small smirk curling at the edge of his lips. He could almost imagine the surprised looks of those who underestimated it—underestimated him—as he wielded it with purpose.With the task at Madam Malkin’s complete, Vytenis made his way through the bustling streets, the weight of the bag pressing against his shoulder with a steady, familiar insistence. He had expected to find Eric still lingering near the counters, but his father had already checked off most of his list.Vytenis glanced down at the sizable bag now resting against his side, the fabric shifting slightly as he adjusted his grip. It was a heavy thing, both in literal weight and significance. Inside, the items were packed with care, as though Madam Malkin herself had made each decision for him, each item a necessary step toward his future.Three sets of plain work robes, black as night, folded neatly, their edges crisp and precise. A black peaked hat for daytime wear, just as plain but undeniably practical. A pair of protective gloves—dragon hide, or something just as tough. A winter cloak, thick and warm, the silver fastenings gleaming faintly in the dim light. The essentials, the things that would mark his life at Hogwarts as ordinary.But then, the other items: A large pewter cauldron, its heft both solid and unremarkable, standard size 2, the kind that had likely graced hundreds of first-year students' arms. A set of crystal phials, glinting with the promise of experimentation. A telescope, its slender body tucked between layers of fabric like an afterthought, yet holding the weight of untold discoveries. A brass scale, gleaming and polished, but still, an object of function over form.All of it, practical, necessary.But still, there was one task left.Vytenis pulled out the crumpled supply list, unfolding it slowly, his eyes scanning over the names of textbooks that suddenly seemed as endless as the journey ahead. He read the titles, the letters on the paper growing heavier with each word. The Standard Book of Spells, Elementary —Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic —Bathilda Bagshot
Theory of Magic —Adelbert Wafflin
The Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration —Emery Swich
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi —Phyllidas Ball
Magical Pharmacy and Potions —Arseny GigerSix books in total. Six tomes that would shape his year. Six books that would weigh down his bag—his future.Vytenis sighed, a breath that carried the weight of more than just exhaustion. It was overwhelming, the sheer magnitude of it. The weight of a future still unsure, still a distant thing to be earned. Yet, none of that could compare to the price. The sum listed beside each title was enough to drain a fortune, an expense that would follow him long after the semester had ended.But there was no other choice.No books, no school. No school, no future.The truth of it settled like a stone in his stomach.Gritting his teeth, Vytenis loaded the last of the supplies into the cart, his movements mechanical, almost resigned. Each item clinked as it settled into place, a reminder of the fate shared by every first-year wizard: financial ruin.He’d expected it. But that didn’t make the weight of it any easier to bear.Still, in the midst of the mundane chaos, Vytenis allowed himself one small, quiet indulgence—three books that seemed far more aligned with the wizard he was now, rather than the one they all expected him to become. Three books that spoke to his present, not his future. A Guide to Defense Against the Dark Arts and Self-Defense by Quentin Trimble. Practical. Necessary.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander. Fascinating. Curious.
Advanced Potion-Making by Libasho Barrage. Ambitious. Complex.After the exchange was made, Vytenis checked the pouch at his side. The soft rustle of the leather revealed a sobering truth—less than forty Galleons remained.A hundred had been his starting point, and now he was down to scraps.It wasn’t a surprise, not really. But still, the numbers burned like a mark in his chest. If money weren’t an issue, he might have picked up more—more on Defense Against the Dark Arts, perhaps, or a few more advanced Potions texts. The knowledge could be useful. But knowledge had its price, and the Galleons simply weren’t there.For now, he’d have to make do. There were worse things.Thankfully, Hogwarts didn’t charge for tuition, nor did it ask for accommodation fees. A first-year wouldn’t be allowed to visit Hogsmeade, anyway. So, forty Galleons would have to stretch, would have to last him the entire year. It would have to be enough.Practicality, as always, won out.When Eric offered to buy him an owl—a simple ten-Galleon expense—Vytenis gave a tight, polite smile and declined. There was no point.Poverty, he mused, has a way of making a man sensible.

--During his final month at 86 Eastleigh Road, Vytenis submerged himself completely in the ever-growing pile of magical texts that had come to define his days. They were scattered across the small desk in his bedroom, their pages worn from endless hours of study. Each book held its own promise, each spell contained within it a potential for something greater than the tedium of his past.In search of a more hands-on approach, Vytenis transformed the smallest room in the house into something of a laboratory—a controlled environment of sorts. Several cages of mice filled the space, their tiny bodies twitching nervously within the confines of their prisons, awaiting the inevitable. They were his test subjects now, willing or not, the silent participants in his practical experimentation.It wasn’t a question of ethics, he assured himself—it was a matter of necessity. There was no one else here to teach him. And in a strange, almost abstract way, this felt more authentic than any textbook could ever offer. The Ministry of Magic, in its infuriatingly convoluted wisdom, had left him a loophole. The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery didn’t account for young wizards who had received their wands but had yet to officially register with the Ministry.No law forbade him from practicing, not really.And so Vytenis took full advantage of this oversight.For a month, he practiced spells in the quiet seclusion of his home, his only company the watchful eyes of mice and the faint creak of the house settling around him.Magic.What a delightful little word. He whispered it in his mind over and over— magic. It sparkled with potential, a quiet promise of things far grander than the life he had known before. Vytenis felt a flicker of something—hope?—stir within him. His mind, which had once been fogged with uncertainty and unease, cleared with surprising ease.

He exhaled, a low whistle escaping him, sweeping away the doubts that had clung to him for so long. Then, on an impulse—a whim, really—he decided to conduct an experiment. He bit the tip of his tongue, gathering his thoughts, pulling the energy in his chest toward his fingertips."Flame, flame," he murmured, the words as soft as breath, and with a snap of his fingers—A spark ignited, leaping to life like a tiny creature breaking free from its cage. The air crackled, sharp and blue, a brief, fleeting explosion that split the silence like the crack of a distant thunderclap. The colors erupted around him, unfurling in a dazzling cascade, streaks of light as if the very fabric of the universe had paused for a moment, intrigued.Vytenis stared, his heart pounding in his chest. He had not expected this. Not in the slightest. In truth, he had already begun crafting a mental argument to soothe the disappointment he expected—a lengthy diatribe on the banality of the world, complete with footnotes and a final, scathing conclusion.Instead, he was left staring at his own hand, his fingers humming with the heat of the flame. A faint sting curled at the tips, a sharp reminder that the fire had been too eager, too hungry.Well.He had done it.He was a magician.Vytenis stood there, motionless, his eyes fixed on his hands as if they belonged to someone else entirely. They were no longer the hands of a mere boy from Eastleigh Road. No, these hands—these hands had touched something beyond the ordinary. He had touched magic itself. His existence, standing here, defied all logic, all reason. It was proof that his theory was correct. That he, unlike lesser scholars, who spent their lives toiling over tedious experiments and peer review, had the rare privilege of proving his hypothesis simply by being.Who in the world, he wondered, could possibly be happier than him?
August 31st.
The last night before his departure.Vytenis stood in the dim glow of the animal room, the faint flicker of light casting long shadows over the cages. His wand was raised, the cool wood resting against his fingers with an almost comforting familiarity. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the small white mouse within its enclosure. It was an insignificant creature, really. Small, delicate, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Yet, to Vytenis, it was everything.He inhaled deeply, centering himself."Stupefy!"The words were sharp, precise, like a crack of thunder cutting through the stillness. A faint red light flickered at the wand’s tip, streaking forward with surprising speed. It hit the mouse squarely, a perfect, unbroken aim.The mouse squeaked—a small, high-pitched sound—and scurried a few inches to the side.And that was it.Vytenis exhaled, the breath a quiet mixture of amusement and resignation. This was the culmination of months of practice, the best result he had achieved all summer. A spell that, if cast on an actual opponent, would have hardly made a dent. The stunning spell—one of the most fundamental and effective single-target combat spells—had been reduced to little more than a mild inconvenience for the mouse.He couldn’t help but wonder, if it had been an actual person standing there, whether they would have even flinched. The truth stung, but Vytenis had become accustomed to it by now. Spells, after all, were deceptively simple. They only required words, movement, and a flick of the wand. But, as he had learned through trial and error, that was not enough. Not nearly enough.They required intent.Emotion. Will.To Stun, one had to desire —truly, deeply— to knock the target unconscious, to push beyond the surface and pour everything into the spell. To cast an Unforgivable Curse, one had to be filled with a malice so sharp, so cold, that it could burn through the very fabric of a soul. To summon a Patronus, one had to call upon an emotion so joyful, so pure, that it could light up the darkest of places and banish the shadows.Emotion shaped magic.And there, right at the heart of it, lay Vytenis’s greatest limitation.Were he living in a world governed by Dungeons & Dragons, he thought dryly, he wouldn’t even be a wizard. No, in that world, he would be a blood warlock—magic driven not by study or scholarly precision, but by something deeper, something primal, an instinctive power born from raw emotion. A magic woven through need, desperation, hunger.But Vytenis’s mind was not like that. His was a quiet force, one of structure, of logic, of discipline. Rational, stable, controlled. He could calculate his next move before it even happened, could predict outcomes based on data and observation. But that, he knew, was both a strength and a weakness. For all his intellect, Vytenis rarely felt anything deeply enough to fuel true magic. His emotions, unlike his mind, were calm, methodical, lacking the turbulence necessary to command the raw forces of magic.And that, he admitted, was where the gap lay between him and true mastery.But still, he would overcome it.He would find a way.With everything packed and the room now empty, Vytenis lay down on the bed, the soft creak of the mattress a small, almost comforting reminder of the place he had spent his last months. His mind, for once, was momentarily at ease. All the doubts, the endless calculations, the nagging thoughts that had followed him day after day, melted away into the shadows of the room.Soon, he drifted into sleep.At eight o'clock the next morning, Vytenis was roused from sleep by the sharp, insistent crowing of the alarm clock. The sound pierced the silence like an unwelcome intruder. His hand reached out blindly in the dark, silencing it with a swift press, the motion so automatic it was almost part of him now.The cool morning air wrapped around him as he rose from the bed, stretching long, his body still heavy with the remnants of sleep. His eyes flickered open, adjusting to the soft light that had begun to spill into the room. He wasn’t in any rush —yet— but the weight of the day had already settled on his shoulders. He moved towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and a shirt. A brief glance at the clothes was enough; he had no desire to step into thick, cumbersome wizard robes just yet.There would be time for that later, once the train carried him to Hogwarts, once he found himself amongst the rest of them, the students with their wands and their futures.For now, he preferred the simplicity of what he knew—this moment, quiet and mundane.With a final glance around the room, a slow, almost reluctant one, Vytenis picked up his suitcase. He slung it over his shoulder and made his way downstairs, the familiar creak of the stairs beneath his feet the only sound accompanying him.Outside, the early morning light was just beginning to stretch across the sky, painting everything in soft hues of gold. Eric had already started the car, the engine humming with readiness. The moment he saw Vytenis, Eric stepped out, his movements smooth and practiced. Without a word, he moved toward the trunk, lifting the suitcase into its designated place with casual efficiency.Nearby, Judy stood by the doorway, slipping on her shoes with a focused concentration, her movements slow, deliberate.Vytenis hesitated, just for a moment. The weight of the question was heavier than he’d expected, though the answer was as natural as breathing.“Will you come with us, Mother?”Judy looked up at him, her gaze soft, her smile warm and unwavering. There was no hesitation in her response, no need for elaborate words.“Yes,” she said simply, her voice steady. “Eric and I will go to King’s Cross Station to see you off.”The car moved steadily along the highway, the hum of the engine filling the space between them, blending with the quiet rhythm of Eric’s absent-minded humming. He was singing the tune of God Save the Queen softly to himself, the melody a strange but comforting companion in the otherwise still air.In the back seat, Judy sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. But there was no mistaking the worry that etched itself onto her face. It was in the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, in the way her eyes darted to Vytenis from time to time, as if ensuring that he was still there, still hers, before he left.She couldn’t contain it. The mother’s worry that spilled into the silence between them, her voice soft, but insistent.“Don’t be as casual at school as you are at home.”“Don’t argue with your professors and classmates!”“Remember to put on more clothes when it gets cold. I’ve packed two sweaters at the bottom of your bag…”Vytenis simply smiled.“I understand, Mother.”His voice was calm, almost amused, but there was no trace of irritation, no impatience in his tone—just warmth, quiet and unwavering. Judy let out a long sigh, pressing her hands to her face as if to steady herself. As if to push the anxiety back into some small corner of herself where it would be easier to manage.“Oh, I’m still a little worried…” she murmured.It was the first time in over a decade that she would be apart from him for so long. The weight of that distance, the time and space between them, was something neither of them had quite prepared for.Eric, however, seemed less troubled by it all. Still humming his tune, he glanced back through the rearview mirror, a playful glint in his eye as he caught Vytenis’s gaze.“Don’t worry about it, honey,” he said with a grin, his tone light, teasing. “Believe in our boy—I’d say his ability to survive on his own is better than yours.”Judy shot him a glare, but even through the sharpness, there was the faintest smile pulling at the corners of her lips, betraying the tension that had begun to ease.And just like that, the weight of the moment lightened. The warmth between them—the quiet, unspoken bond—settled back into place, and for a brief instant, Vytenis allowed himself to relax.They spent nearly two hours on the road, the rhythmic hum of the tires against the asphalt filling the air. When they finally pulled into King’s Cross Station at ten-thirty, the morning light had already begun to shift, casting long shadows across the bustling crowds. Eric, without a word, unloaded the suitcase from the car and placed it carefully on a handcart, adjusting the straps with practiced ease before turning to Vytenis."Alright, which platform are we looking for?"Vytenis reached into his pocket, pulling out his ticket with a calm motion, his fingers brushing against the cool edges of the paper as he scanned the printed details."Eleven o’clock, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."Eric frowned, his brow furrowing with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “Nine and Three-Quarters?”A pause followed, brief but heavy, as if Eric was waiting for some sort of explanation that never came. Then, with the certainty of a man accustomed to logic, he shook his head slowly."I don’t remember there being such a platform at King’s Cross Station."Vytenis smirked, a small curve at the corner of his lips, as if the answer were already written in the lines of the world around them. "Maybe we should check the area between Platforms Nine and Ten."Of course, Vytenis already knew the way. It was an inside joke, something he had read before—a story that had become part of his history even if it wasn’t entirely his own. The magic of it all, the absurdity, was something he had already experienced in another life.King’s Cross Station was an old building, one of the oldest in Europe, its grandeur faded but still undeniable. The smell of decades-old stone and polished brass lingered in the air, mixed with the hum of travelers and the clattering of luggage wheels. Once a symbol of bustling travel, the station had aged like a relic of a bygone era, its corridors now quieter, worn with time.In truth, it was far from the imposing, sleek, modernized stations Vytenis had grown accustomed to—the sprawling hubs of steel and glass that had dwarfed even the grandest structures of London. But there was something about King’s Cross that still held a quiet charm, a sense of history beneath the grime, a reminder of how far the world had come.They wove through the crowd, the noise of the morning rush mixing with the rush of his thoughts. They arrived near Platform Nine. On one side, a train bound for Aberdeen, Scotland, sat ready to depart, the metallic hiss of steam escaping from its sides. On the other, another train—this one to Glasgow—was about to leave, its passengers moving with the kind of hurried indifference only people used to traveling could manage.Vytenis had already done the math. He had no need for the confusion Eric was feeling. Based on his knowledge of Hogwarts and its shifting seasons, its actual location was likely deep within the mountainous regions of central Scotland—far to the north, where the air grew colder, sharper, and the landscape stretched out wild and untamed.The journey spanned over four hundred miles, more than enough to stretch the trip into the late evening hours. The train departing at eleven and arriving late into the evening? Perfectly timed. It made sense, if one knew how to look at it. But then, he had always been one to pay attention to the details."I don’t see any Platform Nine and Three-Quarters," Eric muttered, his voice tinged with bemusement as his eyes scanned the space between platforms nine and ten, searching for something that didn’t seem to exist.Vytenis leaned against the handcart, his gaze flickering briefly to the clock hanging above the platform.Ten-fifteen.Not good.He could feel the weight of the ticking clock, the sharpness of the moment pressing against him. Soon, the entrance to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters would close—thanks to the meddling of one very particular house-elf—and if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself in the same predicament as Harry and Ron. He could almost see it—the frantic rush, the stolen car, the confinement that followed. The idea of being forced to school in such a dramatic, disastrous way made him shudder.No, thank you.Vytenis’s thoughts shifted back to the present, where Eric was still trying to make sense of things. Eric, unaware of the magic hidden in plain sight, was approaching a passing station guard with a question about the platform’s existence. The guard’s expression was one of tired bemusement, as if he’d heard this exact question more times than he cared to remember.Vytenis suppressed the urge to smile again. Of course, Eric wouldn’t see it—not yet, anyway. The world of magic was not one that lent itself easily to logic. It required a different kind of understanding, one that Eric, for all his practical knowledge, had yet to grasp.A voice sounded behind him—a soft, timid murmur that barely rose above the clamor of the station."Grandma… I think I lost my toad again."Vytenis stiffened, his body reacting before his mind fully caught up. The words hung in the air for a moment, out of place in the rush of the morning crowd.Then— a sigh. It was gentle yet exasperated, the sound of someone long accustomed to the same frustration."Ah, Neville…"Vytenis turned.Walking toward them was an elderly woman, her posture regal, her back straight in the way of someone who had seen and commanded much. Her expression was both stern and affectionate—an unusual combination, yet one that suited her perfectly. Beside her was a boy who seemed to shrink with every step, his robes swallowed by his thin frame. His face, already creased with worry, was the picture of quiet distress. Their black wizarding attire stood out starkly against the sea of oblivious Muggles around them, making them impossible to miss.And then, in that brief, fragile moment, Vytenis knew.He had found his way in.Eric, always quick to pick up on the smallest shift in the world around him, had already noticed the conversation before Vytenis could even speak. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, the practiced ease of a man used to handling such encounters reflected in his calm voice."Hello, ma’am… I’m Hart." His tone was sincere, steady—an anchor of calm, the kind of voice that was built to reassure. A voice that made people feel, if only for a moment, that they were exactly where they needed to be."My son is trying to reach Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. He’s a freshman at Hogwarts, but we’re not sure how to get there…"The elderly woman studied him with a sharp, measuring gaze, her eyes narrowing beneath the brim of her hat. There was a brief flicker of surprise, though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared."Muggle?"It was more of a statement than a question. The word, as blunt and unyielding as it was, slipped from her lips as she took in the crisp lines of Eric’s suit. A lawyer, clearly—she could tell just by looking.Vytenis could almost feel the scrutiny, the weight of her assessment. But Eric was a man of words, and his words had a way of disarming even the deepest skepticism before it could take root. So, after a beat, she nodded, her posture shifting just slightly, ever so subtly."Hello, Mr. Hart…" Her voice softened, the slightest shift in her demeanor. "I’m Mrs. Longbottom."A pause followed—just enough time for the air between them to settle into something lighter, more familiar."My grandson, Neville, is a second-year at Hogwarts. He can take your son to the platform."Vytenis turned to Neville, offering a polite smile, though he could already see the uncertainty in the boy’s eyes."Hello, Neville!"Neville gave a hesitant nod in response, his movements tentative, unsure. Mrs. Longbottom barely glanced at him before speaking again, her voice clipped and direct—more command than request."Neville, take Mr. Hart to the station."There was an authority in her tone that couldn’t be ignored, and Neville, though clearly uncomfortable with the task, obeyed without question."O-okay… Grandma…" His voice wavered slightly, but he pushed forward, his fingers trembling as they gripped the luggage cart.With a small grunt of effort, Neville began to move toward one of the many pillars that divided Platforms Nine and Ten, pushing the cart in front of him. Vytenis followed quickly, his own cart firmly gripped in his hands, his heart steady despite the unease that buzzed faintly beneath his calm exterior. The barrier was ahead, just beyond the pillars, and though his mind raced with thoughts, his steps remained steady.Mrs. Longbottom’s voice carried back to him, clear and unambiguous:"Mr. Hart, walk straight through the middle of the pillar. Pretend there’s nothing in front of you, and you won’t hit anything."Vytenis nodded, adjusting his grip on the cart, aligning himself as if nothing could be simpler. His eyes moved briefly to Neville’s back, the boy’s awkward, hesitant movements pulling him back into the present moment.Then, a muffled thud.Vytenis slowed his steps, pausing. The faint sound of a collision reached his ears, a small, almost inconsequential noise, but one that carried with it an echo of discomfort.He glanced up just in time to see Neville stumbling slightly to the side. The cart tipped dangerously, its wheels wobbling with an almost comical instability. And then, before Vytenis could react, the unmistakable sign of a bump—a red mark already swelling on Neville’s forehead—appeared, clear and unmistakable.The boy’s face contorted with the pain of the small, seemingly insignificant collision.And then—Neville stepped through.Vytenis watched him, the boy’s hesitant movements disappearing into the barrier, the invisible line that separated the ordinary from the extraordinary.The world shifted.For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the very air around them had paused, holding its breath. Where once there had been nothing but the solid wall of stone, now stood a grand crimson steam locomotive. Its polished exterior gleamed in the morning light, reflecting the first golden rays of the sun. The train seemed to pulse with life, a thing of steel and magic, the kind of spectacle that could stop the heart of anyone who truly understood what it meant.Etched onto the side, in bold golden lettering, was the unmistakable mark of its purpose:
Hogwarts Express.
And beside it—a platform that had not been there a second ago, appearing as if summoned by magic itself. A sign overhead read:
Platform 9¾.
Vytenis smirked, his lips curling upward with the quiet satisfaction of knowing exactly what had just happened."Success.""Ouch!"The cry broke through the moment, pulling Vytenis's attention back to Neville. The boy, who had been moving forward with such purpose moments ago, now stood frozen, clutching his forehead in mild shock. His cart, pushed too hastily in his rush, had veered slightly. It was just enough for Neville to clip the edge of something solid upon entry—a small but painful reminder of his nerves.Vytenis took a step toward him, his voice soft, a mixture of concern and dry humor."Are you okay, Senior Longbottom?"Neville waved him off quickly, his face twisting in embarrassment. "N-no… I’m fine..."Before Vytenis could press further, a crisp, clear voice interrupted, cutting through the tension like a blade."Neville! Are you alright?"A girl appeared, brown-haired, her steps quick and purposeful as she made her way toward them. There was an energy to her, a quiet urgency that suggested she’d been watching, waiting for the moment Neville might need help. She didn’t wait for a response, though—she was already drawing her wand, her movements quick and efficient, the wand pointing directly at the red bump beginning to form on Neville’s forehead.A muttered incantation, quick and effortless, left her lips.The swelling faded instantly, as though it had never been there. The magic was almost invisible in its precision, and the change was so immediate it felt unreal.Neville blinked, stunned by the speed of the healing."Thanks, Hermione."He turned to introduce Vytenis, to make some kind of acknowledgment.But by the time he looked back, Vytenis was gone.--Humming a soft tune, Vytenis Hart quietly pushed his suitcase onto the waiting steam engine. The familiar rhythm of the motion, the comforting clatter of the wheels on the tracks, brought a rare moment of peace. As he paused to look over the crowd of students already boarding the train, his gaze swept quickly across the platform. Among the sea of faces, he spotted her again—the girl from earlier. Hermione Granger, if he remembered correctly. Her features were far from striking, but she seemed—different. There was an intensity about her, a sharpness in her eyes that spoke of hidden depth. Vytenis noted that she wasn’t that, how to say, bad? which was good news, or so it seemed. But was it truly?Vytenis hesitated, the question lingering in his mind. It wasn’t as if he intended to spend much time with her anyway; his own plans for the coming year were already laid out, and they didn’t include Hermione Granger. Perhaps it would actually be easier if she were, considering the tensions surrounding Muggle-borns. But then again, he didn’t know what it meant to belong to a group such as hers. He could only observe from the edges.Squeezing past a group of first-years, Vytenis found an empty compartment near the end of the train. With practiced ease, he hoisted his suitcase onto the step. Though he was still only eleven, he was anything but frail; the weight of the suitcase, close to fifty kilograms, was nothing for him.Settling into his seat, Vytenis pulled out a well-worn copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander. The pages were familiar to him, but he flipped through them anyway, as if the motions brought him some semblance of purpose. He did not actually read; his mind wandered as his fingers traced the lines, until he stopped on page 117. He had not marked the page, but he knew the number by heart. It was a passage he had read at least twenty times over the summer, each time with a new understanding, a new perspective.Turning the page slowly, careful not to crease the fragile parchment, Vytenis began reading the familiar words.[Basilisk]
Ministry Classification: XXXXX (Extremely Dangerous)The first recorded basilisk was bred by a Greek dark wizard named ‘Despicable Herpo’—a practitioner of Parseltongue. After many experiments, he discovered that placing a small hen’s egg under a toad would hatch a dangerously skilled serpent. The basilisk is a huge, dazzlingly green snake that can grow up to fifty feet long. The male has a bright red feather on its head. Its fangs are venomous, but its most dangerous attack is its yellow, gaze-like eyes. Anyone who meets its gaze dies instantly.Spiders flee at the sight of a basilisk; it is their natural enemy, and the only thing that can drive a basilisk away is the crowing of a rooster, which is deadly to it.If food is plentiful (the basilisk will eat any mammal, bird, or reptile), its lifespan is exceptionally long. It is believed that Despicable Herpo’s basilisk lived for nearly nine hundred years.In addition to its unique magical powers and long life, many of the basilisk’s traits stem from its nature as a venomous snake. Like all venomous snakes, it molts periodically, and its omnivorous diet is typical of large snakes. Although it is not explicitly stated, its skin is likely similar to dragon hide in its protective qualities, capable of reflecting spells cast at it—its eyes and mouth being the only weak spots in its defense. Since the Middle Ages, creating a basilisk has been considered illegal, but this is easy to conceal by simply removing the hen’s egg from under the toad before the Ministry’s magical creature control team arrives. However, aside from Parseltongue, no one can control a basilisk, so they pose a danger not only to others but even to most dark wizards as well.There have been no records of basilisk sightings in Britain for at least four hundred years.Vytenis’ eyes moved away from the page. The passage was not new to him; he had read it so many times it was nearly memorized. And yet, the words still held weight. The basilisk, a creature of such lethal power, was not just a beast of legend—it was real, and it was dangerous. As a Muggle-born wizard, Vytenis had long been aware of the history that surrounded it, the terror that Tom Riddle had once set loose on Hogwarts. The Chamber of Secrets, opened on Halloween in 1992, had held more than a dangerous serpent; it had been part of a plan to “purify” the bloodlines of Hogwarts. His bloodline.While Muggle-born students still attended the school, that knowledge offered little comfort. Every step in Hogwarts, every dark corner, could be a threat. The best way to avoid danger, Vytenis had concluded, was to stay out of harm’s way. No unnecessary risks. No wandering the corridors at night. Even that, however, could not guarantee safety.His eyes drifted around the compartment, his thoughts shifting. The only offensive spell he could reliably cast was the Petrification Charm, but it was useless against a basilisk. No, he would need something far stronger.For now, he kept a small vial of powdered rooster feathers and a tiny mirror on hand. If the worst came to pass, he could always petrify himself and wait for the Mandrake Root to take effect.And then there was Tom Riddle. Vytenis couldn't fathom how a half-blood wizard could be so vile toward Muggle-borns and their families. The saying floated back into his thoughts, “The second-rate devils are often worse than the real ones.” The soft, rhythmic clatter of the train rolling along the tracks filled the air, a steady backdrop to Vytenis’s thoughts. He had been content in the quiet, the gentle sway of the Hogwarts Express almost lulling him into a trance. But then—The compartment door slid open.Vytenis glanced up, drawn back into the present as a boy stepped inside. He looked about his age, with tousled blonde hair that seemed permanently windswept and bright green eyes that flicked around the room with easy curiosity. There was something about him—something relaxed, effortlessly confident, the kind of presence that filled a space without trying.“Is anyone sitting here?” the boy asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from Vytenis. “Most other places are full.”Vytenis considered him for a moment, then shrugged, his tone casual. “No one. You’re welcome to sit.”The boy smiled, an easy, natural thing. Without hesitation, he lifted his suitcase onto the step with surprising ease, the weight of it barely slowing him down.“Thanks,” he said, settling into the seat across from Vytenis. “Name’s Alex. Alex Weston.”“Vytenis Hart,” Vytenis replied, setting his book aside with a slight nod. “First-year.”“Same here.” Alex flashed him a quick grin, something keen in his expression, like he was already sizing Vytenis up—not in a calculating way, but with the kind of casual curiosity that came naturally to people who made friends easily.Then, after a brief pause, he tilted his head slightly. “I take it you’re not from a big pure-blood family?”Vytenis raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”Alex shrugged, amusement flickering in his gaze. “You don’t have that... ‘I’m better than everyone’ vibe that some of the pure-bloods have.”Vytenis let out a soft chuckle. “Guess you could say I’m not exactly a fan of that attitude.”Alex nodded, as if filing that piece of information away for later. He was quiet for a moment, his gaze flicking downward—only to land on the book resting beside Vytenis. Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. “I noticed you’re carrying Fantastic Beasts— don’t suppose you’re a fan of magical creatures?”Vytenis picked up the book again, glancing at the worn cover between his fingers. “I’m more into learning about them,” he replied evenly. “Keeps things interesting.”Alex grinned, his eyes lighting up with something sharper than just idle conversation. “I like that. Me too. Always good to know your stuff, especially when it could save your skin.”Vytenis’s lips quirked slightly at that.“That’s the idea.”Vytenis Hart glanced out the window. The golden morning light bathed the compartement, casting long shadows across the place he sat. His gaze lowered instinctively to the platform below, where three familiar figures stood amidst the crowd—his parents, Eric and Judy, alongside Mrs. Longbottom.They were waving.The sight of them stirred something quiet, something difficult to name—a fleeting sense of connection, a brief tether to home before the journey ahead pulled him fully into its grasp. The station, the people, even the moment itself—it would all soon be left behind.Vytenis raised a hand and tapped lightly against the glass, the motion quick, deliberate. A part of him knew they wouldn’t hear it, but still, it felt like something tangible, something real. He waved once, his gaze lingering on them just a fraction longer than necessary, as if trying to commit the image to memory before the train’s inevitable departure erased it from view.The whistle cut through the air—sharp, final.The train lurched forward, the platform slipping away as the wheels began to turn.From across the compartment, Alex noticed the exchange. He tilted his head slightly, his voice casual, but tinged with curiosity.“Those your family?”Vytenis stiffened, just slightly. He hadn’t expected the question, though in hindsight, perhaps he should have. He gave a small nod, not looking away from the window just yet.“Yeah. They’re my parents. Why?”Alex’s expression shifted—still curious, but with a quick flicker of understanding. “I didn’t mean to pry. Just wondered if you were from a different family—no offense meant.”“None taken,” Vytenis replied evenly. His tone was flat, measured, but there was no malice in it—only a quiet acceptance. “I’m sure there’s plenty of people around who’ll wonder about my bloodline. Happens when you’re Muggle-born.”Alex tilted his head slightly, considering that. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter. “Don’t let them get to you. People can be… well, they’re just people. Some good, some bad.”Vytenis gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile.“I’m used to it.”The train picked up speed, the view outside beginning to blur, the greens and browns of the countryside melting together into streaks of color. The station was long gone now, the last fragments of home left behind on the platform.Vytenis leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly as the rhythm of the train settled into something steady, something certain. The anticipation of the year ahead—of everything that lay beyond this moment—began to take root in his mind.To his surprise, their conversation flowed easily, the initial awkwardness fading as they delved into a subject that had drawn them both in from the start—magical creatures.They debated the intelligence of house-elves versus pixies, argued over whether kneazles or tail-wagging dogs made better pets, and even theorized about the best way to earn the trust of a Bowtruckle.It was effortless. Natural.Vytenis found himself smiling, something rare and almost unconscious. It wasn’t often that he met someone who shared his interests beyond the surface level—who wasn’t just regurgitating facts for the sake of sounding knowledgeable. No, Alex wasn’t like that. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He was genuinely interested, and that, Vytenis realized, was something worth noting.“You really know a lot,” Alex remarked, a mixture of admiration and good-natured envy laced in his voice as he eyed Vytenis thoughtfully.Vytenis smiled, a small, modest thing, as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “I read a lot. Helps when you’ve got a good memory.”Alex nodded, intrigued. “I’m kind of jealous. My family focuses mostly on Ministry work—my mum’s part of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so I hear a lot about this stuff. But you seem to know just as much.”Vytenis only shrugged. Boasting wasn’t his style. “Guess I just pay attention.”A comfortable silence settled between them, the kind that came when two people had already decided they liked talking to each other. There was something familiar about it, something steady.Finally, Alex spoke again, this time with a little more weight behind his words. “So, Vytenis, what house do you think you’ll be in?”Vytenis hesitated—not because the question surprised him, but because he hadn’t thought much about it yet. Not really. Instead of answering, he turned the question back on Alex. “What about you?”“Slytherin,” Alex said, the word slipping out naturally, as though it was a foregone conclusion. “My whole family’s been in Slytherin. It’s just… where I belong, I guess.”Vytenis raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Slytherin, huh? You don’t seem like the ‘I’m better than everyone’ type.”Alex let out a rueful chuckle. “It’s not really my thing. But yeah, it’s the family tradition.” Then, after a pause, “What about you?”Vytenis leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “Hufflepuff, I think. Out of the four houses, it feels like the best fit. Don’t want to deal with riddles in Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor is just… too close to the spotlight.”Alex laughed at that. “Fair point. Hufflepuff’s got a good reputation for being loyal and hardworking. Honestly, I can see it.”Vytenis shrugged, his expression thoughtful. “Guess we’ll see.”For a moment, neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.Then, ever the practical one, Vytenis reached down and rummaged through his suitcase. He pulled out a large bag filled with Muggle snacks—something he had prepared in advance. Train food was overpriced, and he had no intention of wasting his limited Galleons on something that wouldn’t be worth the cost.Alex caught sight of the bag, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Wait… are those Muggle snacks?” Vytenis smirked, tossing him a bottle of Coca-Cola. “Yep. Want some?”Alex caught it, turning the bottle over in his hands like it was some kind of foreign artifact. “Thanks…” he muttered, twisting the cap open.Pop!The bottle hissed violently before exploding in a rush of foam, splattering across his hands and onto his shirt.Alex blinked in shock.Then, instead of cursing, he burst into laughter. “What kind of magic is this?” he exclaimed, grinning as he examined the sticky mess. “This is fun!” Vytenis sighed, already pulling tissues from his pocket. “You’d better wipe that off before it dries.”Alex took them gratefully, still giggling as he dabbed at his shirt. “This is officially the best part of the train ride so far.”Before Vytenis could respond, a voice echoed down the corridor.
"Would you like to buy anything from the trolley?"
The door slid open to reveal a plump, smiling woman with deep dimples. She took one step inside, her pleasant demeanor unwavering—Then she stopped, blinking at the scene before her.Alex, covered in foam, laughing. Vytenis, handing him tissues with the exhausted patience of someone already used to cleaning up his messes.There was a brief pause.Alex, still grinning, jumped up. “I’ll take it!” he blurted, rushing past Vytenis before the trolley lady could even ask what he wanted.He returned moments later, arms overflowing with sweets—Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, and Licorice Wands. It was an excessive amount, but if Alex cared, he didn’t show it.He dropped half of it onto Vytenis’s lap without a word.Vytenis raised an eyebrow.Alex grinned. “Sharing’s better.”Vytenis let out a quiet chuckle, reaching for a Chocolate Frog. “Thanks.”Just as they were about to dig in, the door slid open once more.
"Alex, you’re here?"
A sharp voice cut through the compartment like a blade.--A girl stood in the doorway.She looked to be around twelve or thirteen, with golden curls that matched Alex’s almost perfectly. But where Alex carried an easy, natural charm, this girl’s presence was ice. The sharpness of her gaze, the poised way she held herself—it all gave the impression of someone who had been raised to command.Someone who expected the world to yield to her. He later learned her name was Daphne Greengrass.Her eyes swept across the compartment with practiced detachment, passing over Alex before landing on Vytenis. When their gazes met, hers froze. A faint curl of her lip, a flicker of something cold and dismissive—she didn’t need to say anything for Vytenis to understand exactly what she thought of him.
Unworthy. Beneath notice.
Her stare lingered on his simple shirt and jeans, her disgust sharpening, as though just existing in the same space as him was offensive. Vytenis felt his stomach tighten, but he kept his face impassive, refusing to give her the reaction she wanted.
"Where have you been?"
Her voice was sharp, lined with irritation. There was no warmth in it, no concern—just expectation."Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?"Alex looked up, his face paling slightly. “Apologies, cousin—I lost you when I first got to the platform…”"You should’ve gone to find the conductor or the attendants!" Daphne snapped, her voice carrying that same clipped, superior tone. "Not just wander into some random compartment."Her gaze flicked back to Vytenis, the contempt in her eyes darkening with every passing second.Vytenis remained still. Unmoving. He had no reason to speak—this wasn’t his fight."My mistake…" Alex murmured, clearly embarrassed, but Daphne wasn’t finished."You can’t just run off like that. I’m sure my mother has told you a hundred times by now—" She cut herself off mid-sentence, her eyes flickering back to Vytenis, the irritation in them hardening into something crueler.She knew. She knew exactly what he was.And she hated it."Quick, pack your things and come with me!" Daphne ordered, snapping her fingers as if Alex were a house-elf awaiting instruction. "I have an empty seat in my compartment."Alex hesitated.His gaze flickered toward Vytenis, an almost apologetic look crossing his face. He didn’t want to leave—but there was no choice."Okay, cousin…" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper as he reached for his bag.He was halfway through gathering his things when he grabbed his Coca-Cola bottle.Then—
"Alex!"
Daphne’s shriek pierced the air like a blade, sharp and venomous."Don’t take that filthy Muggle drink!"The words hit like a slap. Vytenis’s fingers curled into fists beneath the table, his nails pressing against his palms. His blood boiled, anger simmering beneath his skin, but he forced himself to stay silent.Alex hesitated for only a moment before quickly shoving the bottle back into his bag. His expression was tight, his movements stiff, but he complied.Vytenis had seen this before. The way people like Daphne carried themselves—their blind, unwavering belief in their own superiority, their right to dictate the lives of others.It wasn’t just prejudice.It was hatred. And the worst part was that Alex, for all his kindness, for all his casual defiance earlier, couldn’t fight back.Not yet.The air in the compartment grew heavy, thick with unspoken words and bitter emotions. Alex wanted to protest. It was clear in the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. But Daphne’s presence, her grip on him —it was unyielding. She expected obedience.And Alex, whether he wanted to or not, would have to comply.Then—A knock.
"Excuse me, is there an empty seat here? Everywhere else is full!"
Vytenis’s head snapped toward the doorway.The moment he saw her, his breath caught in his throat.Ginny Weasley.A cold chill ran down his spine.For a brief moment, the tension in the compartment shifted—Daphne’s sneer faltered, Alex glanced up in confusion, and Ginny, oblivious to the charged atmosphere, smiled.“Oh, you’re leaving?” she asked, looking at Alex. “Can I take your seat?”Vytenis’s mind screamed. No.This couldn’t be happening.The train ride. The hours they’d be trapped together.Ginny— possessed by Tom Riddle for months, the girl who had unknowingly unleashed the Basilisk, who had carried darkness within her without even realizing it.He couldn’t be near her.He refused to be near her.She was dangerous.And so, without thinking, Vytenis moved.He stepped forward, placing a hand on Alex’s suitcase, subtly blocking Ginny from entering."Uh, Alex…" Vytenis spoke quickly, keeping his back turned to Ginny, not daring to let her see the unease creeping into his expression. "I think it’s fine for Alex to stay in this compartment. If he’s feeling unwell, I can look after him."Ginny blinked, confused. “Oh, well… I just thought since—”Vytenis cut her off, his voice polite but firm. “Really, it’s no trouble. I’m sure he’s fine here. Right, Alex?” Alex, startled by the sudden shift in conversation, hesitated—but then something flickered in his eyes.A spark of defiance.Or maybe just exhaustion.“…Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter this time. “I am. Thanks, Vytenis.”Ginny looked between them, clearly uncertain, but after a brief moment, she nodded.“Oh, well… I guess I’ll try another compartment.”And just like that, she turned to leave.Vytenis let out a quiet breath, only now realizing how much anxiety had settled in his chest.But before the door could fully close—
"Daphne… I think I can stay and look after myself."
The words were soft. Unassuming. But they were enough.Daphne’s face whitened. She turned sharply, eyes blazing. “What did you say?”Alex swallowed, but he didn’t back down.Daphne’s fury flared instantly. In a swift, violent motion, she grabbed Alex’s arm, her grip tightening.
"You will come with me."
Vytenis watched as Alex flinched, as the last bit of resistance in him withered under her hold.But then Daphne’s eyes snapped back to Vytenis.Cold. Unrelenting.
"I will not let my brother stay in a compartment with a Mudblood."
The word hit harder than Vytenis expected.For a moment, everything felt distant, as if the train, the compartment, the entire world had gone silent.His pulse pounded in his ears. His hands curled into fists so tight his knuckles turned white.But he didn’t move.Didn’t speak.Not yet.There were too many eyes.Too many witnesses.Daphne dragged Alex out of the compartment, her grip unrelenting. Alex barely had time to glance back, but when he did—His eyes held regret. Apology. Helplessness.And then he was gone.Vytenis remained seated.Silent.Burning.The train rattled forward, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks only feeding the fire inside him.He turned away from the door, trying to focus on anything else.Numbers. Calculations.
Scottish Highlands. 56-57°N. Sunset at 19:13:40.
It didn’t help.The anger stayed.Still simmering.Still waiting.For something.But for now, he closed his eyes.And, for the first time in a long while—Let sleep take him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Vytenis Hart woke with a start, the harsh shrill of the alarm clock slicing through the quiet of the compartment like a blade. His heart pounded in his chest, the sudden noise pulling him from the hazy remnants of sleep. For a brief moment, he could only blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog from his mind, the heaviness of his nap clinging to him like a shadow. The unpleasant encounter with Daphne still echoed in his thoughts, the sting of her words lingering just beneath the surface.The screech of the train’s brakes jolted him further into wakefulness, the sound sharp and unsettling, rattling through his bones. He glanced at the clock, his mind slow to catch up with the present moment.
7:10 PM.
The sky outside had already darkened, the faint glow of evening seeping into the landscape, casting long shadows across the fields as the train hurtled forward. There was something about the settling dusk—the quiet, the softening light—that seemed to mirror the way the day had left him: unsettled, but slowly, inevitably, moving toward something more.Vytenis’s movements were quick, practiced—he reached into his suitcase without thinking, pulling out his black Hogwarts robe with a fluidity born from routine. The weight of the day’s events still hung on him, pressing down with a quiet insistence, but there was no time to dwell on it now.He slid into the robe, the fabric cool against his skin, the familiar texture offering a fleeting comfort.Then, through the faint hum of the train, a voice crackled over the intercom—loud, clear, and suddenly present.“Five more minutes until the train arrives at Hogwarts! Please leave your luggage on board, and we’ll have it delivered to the school for you.”Vytenis exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was something. The weight of his luggage, the one final reminder of the world he was leaving behind, would remain on the train. He wouldn’t have to carry it all the way to the school after all.The train began to slow, the rhythmic motion shifting as the wheels groaned, pulling the train into its final approach. Vytenis squeezed himself out of his seat, maneuvering through the crowded compartment, the air thick with the buzz of eager anticipation. The students around him were already on their feet, pushing toward the exit, eager to set foot on Hogwarts soil—each one almost desperate to be the first to feel the ground beneath their feet, as if the very soil of the school could anchor them to something solid.The platform outside was dark, the faint glow of lanterns casting long shadows across the scene. The soft light flickered, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere, but the sense of urgency in the air was undeniable. The excitement was palpable, crackling in the air like static.“First-year students! First-year students, this way!” A voice, loud and booming, cut through the crowd.Vytenis’ eyes scanned the mass of students until they locked onto a figure near the front. He stood out immediately. Even among the throngs of first-years, this man was impossible to miss—a giant of a person, wild, tangled hair, and a thick, bushy beard that obscured much of his face. His beetle-black eyes gleamed with an almost mischievous glint beneath the mess of hair."I'm Hagrid, Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts!" The man’s voice was deep, warm, and booming, though slightly muffled by his beard. His words cut through the hum of excitement as he waved a hand toward the students, his grin infectious. “Come along, follow me. Any more first-years?”For a moment, the first-years hesitated. The sheer size of Hagrid, his imposing presence, seemed to draw them in, but the aura of awe and wariness caused a slight pause. It wasn’t long, however, before the students rushed toward him, clearly drawn not just by his towering figure but by the warmth of his smile, the kindness in his voice.Despite his size, his fierce-looking face, and the reputation that preceded him, Hagrid’s presence was comforting. Magnetic, even. Vytenis could feel it—the ease in the air as the younger students gathered around him. There was a natural pull toward him, something that settled the nerves, that made even the most nervous first-year feel like they belonged.Vytenis, however, had no reservations. He had heard the stories of Hagrid—the rumors, the whispered tales, the intimidating facts. A giant. Keeper of keys. Groundskeeper at Hogwarts. The mere mention of his title sounded like something pulled from the pages of a fairy tale.But Vytenis knew better. He had seen through the myths and the imposing persona. He knew Hagrid to be one of the kindest souls around, a man with a heart as vast as the land he guarded. Next to him, a girl stood with waist-length white hair, wild and untamed, giving her a peculiar, almost ethereal appearance. Her pale eyebrows arched above wide, bulging eyes, accentuating her uniqueness. There was something otherworldly about her, something that made her blend with the magical atmosphere in a way Vytenis couldn’t quite place. She glanced at him briefly, her gaze wide with wonder.“It’s such a marvelous journey, isn’t it?” she said dreamily, her voice almost a whisper, as though speaking more to herself than to anyone around her.Vytenis nodded, though it was clear she wasn’t looking for a response. Her eyes were distant, lost in the vastness of the moment as she slowly took in everything around her. Vytenis, for his part, wasn’t sure what was so marvelous about the journey itself. Perhaps it was only the destination that held any meaning for him. But he felt a quiet agreement stir within him. “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice distant, the weight of earlier thoughts still lingering like shadows he couldn’t quite shake off.They followed Hagrid down a narrow, winding path, their boots slipping occasionally on the wet stone, the air thick with the coolness of the evening. The sound of their footsteps echoed, swallowed quickly by the silence that seemed to press in from all sides. Darkness gathered around them like a cloak, and Vytenis found himself grateful for the soft, steady glow of Hagrid’s lantern, its light cutting through the shadows, providing the only comfort in the otherwise oppressive blackness.“Round this bend, and you’ll see Hogwarts for the first time!” Hagrid’s voice boomed cheerfully, cutting through the tension that had settled between them.As they turned the corner, the students halted in unison, gasping as if they had all been collectively holding their breath. Vytenis’s heart skipped, his breath catching in his throat as he laid eyes on the vast, black lake before them. The water stretched out endlessly, its surface mirroring the faint starlight above. It was breathtaking—far more beautiful than Vytenis had ever imagined. The sheer expanse of the lake, the way the dark waters seemed to consume the light, made his chest tighten with awe.“There it is! Hogwarts!” Hagrid’s joyful shout echoed through the air as he pointed toward the opposite shore.Vytenis followed Hagrid’s gesture, his eyes drawn across the lake to the towering silhouette of the castle. It stood there, perched on a high hill, its spires reaching into the night sky, windows gleaming like distant stars against the dark stone. Vytenis’s heart raced in his chest, his awe bubbling up in a way he had not expected. No amount of stories or descriptions had prepared him for the sheer scale of it. The grandeur of Hogwarts was unlike anything he had imagined. It felt as though it had always existed, a constant presence in the world, as if it were both ancient and eternal.“Each boat can carry no more than four people!” Hagrid’s voice broke through the silence again, pointing to a line of small boats docked at the shore.Vytenis moved toward one of the boats, the gentle rocking of the vessel underfoot grounding him in the present. He climbed in beside the girl with the white hair. Two unfamiliar boys joined them, and for a moment, the only sound that filled the air was the quiet dip of the oars in the water, each stroke a soft whisper against the lake’s glassy surface.The water itself seemed unreal—smooth, like a mirror, shimmering under the starlit sky above them. The gentle lapping of the water was the only thing that seemed to break the stillness, creating a peaceful yet eerie silence that settled over them all.Vytenis leaned back, allowing the rhythm of the boat’s motion to calm his racing thoughts. This was likely a ritual for every Hogwarts first-year—crossing the lake in boats, the same way the four founders of the school had done when they first arrived. It felt almost sacred, this journey that connected them to the very heart of Hogwarts' ancient history, linking every new student to the legacy of the school itself. In a way, they were all part of something far bigger than themselves—part of something timeless. The boats glided silently past ivy-covered cliffs, their surfaces glistening in the dim light, until they slowly approached a hidden opening. The path led them into a dark tunnel, a chill crawling down Vytenis's spine as they seemed to descend deeper into the very bowels of the castle. The low, echoing drip of water from above added to the growing sense of mystery, as though they were crossing a threshold into something ancient.When they finally emerged, Vytenis could see only the faintest sliver of light ahead—an underground dock. The boats gently bumped against the stone edges, a quiet reminder that even the smallest sound here carried weight. Vytenis stood, his legs unsteady as they climbed the narrow path, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. The only source of light was Hagrid’s lantern, casting a warm glow against the stone walls, guiding them upward as they moved deeper into the heart of the castle.Hagrid led the group up a winding stone staircase, the heavy thud of his giant boots echoing in the stillness. When they reached the top, they gathered in front of a massive wooden door. Hagrid raised his old, pink umbrella with a casual grace, tapping it three times against the door’s ancient wood. The sound reverberated in the quiet night.The door swung open with an ease that belied its size, revealing the warm, welcoming glow of the castle’s interior.“Welcome to Hogwarts!” Hagrid grinned widely, his eyes twinkling with the kind of mischief that made Vytenis feel as if, just for a moment, the weight of the journey had been lifted. Hagrid gave the group a wink, then stepped inside, his heavy footsteps leading the way into the heart of the castle.Before them stood a stone hall, its ancient walls flanked by blazing torches that cast long, flickering shadows across the cold, unyielding stone. The ceiling stretched upward, impossibly high, vanishing into the darkness above as if the room itself had no limits. The air hung thick with the scent of centuries-old stone, and beneath it all, there was a faint, almost imperceptible hum—magic, ancient and constant, pulsing through the very foundations of the castle.Ahead, an elegant marble staircase spiraled upward, its smooth surface gleaming in the torchlight, leading toward the floor above. Vytenis knew what awaited him there—the Sorting Ceremony, the moment when his place in this world would be decided. It was a thought that filled him with a quiet anticipation.Vytenis had just begun to absorb the grandeur of the hall, marveling at the sheer magnitude of the history embedded in every inch of the stone around him, when he felt a tug at the back of his robe.His brow furrowed slightly as he turned, curiosity piqued by the interruption.It was Alex Weston.In the flickering torchlight, Alex’s face looked even more exhausted than it had earlier. There was a nervous energy in his posture, a tightness that radiated off him in almost visible waves. His eyes flickered away, unable to hold Vytenis’s gaze for more than a second. Vytenis could see the conflict, the internal struggle written plainly across his face.“Vytenis,” Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words almost lost in the vastness of the hall. “I just wanted to say... Daphne, she didn’t mean it. She wasn’t intentionally calling you a Mudblood. She just...”Vytenis’s heart clenched for a moment, a flicker of sympathy stirring deep within him. But the moment was fleeting, the bitter edge of the words already rising in his chest. He couldn’t let it go.“Just slipped up?” he repeated coldly, the sharpness of his voice cutting through the air like a knife. “Maybe you call us that at home every day, and today she was just angry and accidentally said it out loud in front of others?”Alex's taller figure flinched. The color drained from his face, and his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. His embarrassment was plain—his eyes darting around as if seeking a way to escape his own words.“No... that’s not it...” Alex halted, his voice faltering as he tried to find some way to explain himself, to make sense of the impossible. But his words, strained and uncertain, fell flat.Vytenis stood there for a moment, his gaze hardening as he watched Alex struggle to find the right thing to say. He could see the other boy's discomfort, his desire to smooth things over, but the words rang hollow. The damage had been done. There was no easy way to undo it.Before Alex could say more, a loud voice, booming and unmistakable, cut through their conversation.“Professor Snape, what are you doing here?”Vytenis stiffened at the sound, his attention snapping to a tall, middle-aged man who emerged from a small room to the side. The man’s greasy black hair hung in limp strands around his sallow face, his hooked nose giving him a predatory look. Even before their eyes met, Vytenis could feel the chilling aura that radiated from the man—an invisible pressure, cold and unnerving, like the weight of winter air before a storm.As if by instinct, Vytenis lowered his head, his gaze darting away, avoiding Snape’s eyes. It was a reflex—an unconscious attempt to shield himself from the man’s intense scrutiny, an old habit formed from years of being looked through, rather than looked at.Professor Severus Snape stopped just a yard away from him, his presence as oppressive as the air before a thunderclap. His voice was slow, deliberate, each word seeming to fall heavily in the silence.“I heard from Barrow that a very rare Whomping Willow has been damaged. I was just going to check on it.”Hagrid, unfazed by Snape’s looming presence, gave a casual nod. “Alright! I’m just bringing the first-years to the Sorting Ceremony.”Without another word, Hagrid turned and continued his march deeper into the castle, the steady thud of his boots on the stone floor echoing through the corridor. Vytenis, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that Snape’s cold, piercing gaze remained fixed on him. Even after the man had turned to speak with Hagrid, it was as though his eyes still lingered on the back of Vytenis’s neck, a suffocating weight that clung to him, pressing him into the stone walls.Vytenis quickened his pace, the unsettling presence of Snape pushing him forward, urging him to catch up with the others, to put distance between himself and the cold shadow that seemed to cling to the professor’s every step.The group was soon led into a small, empty room, its stone walls bare and unadorned, the low, flickering light casting long shadows across the floor. The first-years crowded together, their nerves palpable in the air, each one glancing around, unsure of what awaited them.The door clicked shut behind them, a soft, final sound that sealed them inside.At the front of the room stood Professor Minerva McGonagall. Her green robes shimmered faintly in the dim light, the fabric shifting like a whisper of something ancient. Her posture was rigid, commanding respect with every movement. But when she spoke, her voice was calm, steady—an undercurrent of authority wrapped in something warmer, more welcoming.“First-years, Professor McGonagall,” Hagrid announced, his grin broad, clearly proud of having led them here.“Thank you, Hagrid,” Professor McGonagall said with a nod, her expression still stern, but her voice held a warmth that made her seem less like an unreachable figure and more like someone who could be trusted. “You can leave them with me now.”--“Welcome to Hogwarts!”Unlike Hagrid’s warm, booming greeting, Professor Minerva McGonagall’s words came with an unmistakable edge. Her expression was stern, her lips set in a firm line, and there was not a hint of a smile to soften the command in her voice. Each word was sharp, unwavering, cutting through the air like the strike of a blade. There was no room for doubt or hesitation in her tone—it was as though the very atmosphere around her became heavier, more serious, with each passing syllable.The first-year students fell into a swift, instinctive hush. Vytenis could feel it, a subtle shift in the air, a collective understanding that this was no ordinary welcome. McGonagall was not someone to be trifled with, and it was clear in the way the students held themselves, sensing the authority in the room. The silence stretched out, thick with the weight of anticipation.“The feast is about to begin, but before you take your seats in the hall, we need to determine which house you will belong to…”Her voice sliced through the quiet with precision, drawing the students' full attention as she outlined the importance of the Sorting Ceremony, how it marked the beginning of their journey at Hogwarts and their role in the competition for the House Cup. The first-years stood still, their feet rooted to the floor, the reality of their arrival at Hogwarts settling in with every syllable that McGonagall spoke. The sense of awe that had filled them earlier now gave way to something deeper, something more profound. They were on the cusp of joining a long, storied legacy, and with that realization came a quiet reverence. McGonagall’s gaze swept over them, a silent reminder of the centuries of tradition they were about to become a part of. There was no question of their importance in this moment. They were the next in line.“Once everything is ready, I’ll come back to fetch you,” she continued, her tone softening just a fraction, though still holding its firm edge. The slightest shift in her voice suggested a touch of patience, but there was no mistaking the authority still threaded through every word. “Please remain quiet while you wait… Any questions?”Vytenis Hart’s hand shot up without hesitation, a sense of resolve settling over him as he prepared to ask the question that had been gnawing at him since the train ride. The unease that had followed him all day now felt like a tangible weight, something he needed to address, to confront.Professor McGonagall’s gaze shifted toward him, sharp and steady. “What is it, Mr. Hart?”Vytenis’s pulse quickened for a moment, the steady rhythm of the room suddenly feeling distant. Despite her stern demeanor, he had to trust that McGonagall, being fair, would not hold a small mistake from a few weeks ago against him. He cleared his throat, attempting to mask the slight tremor in his voice, though he could feel the subtle tightening of his chest."Well, Professor," Vytenis began, his voice calm, the words carefully chosen, "Earlier on the train, I encountered a second-year student here at Hogwarts, and she referred to me as a ‘Mudblood’… Honestly, I’m not sure what that word means, but judging by her expression, it didn’t seem to be a friendly term."His face remained neutral, his tone so measured it was almost as if he were discussing the weather—casual, detached. But inside, his mind raced, a whirlwind of thoughts colliding together. He had a pretty good idea of what the term meant, but he wanted to see McGonagall’s reaction. He needed to gauge just how deep the prejudice ran, even here, within the walls of the castle.McGonagall’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, and her lips pressed tighter together as she processed the information. The room seemed to grow quieter, as if waiting for her response.“Who was it?” Her voice was a low, controlled tremor. “She dared…”Vytenis stiffened at the cold fury in her words, something he hadn’t expected. "She dared to utter such an insulting term here at Hogwarts?"Caught slightly off guard by the intensity in her voice, Vytenis quickly continued, his words tumbling out faster than he intended. “She seemed to have mentioned her name… I think it was… Daphne. Daphne Greengrass.” The name felt right, but there was an uncertainty in his tone as he spoke, as if he were grasping at something just out of reach.“Greengrass?”McGonagall’s face flickered for a moment, a brief shadow of something darker crossing her features. But it vanished just as quickly, and her expression returned to its usual calm. Still, there was an unmistakable sharpness in her eyes now, something cold and purposeful behind the professionalism.“Mr. Hart, that is a vile curse—a slanderous term,” she said, her voice measured, each word carrying the weight of something far heavier than a simple reprimand. “Forget what she said. No one dares to call you that here at Hogwarts…”Her voice dropped, the sharpness transforming into a quiet coldness, and Vytenis could feel it in the air as her gaze swept over the students still milling about, the room suddenly heavier, the silence thickening.“Now, I must go. Stay here, and wait for the Sorting to begin.” With that, McGonagall turned on her heel, her movement swift, her authority unquestionable. The sound of her boots clicking sharply against the stone floor echoed through the room as she strode toward the door, leaving an undeniable presence behind her.Vytenis remained frozen, his feet planted in place, his thoughts momentarily lost in the intensity of the moment. He could hear McGonagall’s angry shout just before the door clicked shut behind her, her voice echoing down the corridor. “Ms. Daphne Greengrass, you come to my office right now… in the room beside the marble staircase, wait for me!”“Filius, could you go fetch Severus for me?” McGonagall’s voice faded, her footsteps growing softer as she moved further down the hall.Vytenis, though briefly shaken by the intensity of the encounter, could feel something else stirring inside him—something deeper, something more visceral. It was a rising sense of determination, unfamiliar yet grounding. He had always known that prejudice existed, that it lingered in dark corners of the world, but hearing it so plainly in McGonagall’s words—the weight of it, the fire in her reaction—it was different.This wasn’t just something happening to him. It wasn’t just a passing insult. It was something McGonagall would not allow, something that would not be tolerated here. And that, in a strange, inexplicable way, made him feel a little safer.Despite the brief, intense exchange, the first-year students had already turned their focus back to what lay ahead. The Sorting Ceremony. Their nerves were palpable in the air, almost a physical presence in the room. Vytenis could see the tiny shifts of discomfort—students fidgeting, shifting their weight from foot to foot, their expressions a mixture of excitement and fear. The tension was almost tangible as they all waited for the moment that would define their place at Hogwarts.In the corner, Alex Weston stood motionless, his hands wringing nervously in front of him, the subtle frown in his face betraying his unease. His face was warry, the color drained from it, and his expression was still visibly shaken, as though McGonagall’s words had left an indelible mark on him. Vytenis Hart caught his eye across the room, sensing the weight of the situation settling heavily on Alex’s shoulders. The air around them seemed to hum with unspoken tension, thick with the aftermath of the confrontation.“I’m sorry she said that,” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper, his words thick with apprehension, as if the very act of speaking might make things worse. “But Daphne... will she be expelled now?”Vytenis turned his gaze toward him, his face carefully neutral, a practiced mask that hid the thoughts swirling beneath the surface. His eyes were steady as he met Alex’s. “This is her own doing,” he replied, his voice calm, yet firm. He wasn’t sure if his words would provide any comfort, but he needed to say them. “And I don’t think Hogwarts will expel a student just for a rude comment.”Alex’s smile ironically, the weight of the moment crashing down on him. He sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor, his words barely audible. “Perhaps...”Vytenis raised an eyebrow, but chose to remain silent. He could feel the tension in the air, the subtle way Alex was attempting to smooth things over—perhaps to absolve his cousin of responsibility. But Vytenis wasn’t inclined to offer comfort. If anything, it was Daphne who needed to learn a lesson in respecting others, not him.“I think she should explain that to Professor McGonagall herself,” Vytenis said quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur, the words slipping into the space between them like a gentle but unyielding current. He turned his attention away from Alex and toward the other first-years, who were still nervously fidgeting in the room, each one trying to hold their ground, to find some semblance of composure in the face of what lay ahead.Alex, his face still taut with the weight of anxiety, didn’t respond. Instead, he turned away, deliberately choosing to ignore Vytenis’s words. Vytenis didn’t push further. He understood the gesture—there was no point in making things worse, not when the tension in the room already felt like it was about to snap.Vytenis’s gaze drifted to the far wall, where, almost as if summoned by the shift in the room’s energy, a dozen or so ghosts materialized. They drifted in effortlessly, translucent and pearly-white, moving through the air like the faintest of whispers. Their murmured conversations floated through the room, distant and soft, like echoes of a world far removed from the chaos of the living. A few of the more timid students gasped, startled by their sudden appearance, their eyes wide as the ethereal figures passed through walls and doorways, leaving behind a coldness that seemed to settle in the bones."Ah… first-years!" A jolly, rotund monk ghost smiled at them warmly, his voice hearty and welcoming, the sound rich and full of life, despite his ghostly form. "I suppose you’re ready for the test?"Before anyone could respond, a thin, sharp voice echoed through the room from the walls.“Now, move forward,” it called, its command slicing through the atmosphere like a blade. “The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin.”Professor McGonagall’s stern voice rang out just as the murmurs began to settle. “Form a single line!” Her gaze swept over the students, the weight of her authority palpable in the air, and the students instinctively shuffled into a neat file, the movement smooth and synchronized. Vytenis found himself standing directly behind Alex, who, despite the tension, kept a few steps of distance between them. It was clear that Alex was still lost in thought, his mind heavy with the events of the day, the weight of his cousin actions, and the consequences that hung in the air like a cloud. Vytenis didn’t press him further. Instead, he allowed the silence to settle between them, following the others as they moved forward, heading toward the narrow corridor that would lead them into the heart of Hogwarts.The air grew colder as they neared the great Hogwarts Hall, the stone walls seeming to close in around them, their cold surfaces pressing against Vytenis’s skin like a silent reminder of the enormity of the place. Vytenis couldn’t help but glance around, his eyes wide as he took in the sheer scale of the space. It felt like an ocean of stone and magic, a place where history had lived and breathed for centuries. Every corner seemed to hold a secret, every shadow a story, and as they moved forward.The hall loomed ahead, vast and imposing, its high ceilings stretching so far above him that they seemed to vanish into the darkness. The grandeur of the space wrapped around him like a living thing, heavy and ancient, making his chest tighten.As they entered the hall, Vytenis felt his breath catch in his throat. The sheer scale of the room nearly overwhelmed him. The four long tables stretched out before him, filled with hundreds of older students, their faces lit with eager excitement. Their applause rang out like a wave, filling the air with a warmth and energy that seemed to pulse through the stone walls. It was a chorus of welcome, but it felt distant, almost surreal—as though he were standing at the edge of a dream, watching it unfold from afar.Above them, the ceiling shimmered with stars, so realistic that it seemed as though the night sky itself had descended to rest above the castle. The effect was breathtaking, like a secret magic, drawing his gaze upward. Despite all the preparation, despite the stories he had heard, Vytenis couldn’t help but feel a swell of awe in his chest. Hogwarts, as magnificent as it had sounded in every tale, was even grander in person. The reality of it, the sheer immensity of it, made it hard to believe. It was as if the world had opened up to him, and everything he had imagined was now made flesh, standing before him.Professor McGonagall stepped forward, breaking Vytenis’s reverie. She placed a four-legged stool at the center of the room, and atop it, set the old wizard’s hat—the Sorting Hat. Vytenis’s gaze locked onto it, his heart skipping a beat. He had heard the stories, of course—everyone had. The Sorting Hat, with its centuries-old magic, choosing the fates of countless students. And now, it was his turn.The Sorting Hat began to sing, its voice raspy and worn, but somehow full of life. The melody swirled through the hall, soulful and haunting, as it recited the ancient song of Hogwarts. The words spoke of the four houses, of bravery, intelligence, ambition, and loyalty. Vytenis stood there, motionless, trying to enjoy the sound. The weight of the ceremony settled around him, the sense of history thick in the air. He felt the legacy of this place, the centuries of students who had walked this path before him. It was as if time itself was folding in on him, the past and present intertwined in the beating heart of Hogwarts.After a few minutes, the Sorting Hat finished its song with a flourish, the last notes ringing out in the stillness. Vytenis could still feel the magic in the air, a lingering hum that seemed to vibrate through his very bones. Professor McGonagall stepped forward again, holding a roll of parchment in her hands, her expression as composed as ever, though her eyes gleamed with something more—perhaps pride, or anticipation.“When I call your name, step forward, put on the hat, and take a seat. Then, await your house assignment,” Professor McGonagall instructed, her voice firm yet calm, each word carrying a weight of authority that filled the vast hall.“Seán Avery!” McGonagall’s voice rang clearly, sharp and unyielding in the stillness of the room.A tall boy with freckles stumbled awkwardly out of the crowd, his movements quick but unsteady. He sat down with a slight nervousness, placing the Sorting Hat atop his head with a quick, almost hesitant motion. A moment later, the hat shouted its decision. “Slytherin!”A burst of applause erupted from the far-right table, the sound rich with approval. But from the far-left table, there was a faint murmur of discontent, a soft undercurrent of disapproval. Vytenis watched the scene unfold, a flicker of curiosity passing through him. Avery. The name seemed familiar, though he couldn’t place it exactly.“Teresa Baker!” McGonagall continued, her voice unwavering, cutting through the murmur of whispers.“Ravenclaw!” came the Sorting Hat’s swift and clear reply.The second table on the left erupted in applause, several Ravenclaw students already extending their hands, a warm welcome as they embraced Teresa into their ranks. The shift in energy was palpable—each Sorting, a delicate unfolding of a new chapter in the lives of these young witches and wizards.“Colin Creevey!” McGonagall called next, her gaze sweeping the room as she prepared for the next name.A cheer erupted from the farthest left table as Colin was sorted into Gryffindor. Vytenis felt a quiet thrill pulse through him, the atmosphere charged with excitement. Each name, each Sorting, seemed to carry its own weight, an invisible thread weaving each student into the fabric of the school’s history. Vytenis could feel it, too—the anticipation building, the sense that his moment was drawing nearer.“Alex Weston!”Vytenis’s attention snapped to Alex as he stepped forward, his movements deliberate, almost as if he were trying to control the rhythm of his own heartbeat. The room seemed to hold its breath, and Vytenis could feel the weight of every gaze in the hall pressing down on Alex. The air around them seemed to hum with the ancient magic of the Sorting Hat, its presence in the room almost palpable, as if the very walls were leaning in, listening.Alex placed the hat atop his head, and it barely made contact with his hair before it proclaimed loudly, its voice echoing through the hall, sharp and final. “Slytherin!”A smattering of applause followed, soft and polite, but Alex’s face remained an unreadable mask. His expression didn’t register excitement or satisfaction—just neutrality, as though the moment held no weight for him. It was as if he were simply going through the motions, each gesture automatic, a step in the process he had little control over. Without hesitation, he moved to join the Slytherin table, where a few students offered him polite nods of acknowledgment, their greetings as measured and controlled as his own demeanor.Vytenis’s gaze flicked to Draco Malfoy, seated at the Slytherin table. The platinum-haired boy met Alex’s arrival with a welcoming smile, his sharp features smoothing into an expression of practiced charm. Malfoy gestured to an empty seat beside him, the silent invitation clear, and Alex accepted it with a small nod. The exchange was seamless, but something about it struck Vytenis—perhaps it was the ease with which Malfoy had offered the seat, or the way Alex had slid into the Slytherin ranks without a second thought. There was a faint, almost imperceptible tension that buzzed beneath the surface, but Vytenis couldn’t quite place it.A brief, sharp flicker of—what? He couldn’t name it—flashed through him as he watched the scene unfold, though his lips twitched into a small, cold snort. His mind was still tangled in the events of earlier, the weight of the confrontation with McGonagall and the knowledge of how little had changed. The politeness of Malfoy and the other Slytherins felt like a mask, an outward civility that did nothing to alleviate the simmering frustration within him. The whole exchange felt too rehearsed, too smooth—a performance for an audience of one.“Vytenis Hart!”The sound of his name rang out sharply, slicing through the quiet buzz of the hall. Vytenis stood, his body moving instinctively before his mind could fully catch up with the moment. The weight of every student’s gaze felt like a tangible force, pressing down on him, and his heart quickened in his chest, thudding loudly as though trying to escape. The air around him thickened, heavy with expectation, and the murmurs from the other tables faded into an almost suffocating stillness.Vytenis took a steadying breath, the tension in his shoulders rising. He was keenly aware of every step, the sound of his shoes on the stone floor seeming impossibly loud in the silence that surrounded him. His pulse raced with each deliberate movement, each step taking him closer to the stool, closer to the moment that would define everything to come. He lowered his head slightly, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath his shoes, the smooth stone grounding him in the present.Finally, he reached the stool. With another deep breath, the professor placed the Sorting Hat atop his head.--“Hard. Very hard.”A sharp voice echoed in Vytenis Hart’s ear, its presence immediate and unyielding. He could feel the Sorting Hat’s voice stirring inside his mind, low but persistent, like a whispered argument he couldn’t escape, its words pulsing through him with a strange intensity.“I can tell you have courage, and you’re not a bad person. You’ve got good potential…”Vytenis’s mind drifted, his thoughts calm, steady, and resolute. His focus remained unwavering as he silently repeated to himself, I want to go to Hufflepuff. “What?” The Sorting Hat’s voice seemed incredulous, its tone edged with disbelief, as if it could hardly fathom what it was hearing. “You wish to go to Hufflepuff?”“I want to go to Hufflepuff,” Vytenis insisted, the words forming quietly but firmly in his mind. The certainty in his thought was unshakable, and he repeated it, a mantra of resolve that steeled his heart.“Without a doubt, you meet all the criteria for Hufflepuff, but…” The Sorting Hat’s voice wavered, a note of hesitation seeping through. “I don’t think that’s the best choice for you…”Vytenis’s grip on his resolve tightened, his focus sharpening. “I want to go to Hufflepuff,” he stated again, more firmly this time, the conviction in his thoughts almost tangible, a quiet strength that filled the space between them.The Sorting Hat hesitated, its voice heavy with skepticism, as if weighing something inside itself. “Have you made up your mind, then? If you go to Gryffindor, there’s no doubt you’ll find glory. You’ll have all the adventure you could dream of…”“I want to go to Hufflepuff!” Vytenis’s voice grew more resolute, a quiet but unshakable strength in his mind. This was where he belonged. The thought rang through him like a bell, a simple certainty that made everything else fade into the background.The Sorting Hat’s voice shifted, now tinged with impatience, a note of disbelief still threading through it. “Don’t you want to consider Ravenclaw, perhaps? Or Gryffindor? Don’t you crave a challenge, a path to greatness?”“I want to go to Hufflepuff!” Vytenis repeated, louder this time, the certainty in his heart unwavering. This was where he was meant to be, the house that felt right, the one that fit him like a second skin.The Sorting Hat sighed, a deep, heavy sound that reverberated in Vytenis’s mind. “Is that all you can say? The other houses, the daring Gryffindors, the clever Ravenclaws—they could be yours…”But Vytenis didn’t hesitate. “I want to go to Hufflepuff!” His voice rang clear, each syllable sharp with conviction, the words final, unmovable. This was the choice he had made, the path he had chosen, and nothing would change it.Finally, with a sharp, almost defeated tone, the Sorting Hat relented. “Hufflepuff!”The crowd at the table to Vytenis’s right erupted in a cheer, the sound of applause ringing in his ears like a wave crashing over him. A flood of relief washed over him, the weight of uncertainty lifting in an instant. His choice was made. He was in Hufflepuff now, and that was official.From across the room, Vytenis could almost feel the quiet sigh of Alex Weston, who had been sorted into Slytherin only moments before. Though he didn’t see his face, Vytenis knew it well enough. Alex’s expression had been conflicted when the announcement had been made, a strange blend of uncertainty and relief softening his features. Vytenis wasn’t sure what to make of it—whether it was disappointment or acceptance, or something more complicated—but he wasn’t about to dwell on it. It was a moment for others to process, not for him to untangle.“Honestly, you’re the second student this century to willingly choose Hufflepuff!” The Sorting Hat’s voice echoed in Vytenis’s ear, almost as if it were still mildly disappointed by his decision.Vytenis’s brow furrowed in surprise, his curiosity piqued. Oh? he thought, the question unspoken in his mind. Who was the first? “Newt Scamander,” the Sorting Hat responded, its voice lighthearted but carrying a faint trace of solemnity. “I hope you’ll be as great as he was!”Vytenis’s eyes widened in surprise at the name. Newt Scamander—a legend in the magical world. But then the Sorting Hat’s tone shifted, and a new layer of history crept into its words. “Mr. Scamander was expelled from Hogwarts in his fifth year, though…”Vytenis’s act surprise, and he opened his mouth to ask more, his acting curiosity suddenly insistent, tugging at him. But before he could utter a word, Professor McGonagall was already stepping forward. She moved with practiced precision, lifting the Sorting Hat off his head, its last murmurs fading into silence.“Luna Lovegood!” Professor McGonagall called out, her voice clear, cutting through the quiet hum of the hall.Vytenis’s gaze flickered over to the strange girl who had shared the boat with him earlier. Luna moved forward, her air of daydreaming still clinging to her like an invisible cloud, an ethereal presence that seemed to float rather than walk. Vytenis allowed himself a faint smile, watching her make her way to the Ravenclaw table. Her eccentricity, her serene strangeness, stood in stark contrast to the orderly hustle of the Sorting Ceremony.As the Sorting continued, Vytenis made his way to the Hufflepuff table. He could feel the warmth of the students’ welcoming gazes settling on him, a comforting embrace that wrapped around him like a soft blanket. There was no judgment here, no calculation—just acceptance. He sank into the seat, the weight of the moment still heavy in his chest, his heart racing with the gravity of what had just occurred.Before he could fully settle, a tall boy with a broad, easy smile approached him. His presence was warm, like a quiet burst of sunlight breaking through the clouds.“Welcome to Hufflepuff, Vytenis!” she greeted, extending a hand with genuine enthusiasm. “I’m Gabrielle Truman, the Head of Hufflepuff.”Vytenis took his hand with a smile that felt natural, something real and grounding after the intensity of the Sorting. “Hello, Gabrielle!” he replied warmly, the sound of his own voice filling the space between them like a bridge to something new.“Come on, Vytenis, sit here!” A girl with rosy cheeks and two golden braids eagerly tugged Vytenis to the seat beside her. Her excitement was infectious, a burst of warmth that seemed to radiate from her, and Vytenis couldn’t help but feel a sense of comfort in her presence, despite the rush of emotions still swirling in his chest.“Hannah, Hannah Abbott,” she introduced herself with a wide grin. “I’m a second-year!”Vytenis chuckled softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hannah—oh, no, Miss Abbott!” he added quickly, acting a little flustered by her enthusiasm, his awkwardness making the moment feel more real.Hannah rambled on, her voice lively and warm as she spoke about life at Hogwarts. Her words tumbled out in quick succession, filled with excitement. She told him how safe the school felt, how Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world, and how the Hufflepuff students were united like a family. She even shared stories of Professor Pomona Sprout, describing how she treated every student with care and kindness. Vytenis listened, intrigued by her unguarded affection for Hogwarts, even as she warned him about wandering the halls at night. She recounted the story of three Gryffindor students who had gotten into trouble the previous year, resulting in them losing 150 points.“By the way, do you know Harry Potter?” Hannah suddenly asked, her voice filled with genuine intrigue, her curiosity unmasked.“Harry Potter, you mean the Boy Who Lived?” Vytenis replied, playing along, though he was already familiar with Harry’s story from the countless whispers and tales that had swirled through the school, like a persistent breeze.“Yes!” Hannah beamed, her excitement palpable, lighting up her face. “Harry Potter is one of our students this year, and he’s in Gryffindor… My grandfather always wanted me to go to Gryffindor—he’s a Gryffindor graduate himself, but unfortunately, the Sorting Hat thought my courage wasn’t enough...”Her tone shifted slightly, as if the words were heavier than she had intended. There was a faint sadness threaded through her voice, a vulnerability that flickered just beneath the surface. She cast a longing glance toward the Gryffindor table, her eyes searching the sea of students as if hoping to spot Harry among them and point him out to Vytenis.Vytenis watched her—how it could sting when the house you didn’t belong to felt just out of reach. But what Hannah didn’t realize was that Harry Potter was probably in Professor McGonagall’s office right now, along with Ron Weasley. After all, they had just caused a major incident, and it was likely that McGonagall, Dumbledore, and even Snape were busy cleaning up the mess. Vytenis couldn’t help but imagine the chaos swirling around Harry, a boy who, despite all the legends, was still just trying to make his way through it all.“By the way, there’s something you might not know outside of Hogwarts...” Hannah continued after a thoughtful pause, her voice taking on a slightly conspiratorial tone. “At the end of last semester, Harry once again stopped the Dark Lord’s plot. Professor Dumbledore even gave Harry and his friends 160 points, helping Gryffindor win the House Cup from Slytherin!”“Wow…” Vytenis made himself nod enthusiastically, though inwardly, he couldn’t help but feel a bit taken aback. Hannah Abbott, the bright, eager girl he had assumed would be quiet and reserved, was clearly a huge fan of Harry Potter. She spoke of him with a warmth and admiration that Vytenis hadn’t anticipated. The idolization was so clear in her words.As for the House Cup, Vytenis felt a quiet skepticism stirring in his chest. He didn’t entirely agree with how it worked. The competition seemed almost fixed, more like a game where points were added back in at the end of the year, rather than a real contest of merit. How could any house compete with that? It felt like the outcome was already decided, the rules bent just enough to keep the most powerful house in the lead."By the way," Vytenis asked, his curiosity tinged with skepticism, still turning over the idea of the House Cup in his mind, "When was the last time Hufflepuff won the House Cup?"Hannah shifted slightly, her posture becoming a little more tense. Her cheeks flushed faintly at the question, as though the answer was something she had long ago resigned herself to. "Seventy-nine years ago!" she said quickly, a little too quickly, but before she could elaborate further, a voice cut through the conversation—a tall, handsome boy, his tone serious, his gaze unwavering.“The last time Hufflepuff won the House Cup was in 1913,” he said, his voice steady, yet filled with a quiet pride that was unmistakable.Vytenis blinked, surprised by the length of time that had passed. The number felt unreal, as though it belonged to some other era, another lifetime. “Wow…” he murmured, a small frown crossing his face as the weight of the statistic sank in.At that moment, a fleeting thought brushed through Vytenis’s mind—a thought so outlandish that he almost laughed at it. What if I could help Hufflepuff win the House Cup? The idea lingered for a moment, tantalizing, but he dismissed it just as quickly. It felt as far-fetched as the notion of defeating Voldemort, yet the thought refused to completely fade. He pushed it aside, but it left a faint echo in his mind, like the whisper of something impossible but still worth considering."Vytenis Hart, right?" the handsome boy said, turning to Vytenis with a warm smile that softened the edges of his seriousness. “I remembered your name from the Sorting Ceremony! I’m Cedric Diggory.”Vytenis nodded, his eyes lighting up in recognition. "Cedric is the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team... the only person this century to become Quidditch captain in their fourth year!"Hannah added with a touch of pride, her voice rising just slightly, her eyes glistening with admiration. “His grades have always been first in his year.”Vytenis could see it now—Hannah wasn’t just a fan of Harry Potter. She clearly admired Cedric just as much, if not more. The respect in her voice was subtle but undeniable, a quiet admiration that spoke volumes about the kind of person Cedric must be."Hello, Cedric!" Vytenis greeted, offering his hand, the warmth of the moment settling over him like a comfortable blanket. He smiled as they shook hands firmly, feeling the connection in the handshake, a mutual recognition.The three of them chatted for a while, with Cedric sharing stories about life at Hogwarts—his early Quidditch experiences, the challenges he had faced in his rise to captaincy, and what he expected from the year ahead. Vytenis found himself listening intently, intrigued by the way Cedric spoke, his words thoughtful and measured. There was something magnetic about Cedric’s quiet confidence, a grounded energy that drew people in without the need for loud gestures or overt displays.As the feast drew to a close, Vytenis noticed a shift in the air, a change in the atmosphere. The chatter around the hall slowly began to ebb, the energy in the room tapering off as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape returned. The hall fell into a hush, a collective stillness settling over the students, anticipation rising like a wave. Vytenis’s attention snapped to Dumbledore as he stood, the presence of the headmaster commanding immediate focus.Dumbledore introduced the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Gilderoy Lockhart, his voice carrying easily over the hall. Vytenis couldn’t help but notice the subtle amusement in Dumbledore’s eyes, the gleam of a man who had seen and heard it all. He also reminded the students of the dangers of the Forbidden Forest, a place Vytenis could already feel calling to him, mysterious and wild. As Dumbledore spoke of the upcoming Quidditch tryouts, Vytenis felt the stirrings of excitement ripple through the room, a quiet but palpable hum of enthusiasm.The last remnants of food on the tables began to vanish, the plates and platters slowly emptying as the students’ attention remained focused on the headmaster. Dumbledore’s voice rang out again, carrying through the hall like a familiar melody, as he led the students in the traditional school song:“Hogwarts, Hogwarts,Hogwarts, Hogwarts,Teach us something, please,Whether we’re old or young,Our minds can take on things of wonder...”--As the last notes of the Hogwarts School Song slowly faded into the background, the hall seemed to hold its breath, a soft, respectful silence settling over the students. The echoes of the song lingered in the air.“Music!” Albus Dumbledore’s voice suddenly broke the stillness, rich and resonant, his words carrying easily across the hall. “More charming than anything we do here! Now, it’s time for bed. First-years, follow your house’s Head to your dorms.”“First-years of Hufflepuff, come with me!” Gabrielle Truman, the Head Boy of Hufflepuff, raised his hand high, his voice clear and commanding, yet warm. He signaled the new students to follow him. Vytenis noticed the way his smile radiated confidence, and a sense of calm authority that made the transition from the feast to the unknown feel just a little less intimidating.The first-year Hufflepuffs began to rise from their seats, the movement smooth but filled with the buzz of excitement. Quiet whispers fluttered in the air, like soft wings, as the students exchanged glances, each face a mixture of curiosity, anticipation, and nerves. Vytenis could feel it too—the weight of the moment, the pull of something new and unfamiliar. It was their first night at Hogwarts.One by one, the other houses—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—began to file out of the Great Hall, the students moving in an orderly procession, each house following its own prefects, like a river breaking into smaller tributaries. Vytenis watched them for a moment, his eyes drifting over the figures heading into the unknown. There was something almost methodical about it—the precision, the way each house moved together, a silent recognition of where they belonged.But Vytenis couldn’t help but notice the disparity in their numbers. While Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin had their usual quotas, Hufflepuff’s group was nearly double in size. It seemed as though the house was bursting at the seams with new students, the enthusiasm palpable in the air, almost tangible. There was something alive in the way they stood, the way their eyes sparkled with the energy of being part of something so vibrant, so welcoming. Following Gabrielle Truman, Vytenis weaved through the bustling crowd, the heavy doors of the Great Hall closing softly behind them. The air seemed to hum with the fading echoes of the feast, the world outside the hall gradually slipping away. They climbed the marble stairs together, their pace casual yet steady, a rhythm that matched the easy flow of their conversation.Cedric Diggory, already a familiar face in Hufflepuff, struck up a light conversation with the first-years, his tone warm and inviting as he offered introductions and quick snippets of advice about life in their house. Vytenis listened attentively, grateful for the ease with which Cedric navigated the conversation, his confidence wrapped in humility.“Congratulations! And a warm welcome to Hufflepuff!” Gabrielle called out cheerfully, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that came from someone who was deeply loved and respected by their house. His words echoed through the air with a quiet pride, as though Hufflepuff was a family to which they were all now bound. “Our house emblem is the badger—often underestimated because it’s so calm before being provoked. But once angered, it can stand its ground against much larger animals, even wolves.”Vytenis smiled slightly, the reassuring warmth of her words settling deep in his chest. Hufflepuff felt right, a sense of belonging that wrapped around him like a soft, familiar blanket. It was something he hadn’t expected to feel so quickly.“Hufflepuff’s common room is located on the basement level, down the same corridor as the kitchens,” Gabrielle continued, his voice guiding them deeper into the winding hallways. They passed portraits that looked down on them, their eyes curious but otherwise indifferent, their stories old and forgotten.The further they walked, the more the castle seemed to unfold around him. Its cool stone halls stretched endlessly before them, more expansive than he could have ever imagined. It felt like stepping into the heart of something grand, something alive.“Up ahead is your Potions classroom,” Gabrielle said, a slight smirk playing at his lips. “If you turn right and go through a stone wall, you’ll find Slytherin’s common room…” He winked at the first-years, his grin conspiratorial. “I swear, I’ve never sneaked into Slytherin’s common room!” Her laugh followed, light and full of shared secrets, the humor less important than the connection it created.Before the group could continue, a sharp, cold voice interrupted the warm atmosphere.“Move aside, Hufflepuff first-years!” The voice, clipped and demanding, came from behind them, cutting through the quiet like a knife.Vytenis turned slightly, seeing Gemma Farley, the Head Girl of Slytherin, leading her group of first-years. They were about to collide in the narrow corridor, and Farley’s unyielding gaze made it clear she expected space to be given, her authority like a wall that could not be ignored.“Good evening, Miss Farley!” Gabrielle called out warmly, gesturing for the Hufflepuffs to step aside. His tone was smooth and accommodating, the kind of politeness that turned what could have been an awkward confrontation into something more civil. The first-year Hufflepuffs shuffled back, falling into the rear of the line, making room for the Slytherins.“Let’s give each other some space,” Gabrielle suggested with an ease that made the small exchange feel almost amicable, as though the worlds of Hufflepuff and Slytherin could exist in parallel without colliding.“I agree!” Farley nodded sharply, her voice smooth but cold, the warmth Gabrielle had shown absent from his tone, replaced with something distant and impervious.The two groups shifted, Slytherin veering right while Hufflepuff continued forward. Vytenis caught sight of Alex Weston, who had been following Farley closely. Alex brushed past him, his movements quick and deliberate, but his gaze never once met Vytenis’s. The tension in Alex’s posture was palpable, the awkwardness in his steps betraying the uncertainty that still clung to him. He was clearly still grappling with his recent Sorting into Slytherin, the weight of it visible in the way he carried himself.Despite the cold divide between their houses, Vytenis couldn’t help but feel a brief pang of quite understandment for Alex. The Slytherin house was a place that seemed to demand conformity, and Vytenis sensed the pressure of that expectation weighing on him. In that fleeting moment, he understood. Alex was still finding his place, still figuring out where he belonged—just as Vytenis was.“Don’t be afraid of Slytherin. A badger never fears a snake!” Gabrielle laughed, the sound light and carefree, trying to ease the tension that seemed to cling to the air. His words hung in the space between them, a reminder that there was strength in their unity, a strength rooted in Hufflepuff’s quiet resilience. “Now, where was I?”"Oh, right!" Gabrielle turned down another hallway, his steps quickening, her voice more energized with every movement. “Up ahead is the kitchens!” He gestured to the walls around them, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “The entrance to the common room is hidden in the corner of the kitchen corridor, behind a stack of large barrels… Right here!”He stopped in front of two middle barrels in the second row, knocking on them in quick succession, the rhythm of the knocks almost melodic. “Just like this, knock the lids of these two middle barrels in the second row with the rhythm of ‘Helga Hufflepuff,’ and the lid will automatically spin open,” Gabrielle explained with a grin, his voice warm and inviting. "We’re the only house with a magical barrier to keep intruders out. If you knock on the wrong lid or mess up the rhythm, well, intruders will get doused with vinegar," he added with a wink, his voice tinged with playful mischief.Vytenis chuckled at the thought. The idea of vinegar splashing onto an unwelcome intruder felt oddly satisfying, a small, cheeky piece of justice. He couldn’t help but grin, following the others with a sense of quiet amusement. He crawled into the barrel, the coolness of the stone floor meeting his hands as he moved through the narrow opening. There was something thrilling about stepping into this secret world hidden beneath Hogwarts—this small, enchanted space where only those who knew the rhythm could enter. The first-years shuffled along through a round tunnel, the curved walls making the passage feel like the inside of an oak barrel, dark and intimate. Vytenis could hear the soft shuffle of footsteps ahead and behind him, a quiet reminder that they were all in this together. The earthy scent of the stone walls mixed with the faint smell of wood, a scent that felt quite nice.Eventually, they emerged into a circular room with a low ceiling, the air inside warm and thick with the smell of comfort. The space was cozy, inviting, filled with soft couches and chairs that seemed to beckon them to rest. It felt like a place built for quiet moments, where time could slow down, and the world outside felt a little less pressing.“We’ve arrived at the Hufflepuff common room!” Gabrielle announced with a proud smile, his voice carrying the warmth that seemed to radiate from the walls themselves. “If it were daytime, this place would be bathed in sunlight.” He opened a round archway inside the room, his gestures smooth and graceful, as though he were showing them a treasure they had yet to truly appreciate. “Through the circular windows, you’d see swaying grass and dandelions.”Vytenis smiled as he took in the space, his eyes sweeping over the room. The warmth of the room, the quiet hum of conversations, and the familiar faces around him—all of it felt like home already. Hufflepuff wasn’t just where he had ended up; it was exactly where he was meant to be. His heart swelled at the thought, a deep, quiet joy settling in his chest.He paused before a portrait of a witch hanging above the fireplace, the figure poised with an elegant air. There was a quiet beauty about her, the kind that spoke of wisdom and inner strength, not of fleeting allure. The longer Vytenis looked at her, the more he could sense the depth of character in her presence—Beneath the portrait, an inscription read:
"Helga Hufflepuff (964–1032), recognized as one of the greatest witches in British magical history. She was born in 964 in a valley in Wales. In 993, she helped found Hogwarts and advocated that every child with magical potential should attend Hogwarts. She served as the second Headmistress of Hogwarts from 998–1032. Helga Hufflepuff’s greatest achievement was discovering the uses of over 200 herbs. She also made significant contributions to the protection of house-elves and culinary magic."
The painting depicted Helga Hufflepuff as a young woman, her twenties or thirties, standing gracefully before the newly constructed Hogwarts Castle. Her expression was gentle, yet unyielding, her eyes focused far off in the distance, as though contemplating not just the present, but the future she was helping to shape.Vytenis bowed his head in respect, his thoughts momentarily quieting as he focused on the legacy of the woman who had helped create this place, this house, he now called his own. He had read about her before, of course, but seeing her portrait here, within the heart of Hufflepuff, made her presence feel more tangible. It was as though she stood beside him, her spirit woven into the very walls of the house, her ideals embedded in the hearts of those who followed her path.Hogwarts had so many new students each year. Gryffindor took the brave and fearless, Slytherin claimed the pure-blooded and ambitious, Ravenclaw welcomed the wise and clever. But Hufflepuff? What did it really stand for?It wasn’t simply a house for the hardworking and honest, as so many had been taught to believe. No, Hufflepuff embraced the students who didn’t quite fit anywhere else—the ones whose qualities didn’t align neatly with the ideals of the other houses. The ones who had to find their place in a world that often demanded conformity, even when they didn’t fully understand what that meant.Vytenis thought back to the Sorting Ceremony, the weight of it pressing on his mind. Imagine being a young wizard, filled with hopes and dreams, eagerly rowing a boat to Hogwarts, only to be told by the Sorting Hat that you weren’t brave enough, clever enough, or ambitious enough for any of the other houses. What would that feel like? What happened to those students, the ones who didn’t fit the mold? What fate awaited them?Helga Hufflepuff had stopped that from happening. She had welcomed every child who showed magical potential, no matter their background, no matter their flaws. Her kindness had paved the way for all those who might otherwise have been overlooked. She had given them the right to an education, to a future, no matter who they had been before.As Vytenis stood before the portrait, the weight of his thoughts lifted, replaced by a new sense of belonging. He wasn’t just a student in a school; he was part of something far greater. A house, a tradition, a legacy that stretched back for centuries. It was more than just a place to stay—it was a community, a family that saw him for who he was, not just what he could be.After bowing in respect once more, Vytenis raised his head, and in that very moment, almost as if in response to his thoughts, he noticed something. Helga Hufflepuff in the portrait had winked at him.A smile tugged at the corner of Vytenis’s mouth, and he smiled back at her, a gesture that felt almost like a blessing.--The next morning, Vytenis Hart awoke at 6 AM, the early light creeping through the small windows of the Hufflepuff boys’ dormitory. The light was soft, a quiet intrusion into the stillness of the room, which held a cool, early-morning silence. Vytenis sat up, his eyes heavy with sleep, the remnants of dreams still lingering at the edges of his thoughts. He rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fatigue, and glanced around the room, letting the unfamiliar surroundings sink in.Hufflepuff’s dormitory was different from the others he had imagined. Each student had their own small compartment, tucked away like individual cells, separated by thick wooden partitions that offered just enough privacy. At first glance, the rooms seemed cramped, a little too enclosed, but inside, they revealed a surprising spaciousness, with just enough room for personal belongings and a small desk. It was the kind of space that felt lived in, quiet and intimate.Vytenis’s suitcase had already been placed neatly beside the bed, as though the house had anticipated his needs. On the windowsill, two glass cages held South African red spiders. They sat there, their tiny legs twitching with a sharp, nervous energy. Vytenis watched them for a moment, the faint stirrings of life in their glass prison. He moved to the small box next to their habitat, took a few dead mealworms from it, and tossed them into the cages. His actions were mechanical, unfeeling. He wasn’t particularly concerned with the spiders’ well-being—he had bigger things to think about. As long as they survived until Halloween, that was enough for him.He washed up quickly, splashing cold water onto his face, the chill of it helping him shake off the lingering drowsiness. The water was sharp, but it didn’t fully wake him. Dressing in his Hogwarts black robe, he made his way out of the dormitory, walking silently through the empty corridors.The common room was still empty when he arrived, around 6:15 AM, the first light of day filtering softly through the windows. The glow cast its warm hue over the botanical specimens that filled the room, the plants arranged thoughtfully throughout the space. These were Professor Pomona Sprout’s plants—an eclectic mix of magical and mundane species, each one carefully nurtured, as though they were members of the house themselves. The plants filled the room with a life of their own, their subtle movements and earthy smells giving the space a sense of energy. It was a place that felt both lively and calming, the air rich with the the thoughts of knowledge and quiet reflection.But Vytenis didn’t linger. He wasn’t interested in the plants, not yet. His thoughts were elsewhere, pulling him forward. He passed through the circular underground tunnel, the familiar barrel entrance looming ahead. He crawled out, the cool stone against his hands, and emerged into the dimly lit basement corridor of Hogwarts. The hall was eerily quiet at this hour, a silence that seemed to stretch infinitely, broken only by the soft, distant creaking of the castle’s ancient stone walls. His footsteps were the only sound, a solitary rhythm that echoes.Hogwarts had strict rules about wandering the halls at night—rules that Vytenis now understood with a clear, cautious respect. He didn’t have any magical tools like the Invisibility Cloak or the Marauder’s Map, so the idea of freely exploring the school, slipping through hidden passageways, was not an option for him. There were risks.But that didn’t stop Vytenis Hart from taking a quiet early morning stroll, when the campus was still calm, and the light was softer, casting long, gentle shadows through the empty halls. The peaceful atmosphere of Hogwarts at dawn was something he appreciated—those precious moments of stillness, before the chaos of the day rushed in and filled the air with noise and activity. There was something about the quiet solitude that made the castle feel more alive. His first stop was the kitchen, which, conveniently, was located just next to the Hufflepuff common room. Vytenis had hoped to grab some breakfast—though it was far too early for the dining hall to be open. He muttered to himself as he walked down the corridor, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the stillness around him. "Gabrielle mentioned the kitchen was down this way..."It didn’t take long before he found it—a painting of a silver bowl filled with fruit. Vytenis smiled to himself, remembering Gabrielle Truman’s instructions, the easy confidence with which he had explained the house’s secrets. He reached out to gently scratch the green pear in the painting. To his delight, it wiggled and giggled, the soft sound of its laughter echoing through the hallway before it transformed into a large, green doorknob.With a quiet click, the door swung open, revealing a room that was nearly as large as the dining hall itself. The stone walls were lined with shiny copper cauldrons, wooden spoons, and bowls, all gleaming softly in the dim light. A large brick fireplace sat at the far end of the room, crackling with warmth, the fire’s gentle glow casting dancing shadows across the room. The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon and fresh bread, the scents both comforting and familiar—like something that could almost make the weight of the world feel a little lighter.Vytenis paused for a moment, taking it all in—the rich smells, the warmth, the sense of life that filled the room. It was a space that felt like it belonged to everyone and no one, a place where comfort and food collided in a way that made the castle seem a little less vast, a little less imposing.As he breathed in the air, savoring the stillness of the kitchen, a small voice interrupted his thoughts."Sir... hello... sir..." A tiny creature darted toward him, its movements swift and jittery, as it spoke rapidly, its voice trembling slightly. "Can I help you, sir?"It was a house-elf, small and unattractive, with large bat-like ears that seemed too big for its head and eyes as wide as tennis balls. Vytenis nearly jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of the creature, its presence unexpected and almost otherworldly in the quiet kitchen."Hello!" Vytenis responded quickly, adjusting his posture and extending a hand toward the elf, trying to ease the creature’s nervous energy. "I’m Vytenis Hart, a Hufflepuff student. Could I have some breakfast, please?""Hufflepuff!" the house-elf suddenly shrieked, its voice high-pitched and filled with an overwhelming excitement. "Welcome... very welcome... it’s an honor..." The elf grasped Vytenis’s fingers nervously, its tiny hand trembling slightly, as though this simple gesture was one of great significance to it.Before Vytenis could respond, six more house-elves appeared from behind the first, their tiny feet barely making a sound as they shuffled forward, each carrying a large silver tray. The trays were piled high with food: a huge cup of milk, a steaming mug, and a plate brimming with freshly baked cookies. The sight of the food was overwhelming—more than anyone could reasonably consume in one sitting, yet the elves pressed on, eager to serve."Thank you, thank you," Vytenis said quickly, setting the food down on a nearby table, his hands momentarily full. "Really, I don’t need this much!"The house-elves, undeterred by his polite protest, continued to pour more food into his hands—bread, cakes, pies, and even more cookies—pressing the offerings toward him with such enthusiasm that Vytenis could hardly keep up."That’s enough, enough!" Vytenis laughed, shaking his head at the overwhelming generosity, his eyes flicking to Klein again. "Wait, why do you keep emphasizing Hufflepuff?"Klein’s large green eyes filled with emotion, and the elf choked back a sob before speaking, its voice thick with feeling."A thousand years ago, the life of house-elves was miserable..." Klein explained, his voice trembling, the weight of the past heavy in his words. "Helga Hufflepuff brought our ancestors to Hogwarts to work in the kitchens, ensuring we had work and were not mistreated. We had better lives here than anywhere else."The elf paused, wiping its eyes, the motion small and quick, before continuing, its voice thick with emotion, "Protecting Hufflepuff is the mission of every house-elf at Hogwarts..."Ten minutes later, Vytenis Hart, with a pocket full of food, stepped out of the kitchen, the watchful eyes of over a hundred house-elves following his every move. Their presence was almost tangible, a quiet assurance that he was never truly alone. It seemed he hadn’t made the wrong choice by picking Hufflepuff—after all, he’d never go hungry at Hogwarts. The house-elves, in their quiet way, were a testament to the house’s values: care, community, and comfort.As he walked, he couldn’t help but reflect on the unspoken bond between Hufflepuff and the house-elves. He now understood why the Hufflepuff common room lacked magical barriers to prevent intruders. It wasn’t necessary; the house-elves were ever vigilant, watching over the space with a care that had become second nature. They had, in a way, become the guardians of the house, a comforting thought that made Vytenis feel safer, more at home. It was a kind of protection that wasn’t about force or spells, but about loyalty and trust.But instead of returning to the common room right away, Vytenis decided to explore further. It was still only 6:30 AM, and the quiet corridors of the castle beckoned to him. The stillness of the morning called to something deeper within him—a desire to discover, to see what lay behind every corner, to uncover the secrets of this ancient place. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floors as he began his journey toward the upper floors.Hogwarts’ staircases were famously complicated, twisting and turning in ways that made even the most experienced students hesitant. Vytenis had heard the stories—of staircases that moved, of doors that wouldn’t open, of hidden passages that appeared and disappeared at will. But he was undeterred, his curiosity outweighing any fear. The portraits lining the walls seemed to recognize his intent, and as if by instinct, they offered him directions, their painted eyes twinkling with secret knowledge.After winding his way up, he eventually reached the eighth floor. He had no particular destination in mind, no specific place he intended to find—only the vague idea that something here, in this part of the castle, was waiting for him. His feet carried him along, drawn by some unseen force, and after about ten minutes of wandering, he found himself standing before a wall. Across from a tapestry, he recognized the scene—years ago, a troll had been felled by the unfortunate Banabas.Vytenis walked back and forth three times along the wall, the stone beneath his feet cool and steady. And to his surprise, the magic responded. A shimmering door appeared before him, glowing faintly with a soft, inviting light, as if it had been waiting for his touch.The entrance to the Room of Requirement.His heart skipped a beat. He had heard of it, of course, but to see it for himself, to know that it had responded to his own need, was something else entirely. Vytenis turned the brass handle, the cool metal pressing into his palm, and stepped inside. His breath caught as the door swung open.Before him lay a dining table, elegantly set with a full array of cutlery. Its surface was already laden with delicious food—pastries, fruit, eggs, and freshly brewed tea. The sight was so unexpected, so perfectly attuned to his needs, that Vytenis blinked in amazement. The Room of Requirement had delivered, as it always did, exactly what he hadn’t known he needed."This is it!" Vytenis muttered, a grin spreading across his face. His heart swelled with awe, not just at the food before him, but at the possibilities this room represented. He placed the cookies, cakes, and bread from his robe on the table, settling into one of the chairs with a sense of contentment. With utensils in hand, he was ready to enjoy the breakfast he hadn’t expected to have.As he dug into the food, a thought crossed his mind, one that seemed to stretch the boundaries of possibility—What else might the Room of Requirement provide?The possibilities were endless. A place for rest, a place for study, a place to hide. The room could transform into whatever he needed, whenever he needed it. And for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Vytenis felt a quiet excitement—an anticipation for the hidden layers of the school, secrets yet to be discovered, all waiting for him to explore.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Vytenis stood up, brushing the crumbs from his robe, his mind already racing with a new idea. If the Room of Requirement could provide something as simple as a meal, how far could it really go? Was there a limit to its capabilities?"Let's start big and narrow it down," he murmured, a mischievous glint flickering in his silver eyes.With a deep breath, he focused, pushing the boundaries of reason. He thought the words, clear and precise: I need a strategic missile silo, with an intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) and a nuclear warhead. He briefly considered a few examples—something like the Minuteman III, the Topol-M, or the Dongfeng-5—all known ICBMs capable of carrying nuclear payloads, each a symbol of Cold War-era might and power. Nothing excessive... just something reliable. The air around him thickened, charged with an energy that pressed against his chest, heavy and unsettling. The room seemed to pause, as if holding its breath.Then, without warning, the entire space began to tremble.It wasn’t a subtle vibration. The walls groaned under the strain, and the floor shook with an intensity that felt too real. Vytenis staggered, gripping the back of a chair to steady himself, his pulse quickening as his body fought to stay upright. Dust rained down from the ceiling, the sharp scent of old stone and magic filling the air as everything around him rattled.The tremors grew stronger, louder, the very foundation of the room seeming to warp and bend beneath an invisible force. Vytenis’s heart pounded in his chest. For a fleeting moment, the thought flickered: Had he just destroyed Hogwarts? Was this the end?The violent shaking persisted for several long seconds—an eternity of chaos that made the air feel thick with power. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the tremors stopped.Silence flooded the room.Vytenis stood frozen, his breath shallow and rapid. The chair still pressed against his hand, but the tension in the room had vanished. His eyes darted around, half-expecting to find himself standing inside the control room of a fully operational nuclear silo.Had it worked? Had the Room of Requirement actually tried to fulfill his request?However, as the tremors faded and the dust settled, Vytenis found himself standing in an utterly empty room. No missile silo. No intercontinental warhead. Nothing. The only evidence that the Room of Requirement had even attempted to fulfill his request was the lingering tension in the air, a faint hum, as if the magic that governed the space was still recovering from the strain.A slow exhale escaped him. So, there is a limit, he mused, a mix of disappointment and amusement flickering across his face.It wasn’t surprising. After all, expecting a room—designed to assist students in their academic and personal needs—to suddenly conjure up modern military weaponry was a bit much. Still, the fact that it reacted at all meant it had at least tried."Alright," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Let’s try something a little more reasonable."This time, he focused on something smaller, more manageable. A multi-barrel rocket launcher—one capable of covering all of Hogwarts, including the Forbidden Forest, in thirty seconds. A Tornado or Guards model would do. Both were capable of firing multiple guided rockets in rapid succession, effective against large area targets or enemy clusters.The moment the thought solidified in his mind, the room responded.Another violent tremor surged through the walls, sending a deep, echoing rumble through the space. Vytenis barely had time to react before the floor tilted beneath him, and he stumbled forward, arms flailing for balance.At the last second, a solid stone pillar shot up from the ground, just within reach. Instinctively, he grabbed onto it, steadying himself as the shaking subsided.Then, silence.Vytenis straightened, scanning the room with a mixture of anticipation and wariness.Still—no rocket launcher.No hint of explosives, no sign of modern artillery. Just the same empty space, now with an inexplicably placed pillar that hadn’t been there moments ago.He huffed, shaking his head. I suppose that answers my question. The Room of Requirement may be powerful, but it definitely wasn’t designed for this kind of madness."Seriously? This still doesn’t work?" Vytenis muttered, rubbing his temples in frustration.Fine. If intercontinental missiles and rocket launchers were too much, he would lower his expectations."Okay, let’s go even simpler… How about a Type 59 main battle tank?"Nothing."A 35mm Type 87 grenade launcher? That should be easy enough, right?"Still nothing.He exhaled sharply, frustration creeping in. "Alright, an AK-47 assault rifle?"Silence."A 92 semi-automatic pistol?"Not even a whisper of movement from the room."A bayonet?"His patience was wearing thin. "You’ve got to be joking. You can’t even conjure a bayonet?"Frustrated, he repeated the request several more times, each attempt more exasperated than the last. But each time, the result was the same—nothing but the now-familiar violent tremor before the room settled back into its empty state.Vytenis ran a hand through his hair, the motion sharp, like he was trying to scrape the tension from his skull. "You're literally the Room of Requirement, and you can’t manage something as basic as a combat knife?"A long, groaning noise echoed through the chamber, almost like the room itself was… whining.He straightened, watching as, before him, a table materialized from thin air. It was solid, with sharp edges and a polished wood surface. Atop it sat a bottle of Scotch whisky and a single glass. Without hesitation, the bottle tipped itself, pouring a generous amount of amber liquid into the glass, its smooth, controlled motion oddly deliberate. Then, as if completing some sort of peace offering, the glass lifted and floated gently toward him.Vytenis blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of events."Well, this is new," he muttered, accepting the drink. He stared at the glass for a moment, his eyes shifting between it and the room, the edges of his mind catching up with the situation. Realization dawned slowly, a small chuckle escaping him. "You’re apologizing, aren’t you?"The walls gave an almost imperceptible shudder, as if to confirm, and Vytenis couldn’t help but smile.His lips curled into an amused smirk. "A Room of Requirement with a conscience… And here I thought we banned sentient magical objects after 1949."As he swirled the whisky in his hand, the rich amber liquid catching the light, a thought struck him. A flash of inspiration, a thought so strange it could only make sense in a place like this.Hogwarts had been founded in 993—nearly a thousand years ago. If his guess was correct, the Room of Requirement must have been created around the same time.Vytenis decided to test his theory."Give me a set of Crusader armor and a Tang dynasty sword," he commanded, his voice firm.This time, the Room responded without hesitation.Before him, a full suit of heavy plate armor and an elegantly forged longsword materialized, appearing almost instantaneously.Vytenis stepped forward, inspecting the armor first. The metal glinted in the dim light, its surface smooth and well-crafted, but its weight was overwhelming. He reached out to touch the breastplate, his fingers sinking into the cool surface as he tried to lift it. It was far too cumbersome to wear comfortably. While it wouldn’t stand a chance against modern weaponry, he imagined it might deflect an arrow—or even a weaker spell.Then, he turned to the sword. The blade was sleek and sharp, its edge catching the light with a precision that spoke of expert craftsmanship. Engraved along the hilt were the words: Year 5 of XX Dynasty. A satisfied smirk tugged at his lips. So, I was right. He discarded the armor and sword to the side, his mind racing with the implications of what he’d just learned.The Room of Requirement had likely been created by one or more of Hogwarts’ founders—perhaps even all four of them. The enchantments placed upon it were no ordinary magic. Like the Sorting Hat, the Room had gained a certain intelligence, its purpose far beyond that of a mere storage space. But its understanding of the world was frozen in time. It could only summon what its creators knew.That explained everything. A modern bayonet, a firearm, or even something as relatively simple as a grenade launcher—none of those existed a thousand years ago. The Room simply didn’t have the knowledge of how to create them.To confirm his hypothesis, Vytenis made another request."Give me several books on Defense Against the Dark Arts."Instantly, a neat stack of books appeared on a nearby wooden table. The leather bindings were worn, the titles embossed in gold, their edges slightly frayed from age. Curses and Counter-Curses, Common Dark Arts and Their Defense, The Complete Guide to Self-Protection Magic —all were ancient tomes, their pages yellowed with time.He flipped through them, scanning the publication dates. Every single one had been written before the 9th or 10th centuries.Vytenis exhaled slowly, a sense of satisfaction settling over him. So, that’s the limit. The books were ancient, their pages filled with spells and theories long since outdated. Vytenis barely spared them a second glance before setting them aside. Magic had evolved countless times over the past millennium—there was no point in wasting effort on techniques that were obsolete.With a wave of his hand, the armor, sword, and books vanished.In their place, a series of magical defense tools materialized before him. Spying mirrors lined up neatly along the wall, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly in the torchlight. A set of enchanted detection charms hovered in the air, pulsing faintly with residual magic. At the center of it all stood a massive Demon-Detecting Mirror, its dark frame carved with intricate runes that seemed to twist and writhe as if alive.Vytenis frowned slightly. Though the Room of Requirement had done its best to provide useful tools, he doubted their effectiveness against real threats.Still, it was better than nothing.Beyond the mirrors, a row of massive silk cushions had appeared, likely meant for spell practice. Several animated mannequins stood at the ready, their blank faces eerily still, waiting for his command.Vytenis tightened his grip on his wand.Time to get to work.He took a step forward, raising his wand with practiced precision. The Petrificus Totalus charm was the only offensive spell he had mastered so far—its power was limited, but that didn’t matter.What mattered was control.What mattered was speed.He took aim at the nearest mannequin."Petrificus Totalus!"A jet of pale blue light shot forward, striking the mannequin squarely in the chest. The figure stiffened instantly, its limbs locking together as if bound by invisible chains.Vytenis exhaled slowly, lowering his wand. Not bad—but not good enough.He reset the mannequin and took his stance again.If he wanted to survive at Hogwarts, he needed to be better.--By the time Vytenis left the Room of Requirement, the clock had already struck 8 AM.Classes at Hogwarts began at 8:30, and the first lesson of the day was Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall—shared between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor first-years.The Transfiguration classroom was located on the seventh floor, and it only took Vytenis a few minutes to get there. The door stood ajar, and as he stepped inside, he noticed the room was empty. It seemed most of his classmates were still lingering in the Great Hall, finishing breakfast.At the front of the classroom, however, sat a tabby cat.Vytenis immediately straightened, stepping forward before bowing deeply."Professor McGonagall."The cat flicked its tail, green eyes locking onto him for a brief moment before giving a slight nod of acknowledgment. She did not, however, shift back into her human form.Vytenis took a seat in the front row, the creak of the chair barely audible in the quiet room. He pulled A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch from his bag. He flipped through the pages, but his eyes barely scanned the words. The textbook was nothing new—he had already memorized the entire thing. Instead, his attention remained on the tabby cat at the front of the room, the small creature now the focal point of his thoughts.Animagus transformation was undoubtedly impressive. Professor McGonagall’s ability to shift seamlessly into feline form wasn’t just about physical alteration—she even retained the instincts and agility of a true cat.And yet, Vytenis couldn’t help but question its practicality.For all its complexity, Animagus transformation was strictly limited to non-magical creatures. One couldn’t take the form of a phoenix, a dragon, or even a hippogriff—only mundane animals. From a combat perspective, that seemed like a considerable drawback. Why trade the power of a wand for the vulnerabilities of tooth and claw?Furthermore, ordinary Transfiguration could achieve a similar effect. With the right spellwork, a wizard could temporarily assume the form of an animal. Animagus training, in contrast, seemed redundant. Unlike the Animagus form—restricted to a single, unchangeable shape—regular Transfiguration allowed for greater versatility, offering the ability to shift into multiple creatures as needed.And the effort required? Years of practice, a painstaking ritual, and an ever-present risk of failure. Even among the most skilled wizards, the number of registered Animagi in the 20th century barely exceeded seven. The number of unregistered ones was likely higher, but still, the difficulty of the process was undeniable.For most wizards, the cost far outweighed the benefits.Vytenis closed his book with a soft snap and glanced again at the cat. Its eyes gleamed back at him, unfazed.Perhaps McGonagall had different reasons for mastering the craft. But for him? Animagus transformation was a skill best admired from afar.Here’s the reworked passage, focusing on Vytenis’s reactions and the flow of the classroom scene without overly explaining his internal thoughts:As Vytenis sat in quiet contemplation, silently critiquing the practicality of Animagus transformation, the first-year students from Hufflepuff and Gryffindor began trickling into the classroom, one by one."Hi, Vytenis.""Hey, Steven.""Good morning, Vytenis.""Morning, Eloise."He exchanged greetings with his fellow Hufflepuffs, watching as they took their seats. Most of them were still groggy from breakfast, chatting idly as they settled in. What they didn’t notice, however, was the tabby cat perched on the podium.Unaware of its true identity, the students moved about freely, filling the room with soft murmurs and laughter. Steven Lucas, a particularly bold Hufflepuff, even reached out to pet the small feline, his fingers hovering dangerously close to its fur.Vytenis acted swiftly, grabbing Steven’s wrist just before contact."Unless you want to start the year with detention, I wouldn’t do that," he muttered under his breath.Steven blinked at him in confusion, but something in Vytenis's expression made him think twice. He quickly withdrew his hand, muttering, "Right... thanks."Meanwhile, Ginny Weasley entered the room, her fiery red hair unmistakable. She took a seat in the front row, just a few spaces away from Vytenis. Unlike the others, she didn’t seek out a friend or strike up a conversation. Instead, she remained quiet, her hands folded neatly on her desk, lost in her own thoughts.By the time the clock struck 8:30, every student had arrived. Not a single one dared to be late for their very first class at Hogwarts.Then, without warning, the tabby cat on the podium spoke."Good morning, everyone!"A collective gasp rippled through the room as the cat leapt down, mid-air shifting in an instant. Before their astonished eyes, fur gave way to flowing emerald robes, and sharp feline eyes became the keen, piercing gaze of Professor Minerva McGonagall."Please be quiet!" she commanded, her voice firm yet composed.The effect was immediate. Every whisper, every rustling page, every idle movement ceased at once. The entire room fell into stunned silence.Vytenis allowed himself the faintest smirk. Some lessons didn’t need a textbook."I am Minerva McGonagall, your Transfiguration professor," she announced, her sharp gaze sweeping across the room.Her voice was steady, composed, but carried an undeniable weight of authority. Every student instinctively straightened in their seats."Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic," she continued. "The ability to alter the form of an object—or even a living being—is not something to be taken lightly. A single moment of carelessness could result in irreversible consequences."A hush fell over the room as she paused, letting her words sink in."There have been countless incidents throughout history—students who mistakenly turned themselves into pigs, sheep, or creatures far worse." Her tone grew sharper, almost as if she were daring them to test her warning. "Some of these transformations, if you’re fortunate, are reversible. But many are not."She let the silence hang before adding, "Sixteen known magical creatures have originated from failed transformations—including the infamous Five-Legged Beast. In Britain alone, at least three hundred witches and wizards have perished due to botched Transfiguration, and nearly nine hundred more have been left permanently disfigured."A few students exchanged uneasy glances. The weight of her words settled heavily over them."I sincerely hope none of you will add to those statistics," McGonagall said, her voice laced with a quiet sternness.The tension in the room was palpable. Even the most restless students had fallen silent, fully absorbing the gravity of her warning."However," she continued, her expression softening just slightly, "despite its dangers, Transfiguration is also one of the most remarkable and elegant forms of magic. Allow me to demonstrate."With a flick of her wand, the wooden podium before her began to shimmer. The entire class watched in stunned silence as the structure shifted, contorted, and in the blink of an eye—A massive lion now stood where the podium had been."ROAR!"The beast let out a deafening cry, shaking its golden mane as it leapt onto Colin Creevey’s desk. The young Gryffindor let out a startled yelp, nearly toppling out of his seat. Several students gasped, scrambling backward.McGonagall remained utterly unfazed. Another flick of her wand—The lion took a single step forward before its form blurred, shrinking rapidly. Within seconds, it had transformed into a small, plump badger, its tiny paws scratching against the wooden desks as it scurried between students."Squeak... squeak..."It darted up onto Vytenis’s desk for a brief moment, leaving a faint paw print before bounding back toward the professor.Then, just as effortlessly as before, the badger shimmered—and the podium was back in its place, standing as if it had never moved.A beat of silence followed. Then—The classroom erupted in whispers of awe.Even those who had been wary of Transfiguration only moments ago now watched McGonagall with wide-eyed excitement. If this was the kind of magic they would learn here, then perhaps the risks were worth it after all."Of course, transfiguring furniture into animals is something you’ll master in your later years," Professor McGonagall said, motioning for the class to settle. "For now, we will begin with something much simpler—transforming a matchstick into a needle."With a flick of her wand, a small wooden box appeared on her desk. She reached in and withdrew a handful of matchsticks, distributing them with a firm nod to each student."Transfiguration requires concentration, precision, and unwavering intent," she continued. "Picture a needle in your mind—its shape, its metallic sheen, its fine point. Hold that image steady. Then, match the form of the matchstick before you to the image in your mind."She stepped back slightly, giving them room to focus."The incantation is Ferraverto," she instructed, enunciating each syllable clearly. "Remember, the stress is on the third syllable—Fer-ra-VER-to. Now, wands at the ready."Vytenis adjusted his grip on his wand, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then fixed his gaze on the matchstick in front of him, focusing on its wooden surface. A needle. Thin. Sharp. Gleaming."Ferraverto!" he cast, his voice steady.Nothing happened.His matchstick remained stubbornly wooden, unchanged."Excellent work, Miss Weasley!" McGonagall’s voice rang out from his right, drawing the attention of the entire class. "A strong first attempt—Gryffindor earns one point!"Vytenis turned, just in time to see Ginny Weasley lowering her wand, a look of mild surprise on her face. The matchstick in her hand had already taken on a silvery sheen, its tip narrowing into a point. It wasn’t fully a needle yet, but it was closer than anyone else’s.Vytenis frowned slightly, watching as she set the matchstick down. Was it pure talent? Or had Voldemort’s diary already started acting as a tutor?His eyes flicked back to his own matchstick, still stubbornly unchanged. He sighed, trying to shake the frustration creeping into his thoughts. He had work to do.By the end of Transfiguration class, only four students had successfully transformed their matchsticks. Vytenis was the last among them. Ginny Weasley had nearly completed her transfiguration, her matchstick now resembling a crude but unmistakable needle. Vytenis had only managed to sharpen the tip of his. It wasn’t much, but it was progress. McGonagall, pleased with Ginny’s efforts, awarded Gryffindor another point.Vytenis wasn’t frustrated over the points or the lack of attention—what truly irked him was knowing that he had memorized the entire theory of Ferraverto before school even started. Many of his classmates hadn’t even opened their textbooks until today, and yet some had outperformed him. It wasn’t the theory that held him back—it was the practical execution. Visualizing the transformation clearly and aligning his magic with that image was proving harder than expected.Still, he had no time to dwell on it. Charms class was next.The Charms classroom was located on the left corridor of the fourth floor, and by the time Vytenis arrived with the rest of the Hufflepuffs, the Ravenclaws had already taken their seats. As expected, Professor Filius Flitwick stood atop a stack of books to reach the desk, his tiny stature barely allowing him to see over the students. Before starting the lesson, he unrolled a long parchment and took attendance, his voice high and cheerful.Unlike McGonagall’s stern introduction, Flitwick’s enthusiasm was contagious. He spent the first half of the lesson stressing the importance of Charms, demonstrating three useful spells—Reducto, Reparo, and Wingardium Leviosa. The students watched in awe as he effortlessly reduced a desk to splinters, then restored it to its original form before making it hover gently in the air.For today’s lesson, they would focus on Wingardium Leviosa, the Levitation Charm. It was a simple spell in theory but required precision in both pronunciation and wand movement. Flitwick promised that once most of the class had mastered it, he would teach them the more advanced Floating Charm, which allowed for controlled movement rather than just lifting an object.However, after half the class had passed, not a single student—Vytenis included—had succeeded in making their feather hover.Flitwick, ever patient, reassured them that the Levitation Charm required practice and that it was rare for a student to master it on their first attempt. Still, Vytenis couldn't help but feel disappointed. Just like in Transfiguration, he had understood the theory perfectly—he had even read ahead on the Floating Charm—but understanding a spell and successfully casting it were two entirely different things.As he made his way to the Great Hall for lunch, a sense of frustration lingered. The first morning of classes at Hogwarts had been an eye-opener, but not in the way he had hoped. Theory alone wouldn’t be enough—he had a long road ahead if he wanted to truly master magic.--After Charms class, Vytenis couldn’t shake the thoughts running through his mind.Magic in the wizarding world was nothing like the systematic spellcasting found in games like Dungeons & Dragons. Wizards were not scholars meticulously studying formulas to cast spells; they were more like innate magic wielders, drawing upon their emotions to fuel their abilities. That was the fundamental nature of spellcasting in this world.And that was precisely Vytenis Hart’s greatest weakness.He was no ordinary eleven-year-old. In truth, he wasn’t even a child. He carried the mind of someone far older—rational, analytical, and deeply entrenched in logic. He had spent over a decade immersed in research, raised in a world governed by material science and reason, his thoughts shaped by nearly forty years of life experience. He wasn’t someone who could simply feel his magic into existence like his peers, who let instinct and emotion guide them.For him, it was an impossible task.Unless, of course, someone cast a Memory Charm on him…But that was something he would never allow.He had quickly realized that an overwhelming majority of magic—Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and even the Dark Arts themselves—relied almost entirely on a wizard’s emotional state. At least 80 to 90 percent of spells required an intuitive, feeling-based connection to magic. And that meant Vytenis would always be at a disadvantage.He would need to work several times harder than his classmates just to match their progress.Fortunately, he had one advantage: his memory. His ability to retain information and analyze theory with precision allowed him to compensate, preventing him from falling too far behind.But there was still a small fraction of magic—perhaps 10 to 20 percent—that didn’t rely on emotion at all. These were rigid spells, built upon structure rather than instinct. And it was those spells that Vytenis excelled at.Take the Body-Bind Curse, for example. If a seasoned Defense Against the Dark Arts professor saw him cast Petrificus Totalus, they might very well conclude that his mastery surpassed that of many sixth- and seventh-year students.It was an ironic realization—one that left him with a sense of frustration."What a discouraging fact," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.During lunch, two first-year Hufflepuffs, Eloise Midgen and Zacharias Smith, made their way over to Vytenis Hart’s side.Eloise, with her acne-covered face and awkward demeanor, carried an air of nervous energy that often made others instinctively keep their distance. Zacharias, in contrast, was tall and lanky, with a sharp nose and an expression that suggested he always had an opinion to share—whether or not anyone wanted to hear it."Vytenis, you were amazing in Transfiguration!" Eloise blurted out, her voice filled with admiration. "You were the only Hufflepuff who managed to change a matchstick!"Vytenis, who had just taken a bite of bread, swallowed and shrugged. "I just read ahead, that’s all," he muttered, rolling his eyes slightly.Zacharias, never one to hold back, scoffed. "That Professor McGonagall is so biased! Why did she give Ginny Weasley points but not you?" His voice was loud enough that a few nearby students glanced in their direction.Vytenis shot him a warning look, subtly motioning for him to lower his voice. The last thing he needed was to draw unwanted attention. Steering the conversation elsewhere, he picked up his goblet and took a sip of pumpkin juice.Zacharias, utterly unbothered, grabbed a chicken leg from the platter and stuffed it into his mouth. "Oh, did you hear about Ron Weasley? You know, Harry Potter’s sidekick?"Vytenis raised an eyebrow. "Sidekick? What about him?"Eloise leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "His mum sent him a Howler this morning! It was so loud—we could hear it across the whole hall!"Zacharias nearly choked on his food from laughing. "Hah! It was hilarious! Apparently, he and Potter flew a car to school!" He shook his head, grinning. "Can you believe that? A flying car! What were they thinking?"Vytenis listened, chewing thoughtfully. Of course, he already knew about the incident—everyone did by now. The spectacle of Ron Weasley’s Howler had been impossible to miss. Still, he didn’t bother commenting.Instead, he took another bite of his meal and casually asked, "What’s our next class?""Herbology," Zacharias answered, still speaking with his mouth full. "With the Ravenclaws. Professor Sprout’s teaching us—she’s the head of Hufflepuff, but I’ve never actually met her before."Eloise brightened at the mention of their head of house. "Hannah told me she’s really nice to us!"Vytenis hummed in response, finishing off the last of his bread. Herbology wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to, but at least it wouldn’t be as frustrating as Charms or Transfiguration had been.By the time the clock struck two, Vytenis Hart made his way out of the castle, stepping through the vegetable patch that bordered the Hogwarts greenhouses. The air smelled of damp earth and fresh herbs, a welcome relief from the cool, dry air of the stone corridors.Professor Sprout stood by the greenhouse, her arms wrapped in thick bandages, as if she’d been through something—something physical. A few of the Whomping Willow’s branches, in the distance, were also wrapped in cloth, like battle scars."Two mischievous students damaged a very valuable Whomping Willow," Professor Sprout’s voice was a mix of exasperation and something warmer, as if she'd given up trying to manage the chaos. "And I spent the entire morning treating it!"Vytenis didn’t have to ask. The whole castle had been talking about Harry Potter and Ron Weasley for hours. He glanced at Professor Sprout and caught the faint twitch in her eye before she moved on, surveying the first-years.Short, plump, her robes marked by dirt and patches from a life of working hands-on with plants, she radiated a grounded energy. There was no pretension in her; just the kind of warmth that made her easy to like."I hope none of you will follow their example," she continued, her eyes sharp. "Alright, let’s head to the first greenhouse!"The first-years shuffled in after her, feet tapping on the moss-covered stone floor. Vytenis observed as they moved, taking in the plants as they passed, but his focus drifted toward the rows of magical mushrooms that lined the shelves.Professor Sprout talked them through each species. As she spoke, Vytenis’s mind clicked into gear, categorizing and sorting. Poisonous, non-poisonous, what they were used for, how they'd react to different spells—all of it filtered in naturally, without effort.Within fifteen minutes, he'd sorted them all, just as naturally as breathing. His classmates continued to fumble, but Vytenis barely noticed them, his focus on the task at hand."Well done, Mr. Hart!" Professor Sprout’s voice broke the quiet rhythm of the class. A proud smile tugged at her lips. "Five points to Hufflepuff!"He barely reacted, though he could feel a few eyes on him. He didn’t need attention.When the class wrapped up, Professor Sprout walked up to him and handed him a matsutake mushroom, its value clear in her eyes.Vytenis took it with a slight nod. Another class done. Another step toward the knowledge he needed.--The last class of Vytenis Hart’s first day at Hogwarts was where things took a turn.Potions.Professor Severus Snape. His name alone was enough to tighten the chest of any student. The rigid discipline, the unmistakable favoritism for Slytherin—it was all part of the experience. And to make things worse, the class was shared with the Slytherin first-years.Vytenis had intended to arrive on time, but after walking Professor Sprout back to the Hufflepuff common room to safely store the matsutake mushroom she’d given him, he found himself three minutes late.He reached the door just as Snape’s voice drifted through the stone walls, cold and clipped."...even stopping death—but, of course, that requires one not to be the kind of dunderhead I usually encounter."Vytenis winced. Brilliant.With a deep breath, he pushed open the door, stepping inside. "I’m really sorry, Professor!"Snape's eyes lifted from the roster, slow and deliberate. His gaze locked onto Vytenis, colder than the stone walls around them."Vytenis Hart," Snape's voice was thick with displeasure. He paused, his gaze lingering as if savoring the moment. "Late to Potions on your first day at Hogwarts. I believe this is a first, even in my many years of teaching."A ripple of low laughter from the Slytherins. Vytenis caught sight of Alex Weston at the back, uncomfortable, his gaze flicking away.Snape’s sneer deepened. "Even Mr. Potter—who prides himself on breaking every rule in existence—has never shown such audacity."Vytenis Hart kept his head down as he murmured his apology. He already knew he was in trouble—Severus Snape, the most formidable professor at Hogwarts, was the last person you wanted to offend, especially on the first day. Potions was one of Vytenis' most anticipated subjects, and the idea of being tossed out before even starting was something he couldn’t afford."So, what’s your excuse, Mr. Hart?" Snape’s voice oozed sarcasm. "Let me guess—perhaps you were off single-handedly defending Hogwarts from an attack by the Dark Lord? And in the process, tragically lost track of time?"A ripple of laughter spread through the Slytherins.Vytenis hesitated. Explaining he’d been with Professor Sprout felt useless—Snape would dismiss it, or worse, twist it into another reason to punish him.Before he could speak, a voice rang out from the back."Professor Snape!"Zacharias Smith, standing upright, his posture defiantly rigid, shot a glance at Vytenis. "Vytenis was with Professor Sprout after Herbology—that’s why he was late!"Vytenis blinked, taken aback. Zacharias? Of all people?Snape’s eyes flicked to Zacharias, his expression a perfect mask. He sneered. "Silence, Smith!" His voice was cold, cutting. "Did I invite your commentary? In my classroom, you will raise your hand before speaking."The room went still. The finality in Snape’s voice left no room for debate. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Snape added, "Five points from Hufflepuff."The Slytherin table lit up with wide, smug grins. Zacharias flushed red, his mouth opening as if to protest. But before he could, Steven Lucas nudged him, a silent reminder to let it go.Snape turned back to Vytenis, his gaze sharp, like a blade. "I’ll confirm this with Pomona," he muttered, the words barely more than a whisper, before waving him off. "Take your seat."Vytenis exhaled quietly, relief flooding through him. He moved swiftly, slipping into the classroom and gripping his cauldron tightly, the last remnants of tension still lingering in his chest.Potions class required students to work in pairs. Tradition dictated that Hufflepuffs and Slytherins would be partnered within their houses, the tables clearly divided between them. Gryffindor might be Slytherin’s biggest rival, but the rivalry with Hufflepuff was quieter, more subtle—a disdain born of the belief that the Slytherins were arrogant, and the Hufflepuffs, weak. Even Ravenclaws kept their distance, though not as openly as the others. The feeling was mutual.Vytenis glanced around. All the Hufflepuffs had already paired up, leaving him without a partner. His gaze drifted to the back of the Slytherin side, where one lone figure sat. A tall girl, her dark hair cascading over her face, eyes firmly avoiding anyone else’s gaze.Madeline Yaxley.The last student sorted during the ceremony. Another pure-blood. Just what he needed.Just as Vytenis started to move toward her, Snape’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and commanding."Stop, Mr. Hart."Vytenis froze mid-step."Miss Selwyn, pair up with Miss Yaxley," Snape ordered smoothly, his eyes sweeping over the class. "Mr. Hart, take Miss Selwyn’s previous seat."A murmur of discontent stirred from the Slytherin side. A few exchanged knowing glances, smirks barely hidden behind their hands.Miss Selwyn, the girl now assigned to Yaxley, let out a sharp, frustrated huff. Her movements were quick and jerky as she packed up her things, clearly irritated. She shot Vytenis a look full of silent disdain before storming toward the back of the room.Vytenis hesitated before sliding into the newly vacated seat at the front of the Slytherin section, his cauldron clutched tightly in his hands as if the solid weight could somehow ground him. The discomfort building in his chest gnawed at him, but he ignored it as best he could.His new partner was already seated.A boy with pale blonde hair, his face impassive, unreadable.Vytenis didn’t need to look twice to recognize him.Alex Weston.--The Potions classroom settled back into its uneasy silence.Vytenis Hart shot a quick glance at his new partner, Alex, but he remained unreadable, his expression cool and indifferent. He neither acknowledged him nor reacted to Snape’s intense scrutiny. Then again, no one dared to breathe a word during Snape’s class.Vytenis opened Arsenius Jigger’s Guide to Magical Potions and turned to the first page, forcing himself to focus. He knew Snape wasn’t done with him yet.Sure enough..."Mr. Hart!" Snape’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.Vytenis straightened, all attention now on the professor."Tell me, if you mix Batweed, Ghostroot, and Sneezewort, what potion would you get?"Vytenis rose smoothly, keeping his voice even. "A Confusion Draught, Professor. It causes the drinker to become irritable and reckless."His answer was flawless. Any other professor might have awarded points. But Snape’s eyes remained impassive, his face as cold and unreadable as ever."What is the primary use of Firelizard blood in potion-making?" Snape continued, his tone icy. "Or, to put it another way, what do we usually use it for?"Vytenis didn’t hesitate. "To enhance potions, Professor. Firelizard blood is used in enhancement brews, strengthening the effects of other magical potions."Snape gave a minuscule nod before throwing another question at him. "Next. If I asked you to fetch some Scantywort, where would you find it?"Vytenis paused for only a fraction of a second before answering smoothly. "Scantywort is mainly found in China, the United States, and Mexico… So first, I’d have to buy a ticket to East Asia or North America."A few Hufflepuff students snickered. Some of the Slytherins smirked too. Vytenis caught sight of Alex Weston next to him, his lips twitching upward, but Snape’s glare froze the room.Snape’s expression soured, and he sneered, "Scantywort usually grows on hill slopes, in shrubland, or under sparse trees… But I suppose you find your humor more important than precision, Mr. Hart?"The room fell deathly silent. Vytenis could feel the weight of every gaze upon him, Hufflepuffs and Slytherins alike watching with rapt attention."Now," Snape continued, stepping forward with a chilling calm, "if I mix Narcissus root powder with Wormwood infusion, what would I get?"Vytenis frowned. He knew both ingredients were used in potent brews, but together? He hesitated, his mind spinning through possible answers.After a half-minute of silence, he finally admitted, "I’m sorry, Professor. I don’t know."Snape sneered. "A rare moment of honesty," he drawled, his lips curling slightly. "Sit down."Vytenis obeyed quickly, the class still heavy with the silence left by Snape’s cutting remark. He sank into his seat, steeling himself."Narcissus root powder combined with Wormwood infusion creates a powerful sleeping draught," Snape announced, his voice taking on a darker tone. "One known as the Draught of Living Death."Vytenis’ gaze flickered to the front, instinctively tightening his grip on his quill as Snape’s words sunk in. A potion so dangerous it could trap its victim in an unbreakable slumber."A potion so potent," Snape continued, "that even a single drop can send someone into a near-unbreakable slumber."A flicker of cruel amusement passed through his eyes as he added, "A talented Auror, Gideon Prewett, died because of this potion. A ‘friend’ sent him a bottle of Licorice Wine… but laced his glass with Narcissus root powder. By the time the potion took effect, six Death Eaters had come for him, killing him and his brother."The room was completely still. Even the Slytherins seemed momentarily subdued by Snape’s tale."If poor Gideon had paid more attention in this class," Snape added, almost casually, "even facing twelve Death Eaters, he might have Apparated away in time."A slow, deliberate pause followed. Then, as though snapping out of the grim memory, Snape’s gaze swept over the class again."Why aren’t you writing this down?" he suddenly barked, making half the class jump in surprise.The frantic scratch of quills filled the air as every student scrambled to write, Vytenis included.Exhaling slowly, Vytenis steadied his breathing, focusing on the task before him. He hadn’t lost any points yet, and Snape had stopped questioning him for now. That alone felt like a small victory.But Vytenis knew—this wouldn’t be the last time Snape tested him.Like Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape commanded strict discipline in his classroom. His mere presence was enough to silence any idle chatter, and his sharp gaze ensured that no student dared step out of line.Half the lesson was spent instructing the students—each pair assigned a cauldron—on how to brew a basic Cure for Boils.Of course, “basic” was a relative term. Even this potion required a long list of ingredients and an intricate series of steps. Mistakes were not tolerated, and Snape made sure every student knew it.Vytenis Hart was paired with Alex Weston.Without wasting time, Vytenis moved toward the supply cabinet, his hands moving with precision as he gathered dried nettles, snake fangs, and porcupine quills, among other ingredients. Meanwhile, Alex lit the fire beneath their cauldron, his movements careful, practiced.As the students worked, Snape prowled between the desks, his black robes billowing like bat wings. His cold gaze moved over each pair, landing like a weight, ensuring no one slacked. Sharp rebukes cut through the silence—most directed at the Hufflepuffs, though even some of the Slytherins weren’t spared.Returning to their station, Vytenis immediately set to work. He ground the porcupine quills with expert precision, adding them to the mixture. His hands moved fluidly—grinding, dissolving, boiling—as if it were second nature. Years spent in labs in his previous life had turned these simple tasks into muscle memory.Alex, however, hesitated, his brow furrowing as he watched Vytenis. A moment passed before he spoke."Why are you grinding the porcupine quills?" His voice wasn’t accusatory—more confused, genuinely puzzling over the process. "The textbook says to chop them into small pieces and add them with the snake fangs."Vytenis barely glanced up from his work, his tone casual. "Even an idiot knows that grinding them into powder makes them dissolve faster," he muttered, focusing on his task.Alex’s frown deepened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he silently began smashing the snake fangs into finer fragments with the mortar and pestle."Toast the nettles over the fire for a bit," Vytenis added, not looking up, his voice still casual, "It’ll dry them out and make them easier to crush."Alex opened his mouth, probably to question the logic of it all, but instead shut it, glancing down at the nettles. He did as Vytenis suggested.Several times during the class, Snape passed by their workstation. His dark eyes swept over their potion with the precision of a hawk scanning its prey. His gaze lingered a moment longer on the finely ground porcupine quills. There was a flicker of recognition—something fleeting.But instead of reprimanding them, Snape simply shot Vytenis a brief, unreadable glance before moving on, gliding through the classroom like a shadow.It was the closest thing to approval anyone in the room had received that day.Once the dried nettles, porcupine quills, and crushed snake fangs were added to the cauldron, Alex Weston carefully checked Magical Drafts and Potions."It needs to be boiled for exactly five minutes," he said, his voice tight with tension.Vytenis gave a slight nod, his focus locked on the bubbling mixture. He increased the heat just enough, watching the potion change color slowly, creeping into a pale yellow. The moment it shifted, he reduced the flame, instinctively sensing when it was time.Alex let out a quiet breath, his fingers gripping the wooden stirring rod like a lifeline. "I really hope you don’t mess this up..." he muttered, just loud enough for Vytenis to hear.Vytenis didn’t respond. The pressure of the task didn’t reach him, his mind clear as the potion simmered.Hogwarts’ Potions textbooks—helpful as they were—weren’t without their flaws. Vytenis had already noted several glaring inefficiencies. Take Abyssinian beans, for example: the textbook recommended slicing them, but a decent chemist knew that crushing them would extract more juice with far less effort.Then again, with Britain’s wizarding population barely scraping over ten thousand, it made sense that their academic materials were slightly outdated. The textbooks were fine for spells, but when it came to the fine art of potion-making, they often skipped the finer details.Vytenis didn’t trust the instructions blindly. He applied what he knew, weaving basic principles of chemistry into his magic. The fundamentals of science might not always line up with magic’s rules, but they had their place—at least for him.An hour later, Snape’s sharp footsteps cut through the hum of the classroom as he made his rounds. His dark robes swept like a shadow, the faintest rustling sound a herald of his approach.When Snape reached Zacharias Smith and Eloise Midgen’s cauldron, he paused. The murky blue concoction inside it swirled lazily, unconvincing."Tell me, Mr. Smith, Miss Midgen," Snape’s voice was low, mocking, "would either of you be willing to drink that?"The two students flinched, their faces burning with embarrassment.Without waiting for an answer, Snape moved on, stopping at the next pair—Selwyn and Yaxley. He glanced into their cauldron, a look of pure disdain flickering across his face."And this one..." He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Not only will it fail to cure boils, but it will most certainly make them worse."A smirk pulled at the edges of Snape's lips as he continued his slow, deliberate inspection, cutting through the classroom with his icy glare. Every pair, it seemed, fell under his scrutiny, each receiving a sharp criticism, leaving the students shriveling beneath his words.Then, Snape reached the front row. His gaze fell upon Vytenis and Alex Weston’s cauldron. The potion inside it was a perfect, clear pale yellow, exactly the right consistency.Snape stopped. His dark eyes flickered from the potion to the two students. He didn’t speak immediately, as if he was searching for a flaw, some mistake to seize upon.For a long moment, the room was still."Well done," Snape said, his voice lacking its usual biting edge. There was a pause, and then, in the same indifferent tone, he added, "Mister Weston… five points to Slytherin."Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Vytenis and Alex in the unsettling quiet of the classroom.--"The nerve of that man!"Zacharias Smith stormed over to Vytenis the moment Professor Snape left the room, his face flushed with indignation. He couldn’t seem to keep his anger in check."I’ve heard about Snape’s bias for Slytherin, but this?!" Zacharias threw his hands up, his voice rising with frustration. "Why give points to Weston and not you, Vytenis? What kind of rubbish is that?" His words echoed across the emptying classroom, each one dripping with outrage.Vytenis glanced at Alex Weston, who was quietly gathering the vials of their finished potion. Alex didn’t flinch at Zacharias’ outburst; instead, he continued his task, his focus unbroken.Zacharias turned his glare on Alex, as if blaming him by association, but Alex didn’t meet his gaze. His quiet concentration seemed to irk Zacharias even more, but Vytenis could sense that Alex was used to it.Zacharias muttered angrily under his breath, throwing in a few more complaints about Snape’s favoritism, but his words lost their bite the longer he went on. The tension in his shoulders softened as he realized no one was listening. When his grip on his emotions finally snapped, he huffed loudly, throwing one last disgruntled look toward Alex, and stormed out of the room.The door closed with a faint thud, leaving Vytenis and Alex standing in the center of the dungeon classroom, the silence stretching between them.After a moment, Alex set his vials down with care. There was something deliberate in his movements, a calm contrast to Zacharias’ outburst. Finally, Alex spoke, his voice measured, as if testing the weight of his words before letting them settle."I’ll talk to Professor Snape," Alex said quietly, his expression earnest. "I’ll tell him you did most of the work and that I hardly contributed. He should give the points to Hufflepuff instead."Vytenis couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. "There’s no need for that," he said, amusement edging his tone. "Snape would never transfer points from Slytherin to Hufflepuff, and we both know it. Besides, we both worked on it. You’re not the only one who contributed."Alex looked at him for a long moment, as though weighing his words. After a pause, he nodded, accepting Vytenis’ reasoning without further argument. There was a kind of quiet understanding between them—unspoken but clear.With their supplies packed up and cleaned, Vytenis made to leave, but as he stepped toward the door, Alex lingered, his footsteps faltering just a step behind. Vytenis, noticing the change in pace, glanced back at him."Something wrong?" Vytenis asked, brow furrowing slightly.Alex hesitated, his eyes momentarily distant as if gathering his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter now, tinged with a reluctant concern."Professor Snape gave Daphne a week of detention," Alex murmured, the words almost reluctant. "And… he ordered her to apologize to you." He paused before speaking again, his voice more cautious this time. "Can I apologize on her behalf?"Vytenis’ eyebrow lifted in mild surprise. A week of detention was harsher than he had anticipated—nearly as severe as the punishment Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had received for flying a stolen car to school.But after a beat, Vytenis realized it made sense. Snape had no tolerance for the word "Mudblood." It was more than just a slur; it was a wound that cut deep for him, one that had never truly healed. It was a personal thing for Snape, far beyond the usual display of power or discipline.Vytenis didn’t want to drag the matter out. He offered Alex a reassuring smile, his voice softening."Of course," he said with a with ease, his expression lightening. "Tell Daphne it’s all forgotten. It’s not worth making a big deal of."Alex’s shoulders seemed to release the tension that had held him stiff. He exhaled slowly, his expression visibly relieved. The corners of his lips lifted, a genuine smile breaking through his usually cool demeanor."Thank you…" His smile was warm and sincere, a stark contrast to the guarded expression Vytenis had often associated with Slytherins.Vytenis, now feeling a bit lighter from the exchange, gave a casual wave as he turned toward the door."See you later," he said."Goodbye!" Alex called after him, his voice carrying a sense of lightness that Vytenis hadn’t expected. It was as if the brief tension had lifted between them, and in that moment, there was no divide of house or blood status. Just two students at Hogwarts, sharing a brief moment of understanding.As Vytenis exited the dungeon, he felt the weight of the day’s frustrations and challenges shift slightly. His first day at Hogwarts hadn’t gone as smoothly as he’d hoped, but it was clear that he was finding his place—one step at a time.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The first week at Hogwarts passed in a rhythm that felt both natural and uneventful.Strictly speaking, Hogwarts was exactly what its reputation suggested. The professors were skilled wizards, each a master of their subject—save for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Vytenis kept that thought to himself. The meals were hearty, the dormitories comfortable enough, and the library, with its thousands of books, was everything he'd hoped for.But then there were the stairs.Hogwarts boasted 142 staircases, each with a personality of its own. Some were wide, some narrow; a few had odd quirks, like half-steps that disappeared, forcing the students to memorize where to leap. It was only natural, though—after all, Hogwarts had been built long before it was a school, designed as a fortress against enemies who had feared magic. Wizards, in the old days, needed a safe place to hide from Muggles who saw their kind as dangerous. The same castle that now housed classrooms had originally been made to protect against the creatures and men who had threatened wizards' lives. It was easy to see why the staircases were so perplexing.What would Vytenis give to have the Marauder’s Map in his hands? He'd heard stories—who hadn’t? The Weasley twins had it now, a map that showed the secrets of the castle, a guide to finding the hidden passages. Vytenis had never cared much for breaking rules, but part of him yearned to uncover those secret places, to walk where few others had.Filch, of course, was a problem. He may have been bumbling and old-fashioned, but there was no one who knew more about the castle’s hidden corners than he did. Then there was Mrs. Norris, who seemed to be everywhere—always watching, always waiting. Even in the most hidden parts of Hogwarts, Vytenis knew there was no escaping her.Still, the idea of sneaking through the halls of Hogwarts had a certain appeal. After all, what was life at this school without a little bit of danger?Beyond the more intense classes—Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology, and Potions—there were moments of quiet. Wednesday nights, for example, when Vytenis and the other first-years followed Professor Sinistra to the Astronomy Tower. There, they learned about the stars and planets, their movements a constant reminder that the world was vast and magical in ways beyond the walls of the school. It was a welcome break from the more demanding subjects, a moment to pause and look up, to think about the universe in a way that made the castle’s towering walls seem small.History of Magic was every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. Vytenis sat through it, more out of obligation than interest, as Professor Binns—somehow still tethered to this world—drifted through the class. The ghost’s voice had no life to it, each word as flat as the last, and the endless drone of history echoed like a distant memory that never quite made it to the present. There were moments, however, when Professor Binns would touch on a topic that caught Vytenis’ attention. Once, when asked about the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (1689), Binns had answered without a single pause, as if time had never dulled his knowledge. His thoughts often wandered to the strange thought: was Binns from the same time as the Founders? He had the look of someone who might’ve shared a classroom with Rowena Ravenclaw herself, but the thought remained a curiosity that didn’t quite manage to keep him awake.Then, there were the Flying Lessons.Vytenis had dreaded them from the moment he saw the broomsticks lined up at the start of term. Shared with Slytherin first-years, it quickly became clear that his flying skills were lacking. When he finally managed to get his broom off the ground after ten minutes of struggling, his flight was nothing short of awkward. If Madam Hooch hadn’t been so quick, Vytenis was certain his broom would have sent him crashing into the nearest wall. A cold chill still ran through him at the memory.Zacharias Smith, however, was a natural. By the second lesson, he was boasting that he’d replace Cedric Diggory as Seeker by next year. Vytenis, on the other hand, was nowhere near that level of competence. His flying skills barely ranked above the bottom of the class. He watched as Zacharias zipped through the air with the ease of someone born for Quidditch, feeling a sharp pang of envy. It was, without a doubt, Vytenis’ worst subject.But then, there was Alex Weston, who—thankfully—was just as clumsy in the air. When he mounted his broomstick, he too wobbled and struggled, unable to hover with any grace. For a brief moment, Vytenis felt a flicker of camaraderie in their shared misery, the weight of their struggles easing slightly.Still, as the lessons wore on, Vytenis couldn’t shake the questions that gnawed at him about Quidditch. The game, at its core, seemed unbalanced. The Seeker’s role, to him, seemed like an unfair advantage. While the rest of the team fought tirelessly for points, the Seeker only had to catch the Golden Snitch—an action that ended the game with a single move, handing 150 points and instant glory. He couldn’t help but feel there was something inherently flawed in this system. Why were the points in such arbitrary increments? Ten points for a Quaffle goal, 150 points for catching the Snitch—it felt almost too simplistic, too uneven.But as much as Vytenis tried to work out the logic of it, there was one undeniable truth that he had to admit to himself: the Seeker was a hero. There was something about the role that set them apart from the rest. They didn’t need to be the strongest, or the most skilled. They simply had to fly alone, searching for that one moment of glory. They weren’t part of the endless, physical struggle for the Quaffle or Bludgers. No, their success was defined by one action, one moment of victory. The rest of the team—the players fighting for possession—were the Seeker’s bodyguards, their role to protect the one who would bring the victory.In a way, Vytenis thought, the Seeker was the lone hero on the team, and he could see how easily the glory was his for the taking. It was a twisted sense of heroism, one that made him wonder if he could ever find his place in such a game.Then again, if there was one class at Hogwarts that truly tested Vytenis Hart’s patience, it was Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.Technically, the subject was a core one, with three lessons a week. Yet, under Lockhart’s tenure, it hardly resembled anything that might actually prepare students for dark forces. By the time Vytenis and his classmates sat down for their first lesson that Wednesday morning, the atmosphere had already turned slightly ridiculous.It was impossible not to recall the second-year students’ stories: Lockhart’s disastrous first attempt to confront a Cornish Pixie, a fiasco that left him with little more than a mess of flailing limbs and ruffled feathers. And now, as the first-years settled in for their turn, any hope of practical defense had been replaced with something much less tangible.Instead of spells, incantations, or tactics, the class was handed a quiz—questions that could only have been crafted from one mind: his own.What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color? What was his greatest achievement? Which type of woman does he prefer?The questions poured out, each one more insufferable than the last. Vytenis couldn’t suppress a slight wince as he filled them in, trying to force his face into something resembling seriousness. The absurdity of it all was not lost on him, and he felt an odd sense of sympathy for the older students who had to contend with this nonsense while preparing for their OWLs and NEWTs. As far as he was concerned, this was less a lesson than a farce—one that couldn’t possibly end well for anyone, least of all the students.Half an hour later, Lockhart, with an exaggerated flourish, began to grade the quizzes, his preening performance as expected—each comment punctuated with a grand gesture of self-importance."Well done, Mr. Hart!" Lockhart exclaimed, his voice dripping with the same enthusiasm reserved for the announcement of a great achievement. "You remembered that my favorite color is lilac! A perfect score… five points to Hufflepuff!"Vytenis blinked in surprise. A perfect score? For something so utterly pointless? He swallowed a laugh before it could escape.Zacharias Smith, seated beside him, raised an eyebrow. "Is this even real?""Are you a fan of Lockhart too?" A girl, flushed with an almost embarrassing enthusiasm, leaned toward him, her voice light and airy.Vytenis glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Uh... I guess so," he answered nonchalantly, the words slipping out more out of convenience than truth.It wasn’t long before Vytenis began scanning Lockhart’s so-called "works," and the pattern quickly became clear: endless stories of his own heroic exploits, each one more self-aggrandizing than the last. There was no substance, no depth—just a surface-level reflection of a man consumed by his own image. Yet, there was something undeniable about it: Lockhart had mastered the art of self-promotion. The ability to captivate an audience, to make them believe in him—this, at least, was a skill.Despite the irritation gnawing at him, Vytenis made a mental note. He could play along. He didn’t need to invest in the actual lessons. That wasn’t the point. What mattered was how to navigate this circus, how to manage the system without getting caught in its tangle of absurdity.Sometimes, Vytenis thought, playing the game could be just as important as mastering the magic. And Lockhart’s unflinching confidence might just be the perfect angle to exploit.--The library at Hogwarts sprawled before Vytenis Hart, a labyrinth of knowledge, each shelf an aisle leading deeper into shadows. Its vastness didn’t just impress; it had a way of dwarfing everything, making even the most curious hesitate before venturing farther.On that Saturday morning, Vytenis found himself standing at the threshold once again. The quiet had become a familiar companion, wrapping him in a sense of calm as he wandered through the aisles, his eyes scanning titles that seemed to whisper secrets of a world he was still coming to understand.It wasn’t the same as the university library back home, where the air buzzed with the fervor of constant activity and the weight of unspoken pressure. Here, students wandered aimlessly, most familiar faces lost in the shuffle. There was a serenity in the chaos—a contrast between the castle’s ancient magic and the daily workings of the academic world that Vytenis was slowly adjusting to.He had just entered when he spotted Justin Finch-Fletchley engaged in conversation with a girl with curly brown hair, a boy with red hair trailing slightly behind. The trio appeared comfortable in the space, their voices a soft murmur against the quiet hum of the library.After a few moments, the girl with curls turned toward him, her approach purposeful yet measured, her eyes flickering with a faint, almost cautious curiosity."Ahem... hello," she said, her voice tentative but polite. "You’re Vytenis Hart, right?"Vytenis nodded, offering a slight smile, his brow furrowing in mock surprise. "Yes," he replied, keeping his tone light, "and you are?"She straightened slightly, as though shifting from some inner deliberation. "I’m Hermione Granger. Wendell is my father," she added, her words deliberate, as if offering a piece of herself without quite revealing it all. "I suppose you’ve heard of me..."Vytenis tilted his head, the flicker of recognition coming quicker than expected. "Dr. Granger’s daughter," he responded, with a touch of knowing. It wasn’t a question; it was an acknowledgment.She hesitated, just a moment, her gaze sharp but restrained. "Yes," she said simply, and though her smile remained, it seemed somehow tempered with thought. "It’s a pleasure to meet you.""A pleasure indeed," Vytenis replied warmly, shaking her hand with a certain enthusiasm that was genuine enough. "Shame we didn’t meet in Diagon Alley."Her smile softened, but there was a subtle weight in the way she answered. "I’m also sorry about that," she added. Then, after a brief pause, she asked, "How has your week been? I couldn’t find Hufflepuff’s common room after the Sorting Ceremony, and Justin mentioned you come here every morning..."Vytenis gestured toward the rows of books, his voice picking up in pace. "It’s been great! Hogwarts is something else entirely. Honestly, I’ve never seen magic quite like this before." He continued, speaking with more fervor than necessary, recounting bits of his first few days at the school. Hermione listened, offering a few bits of advice along the way, her responses careful, measured.Before the conversation could settle too comfortably, the red-haired boy cleared his throat from behind her, his presence like a quiet signal. "Hermione, we need to go. Harry’s Quidditch practice is about to start."Hermione flashed a small smile at Vytenis, apologetic yet kind. "Sorry, I have to go!" she said, almost too quickly. "If you ever have any questions about Hogwarts, just come find me.""Alright!" Vytenis replied, his voice light, a tone meant to carry no weight.As they walked away, the red-haired boy turned back, his eyes lingering a moment longer than needed. The glance was sharp, and Vytenis couldn’t help but notice the flicker of curiosity in the boy’s expression."Who is he?" The boy’s voice was low, the question hanging in the air as he looked over his shoulder.Hermione shrugged casually, her demeanor unaffected. "He’s the son of a friend of my father," she said nonchalantly, as though the explanation were enough. "My dad asked me to look after him."The boy raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "He doesn’t look like he needs much looking after."Hermione smirked, but said nothing. The conversation hung between them for a moment before the pair continued down the hall. Vytenis waited until they were out of sight before exhaling softly, a quiet relief in the space between thoughts.It had been inevitable that he would meet Hermione Granger—but there was a certain peace in not being immediately thrust into her world. A world that, for now, Vytenis felt more than content to observe from a distance. The idea of slipping into the orbit of her friends was less appealing than it seemed. For now, it was enough to keep a low profile.The vastness of Hogwarts' library stretched endlessly before Vytenis Hart, an intricate maze of shelves and stone corridors that seemed to extend in every direction. The sheer scale of the place was imposing, and yet, there was an unspoken invitation in its quiet corners, waiting to be explored. A place where the walls themselves hummed with the knowledge of centuries, its shadows heavy with the weight of all the books it held.Vytenis wandered between the aisles when a familiar voice cut through the quiet murmur of the library. Justin Finch-Fletchley, a second-year Hufflepuff, approached, looking a bit lost in thought.“Vytenis,” Justin began, his voice low, almost hesitant. “You know that walking encyclopedia from Gryffindor, right?”Vytenis, glancing up from a row of books, offered a vague nod. "Hermione Granger, you mean?”"Yeah," Justin said, sounding almost defeated. "She’s amazing. I can’t help but feel like I'll never catch up to her in grades... We’re both Muggle-born, but it feels like she’s always a step ahead."Vytenis paused, a flicker of something in his chest. He knew the feeling all too well. "It’s not always about grades," he said softly, unsure if he was trying to comfort Justin or himself. “Some people just... they pick things up faster than others. Doesn’t mean they’re more capable. Just means they’re more adaptable.”Justin seemed to appreciate the sentiment, nodding but still distracted. “I guess you’re right... It’s just frustrating. Anyway, have you heard? The first Quidditch match is coming up soon. Hufflepuff against Ravenclaw. I’m kind of excited. They’ve got a new Seeker, a third-year. Last year, Ravenclaw won the Cup, but with that new Seeker, I don’t think they’ll stand much of a chance against Cedric.”Vytenis, leading the way down a corridor, absently nodded along. "Should be interesting," he murmured, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He had been thinking about Quidditch and how the game’s structure never seemed to make sense to him. Something about it didn’t add up.The two of them continued down the aisle, the conversation drifting, until the sound of slippers scraping against the stone floor interrupted them. Vytenis’s gaze shifted as they drew closer, the unmistakable figure of Madam Irma Pince, the librarian, appearing at the end of the row. The thin line of her lips was set in disapproval.“Gentlemen,” she said, her tone authoritative, “This is the Restricted Section. I don’t believe you’re authorized to be here.”She paused, eyes scanning them both before her expression softened, albeit marginally. “Please, turn back.”Justin, quick to react, muttered an apology and hurriedly moved to exit. Vytenis, however, lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting to the stacks of books beyond her. He was already aware of the quiet rumors that swirled within Hogwarts, whispers he’d overheard, and it wasn’t hard for him to put the pieces together. Madam Pince and Filch—there was more to them than met the eye. A shared secret, unspoken but evident to anyone who cared to notice.As if reading his thoughts, Madam Pince’s tone shifted, softening as she met his eyes. “Is there something else, Mr. Hart?”Vytenis straightened, a practiced calm settling over him. “Professor Lockhart asked me to look for a few books here, in the Restricted Section,” he said smoothly, his voice steady. “He wasn’t specific, just told me to find them. I haven’t received a formal request yet, but I can bring the titles to him to get them signed.”At the mention of Lockhart’s name, Madam Pince’s eyes flickered briefly with something more akin to admiration than disapproval. She was hardly the first person in the castle to have her mind distracted by the charms of the Defense professor.“Professor Lockhart?” she asked, her voice faltering slightly. “He has a way of inspiring such... devotion.”Vytenis held her gaze with a quiet intensity. “Yes,” he replied evenly. “He’s been very supportive.”The change in Pince’s demeanor was subtle, but undeniable. She shifted her posture, considering him for a moment longer before offering a reluctant nod. “Very well, Mr. Hart. You may browse, but don’t open any books. The contents of the Restricted Section are dangerous for first-years.”Vytenis’s lips twitched upward, though his expression remained composed. “Thank you, Madam Pince,” he said smoothly, stepping past her toward the looming shelves.He could feel her gaze still on him as he approached the first row of books, but he didn’t let it faze him. A plan was already in motion, and for now, that was enough.By 11 a.m., Vytenis Hart stood before Professor Lockhart’s office on the fourth floor, the note clutched in his hand.The door creaked open, and he was fortunate to find the professor inside, his office as extravagant as ever. Framed photographs of Lockhart, each glowing with a soft, golden hue from the light of several flickering candles, lined the walls. Some of the pictures included his signature, the ink still faintly visible. The desk was cluttered with more photos—gleaming, glossy, each one capturing a moment of his supposed heroism.Lockhart, ever the picture of charm, greeted him with that same exaggerated grin. "Ah, Mr. Hart! What can I do for you today?"Vytenis, taking in the cluttered room and the professor’s ever-present smile, raised the signed note and began. "Actually, Professor, I finished reading your books this week. I had a few questions—there were some things I didn’t quite understand, such as the chronic-onset ghoul venom mentioned in Holidays with the Ghouls, or how you resisted the mental control of the Banshee in Vacations with the Banshee. Oh, and the spell you used to defeat the werewolf in Wandering with Werewolves …"Vytenis spoke calmly, his tone respectful but edged with curiosity, watching for any sign of discomfort. It was clear from the brief flash of panic that crossed Lockhart’s face that the questions had caught him off guard, perhaps venturing into territory he wasn’t quite prepared to explain.For a moment, the room seemed to freeze.Vytenis, sensing Lockhart’s unease, quickly added, "Of course, I’m not here to ask for your help, Professor. These are questions I’m sure you could answer easily, but since they weren’t mentioned in your books, I thought you might have intended for us to explore them ourselves..."Lockhart blinked, his posture visibly relaxing as the weight of Vytenis’s words seemed to lift. "Ah!" He smiled, his confidence returning with a slight sheen of relief. "Yes, Mr. Hart, absolutely! You’re absolutely right. I wanted you to delve deeper, to think critically about these matters. You really are my best student!"Vytenis offered a polite smile in return, though inside he knew the truth: his questions had rattled the professor. But for now, he allowed the conversation to continue without pushing."So," Vytenis said smoothly, holding up the note he had been carrying, "I was hoping to borrow a few books from the library. I’m hoping to gather more background information on the topics I mentioned. The problem is, they’re in the Restricted Section, so I need a teacher’s signature to access them."Lockhart’s face brightened, as if the request was precisely what he had hoped for. "Of course! I can’t stand in the way of such a keen seeker of knowledge!" With a flourish, he grabbed the note, signed it with barely a second thought, and handed it back to Vytenis, his expression alight with satisfaction."Thank you, Professor," Vytenis said quickly, taking the signed note, his voice warm but with a touch of irony that only he could feel."You're welcome, Vytenis," Lockhart replied, his voice practically singing with encouragement. "Keep up the good work, and perhaps, one day, you’ll reach the heights of my own success!"Vytenis nodded, unable to hide a small, almost imperceptible smile. "I’m honored, Professor," he replied, before turning on his heel and stepping out of the office, the door closing quietly behind him.He didn’t bother with lunch. Instead, he made his way straight to the library, the weight of the signed note in his hand urging him forward. When he entered, Mrs. Pince was just about to leave, but upon seeing him, she paused, surprised."What’s going on, Mr. Hart?" she asked, arching a brow."Yes, Madam," Vytenis said with a slight grin, "I found the books Professor Lockhart needed, and here’s his signed permission."Vytenis handed her the note, watching as Mrs. Pince inspected it with a discerning eye. She took a moment longer than necessary, her gaze lingering on the signature before carefully slipping it into her pocket."I see," she muttered, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "It’s indeed Lockhart’s signature; I’ve seen it in Witch Weekly..."Vytenis couldn’t suppress a subtle smirk at her reaction, but he stayed quiet as she looked him over, clearly processing the situation."Come with me, Mr. Hart," she said after a beat, her tone shifting to something softer, perhaps acknowledging his persistence. "I’ll take you to the books now."--By the time Vytenis Hart returned to the Hufflepuff common room, three heavy books were tucked under his arm, their edges slightly worn from his quick search through the library."Vytenis, Professor Sprout just brought in a few specimens. Want to take a look?" Ernie Macmillan called from the window as he spotted Vytenis approaching the door."Thanks, Ernie," Vytenis replied with a half-wave, "I’ll check them out later." He had more pressing matters on his mind. With a polite nod, he made his way straight for his dormitory.Once inside, Vytenis moved with deliberate care. He wrapped the three books in old newspaper, the rustling sound sharp in the quiet room. While the Hufflepuff dorms were private enough, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to stumble upon them unprepared. The covers alone would raise questions he wasn't ready to answer.The first book was the most unsettling. The cover depicted the cold, vacant eyes of a witch whose gaze seemed to draw the viewer in, like an endless void. The title, Close Your Mind, was scrawled in a script that appeared to be slowly fading away, as though the very ink had been drained of its vitality.This was the book Vytenis had found in the library over the past few days that dealt with Mind Occlusion magic. The technique intrigued him—an ability to block mental intrusion, a shield against unwanted penetration of the mind. He was familiar with Legilimens, the spell that allowed wizards like Dumbledore, or worse, Voldemort, to slip into the deepest corners of one's thoughts.The thought of his mind being laid bare—transparent, defenseless—made Vytenis shiver. He had the advantage of knowing what would happen in the coming years, but that also made him a target. What if someone like Dumbledore took notice of him, asked him questions? What if the details of the future slipped out, or worse, his identity was discovered? The knowledge he held could become a weapon in the wrong hands.That’s why Mind Occlusion was crucial. Mastering it was a necessity. No longer would he be vulnerable to mental intrusion; his mind would be a fortress.Turning his attention to the second book, Vytenis’s eyes flickered with curiosity. The cover was grotesque: a bloodied head, its features distorted, its tongue grotesquely twisted. The eyes held a haunting, unblinking stare, and beneath it, the title was barely legible— The Eye Disease Curse.This one was darker than the first. It contained curses so dangerous that even the mere knowledge of them felt almost forbidden. Most of the spells were destructive, deadly in their nature, but there was one that had caught Vytenis’s attention: the Eye Disease Curse.It wasn’t the curse itself that intrigued him, but its potential use. According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Basilisk skin was nearly impervious to magic—except for its eyes. The creature’s gaze could kill, yet its weakness lay in its vision. The Eye Disease Curse, he suspected, might be the only way to weaken the beast during a confrontation. If he could blind the Basilisk, it would become just another monster to defeat, not a nearly unstoppable force of destruction.He made a mental note to study the curse in more detail in the coming months. The Basilisk was an obstacle he’d prefer to deal with from a distance.The third book was equally unsettling, its cover depicting a witch whose body seemed to distort in impossible ways, her arms sprouting from unexpected places while a figure—some poor soul—seemed to crawl from her very body. The title was stark against the image— Powerful Potions.This was the one book he’d borrowed out of mere curiosity. It was filled with recipes for potions so dark, so controversial, that they had earned a place in the Restricted Section of the library. Some of them, he knew, were dangerous, their concoctions still considered taboo by most wizards. While the potions were of little use to him now, Vytenis had no intention of letting it sit unread. He’d return it before Halloween, and there it would remain—a dangerous curiosity for a future he wasn’t yet ready to confront.Vytenis set the books down gently in the corner of his room, his mind already moving ahead. He was aware that his time at Hogwarts would be more than just learning Transfiguration or Potions. Magic wasn’t just about mastering spells—it was about understanding the world around him, the world of secrets, of hidden dangers. Some knowledge had to be kept in the shadows, its power left unspoken.For now, though, he allowed himself a quiet moment of satisfaction. His studies were no longer limited to what the professors taught him. Some truths would require more effort, more patience, and more discretion.“Vytenis, want to go play Quidditch?” Zacharias Smith’s voice broke through the quiet of the dorm, his knock loud enough to rattle the door.“No, thanks,” Vytenis replied, his voice muffled by the book in his hands, the thick pages still holding his attention. He was sprawled across his bed, oblivious to the outside world.Zacharias, undeterred, muttered as he knocked on the next dorm door. “Quidditch? The more you play, the better you'll get at flying...” His words faded, swallowed by the hall, before the sound of footsteps retreated.Vytenis returned to the pages before him, immersing himself further in the mysteries of the Restricted Section. Time drifted unnoticed as the world outside continued its usual rhythm. Lunch and dinner came and went, but Vytenis barely noticed the passage of time. The Hufflepuff common room had become a quiet place of solace, and though Zacharias's offer lingered in his ears, Vytenis was consumed by the texts before him. The cakes and biscuits left in his dorm from the kitchen were sufficient to satisfy any hunger pangs, so he didn’t mind the missed meals.The book on Mind Occlusion was far more intricate than he’d anticipated. Each page introduced new layers, more complexity than he had imagined. Vytenis couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for Harry Potter. How long had he struggled with this technique, only to find his progress painfully slow? Vytenis couldn’t even begin to fathom how long it might take him to make any meaningful headway.Then there was the Eye Disease Curse, which offered a surprising sense of ease. Unlike the subtle magic of Mind Occlusion, this curse required no deep emotional focus. It was direct, precise—pragmatic. A curse that didn’t require a shift in the caster’s emotional state? Vytenis felt a small sense of relief. This spell was one he could learn, perhaps more swiftly than others, and he felt confident in his ability to master it with patience and practice. Powerful Potions proved to be an enigma of its own. Skimming through sections on Polyjuice Potion and Truth Serum, Vytenis knew he was still far from understanding their true complexity. The recipes demanded precision beyond even his current skills. Yet, he saw the path ahead. A few more classes with Professor Snape could give him the familiarity needed to tackle these potions safely. Only then would he dare attempt brewing them himself.By the time he glanced up from the book, Vytenis was startled to find the sun had long set. Saturday was almost gone, slipping through his fingers unnoticed.He glanced at the clock, noting the hour creeping toward midnight.“Time really flies...” Vytenis muttered to himself, rising from the desk. He stretched, the tension in his body reminding him how long he’d been bent over the books.Just as he prepared to slip into bed, a faint tap, almost like a scratch, drew his attention to the window. Frowning, he approached it, the sound growing louder with each step.It was coming from his South African Red Spiders’ cages. The creatures were tapping against the glass, their chelicerae vibrating rapidly. A shiver crawled up Vytenis’s spine as he watched them.Fear radiated from them. The spiders were agitated, more restless than he had ever seen them before.“They can sense the presence of a Basilisk...” Vytenis muttered to himself, recalling a passage from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them that he had committed to memory long ago. “If they’re panicking... then the Chamber of Secrets has been opened.”His thoughts turned darker. The plot’s begun. Vytenis’s face hardened as he reached for a worn piece of clothing from his drawer. Draping it over the cages, he muffled the spiders’ frantic tapping, the faint sounds fading as the cloth settled in place.Lying back in bed, Vytenis tried to push the unease gnawing at him to the back of his mind. Sleep beckoned, but his thoughts refused to quiet. What did it all mean? How close was the danger? His eyes closed, and though the weight of his concerns lingered, exhaustion finally overwhelmed him.On Sunday morning, Vytenis Hart didn’t wake at the usual hour. The soft, steady hum of the castle seemed to envelop him in a stillness that lingered long past his usual rise. It wasn’t until the faint light of morning had stretched across the sky, and the rest of the castle’s newest inhabitants were already stumbling toward their day, that he finally left the warmth of his bed.By the time he made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast, the usual buzz of conversation filled the air, but Vytenis barely registered it. His mind felt distant, lost in thought as he moved toward the table. He could hear the unmistakable sound of Draco Malfoy’s voice cutting through the hum of the room, arrogant and self-assured.“I didn’t even need to pull out my wand,” Malfoy was saying, the self-satisfied chuckle in his tone unmistakable. “That idiot Weasley couldn’t touch me. And guess what? He cast the spell wrong, knocked himself over, and started vomiting out his stomach like a baby! Hahaha…”The Slytherins around him laughed, but Vytenis noticed the disdainful looks exchanged between the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. The snickers from the Slytherin table were met with silent resistance from the others—expressions that made it clear what they thought of Malfoy’s boastful theatrics. But, of course, Malfoy wasn’t paying attention to that.Vytenis took his seat at the Hufflepuff table, the clatter of plates and the chatter of his housemates surrounding him. He ate in silence, finishing his meal quickly, though his thoughts remained tangled in something far from the scene around him. After a moment, he rose, collecting his two South African Red Spiders from the shelf where their cages sat undisturbed, and made his way toward the entrance.As he stepped out of the castle, a float of translucent mist nearly collided with him. He instinctively sidestepped, blinking up at the specter as it drifted by.“Good morning, Vytenis!” the ghost called cheerfully, its voice light and warm.“Good morning, Friar!” Vytenis responded, his tone respectful. The Fat Friar, ever the friendly spirit, gave him a wide smile, his plump face radiating kindness.“I’m looking for Professor Sprout’s office,” Vytenis said, knowing full well that the head of Hufflepuff House’s office wasn’t too far.“Oh, you’re after Pomona, then?” The Fat Friar’s expression brightened as he pointed in the direction of the greenhouses. “Her office is a small wooden hut just next to Greenhouse One. You’d best hurry—she’s always there on Sundays, I know that much!”“Thanks, Friar,” Vytenis said, offering a grateful nod as the ghost floated away, his form dissipating into the castle’s misty corridors.The Fat Friar was, without a doubt, the most amiable of the castle’s resident ghosts. In the short time since his arrival, Vytenis had found himself seeking the ghost’s guidance more than once. And each time, the Friar had patiently answered, his guidance never failing to be as kind as it was precise.Professor Sprout wasn’t in her office, so Vytenis Hart made his way to the nearby greenhouses, his footsteps echoing softly on the stone path. After a brief search, he found her in Greenhouse Three.Through the slightly cracked door, he could just make out her figure, bent over a plant bed, her hands tugging at something with an air of determination. Her pink, fluffy ear warmers were a stark contrast to the earthy chaos of the greenhouse, and the sight of her wrestling with a stubborn purple-tinged seedling made Vytenis hesitate, unsure if he should interrupt.He stood still for a moment, watching the scene unfold. The plant was clearly giving her trouble, its roots tangled too tightly in the soil. When she finally gave a sharp tug and freed it from the earth, Vytenis instinctively stepped back, reflexively covering his ears. He didn’t want to risk the Mandrake’s infamous cry, even if he hadn’t heard it yet.After a few moments, Professor Sprout, now holding the plant triumphantly, stepped out of the greenhouse, the dragon-hide gloves on her hands still caked in soil. She removed her ear warmers with a sigh of relief, noticing Vytenis standing nearby.“Vytenis?” she said, her voice warm with surprise.“That’s a Mandrake, isn’t it, Professor?” Vytenis smiled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I made sure to block my ears.”“Very wise,” Professor Sprout said, her eyes gleaming with approval. “Otherwise, you could have been out cold for hours. If this were during class, I’d be awarding Hufflepuff some points for quick thinking.” She paused, offering him a thumbs-up. “Now, what can I do for you?”Vytenis hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Well, Professor… it’s about my pet. It seems to be having some trouble lately.” He carefully lifted the glass cage containing his two South African Red Spiders, showing them to her.“Pet?” Professor Sprout tilted her head slightly, clearly puzzled. “I’m afraid I’m a Herbology professor, not a magical creature expert. You should talk to Professor Kettleburn about this.”Vytenis felt a pang of uncertainty. He hadn’t spoken to Kettleburn yet, and as a first-year, he had no idea how to approach the idea of dealing with a magical creature. “But, Professor,” he began, “I’m a first-year… We haven’t had a class with Professor Kettleburn yet.”Her expression softened, and she placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Ah, I see. You haven’t met him yet. Come on, I’ll take you to see him now.”She gestured for him to follow, her voice warm with a hint of understanding.Professor Pomona Sprout, with her usual calm and unwavering patience, guided Vytenis Hart through the winding path that led to the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. The air grew thicker with each step, a faint hum of ancient magic seeming to pulse from the trees around them. The trail was quiet—unlike the paths closer to the school, where laughter and footsteps of students echoed—but it carried a certain gravitas, as though the very earth was aware of the nearby magic.When the small thatched hut emerged from the shadows of the trees, Vytenis instinctively slowed his pace. It was unassuming in its simplicity, but something about its placement amidst the ancient forest made it seem more a part of the landscape than an interruption. Professor Sprout lifted her wand, her voice low and familiar as she knocked.The voice that answered was raspy, carrying with it the weight of age. “What is it?”“It’s me, Syvanus... I have a student here who needs your help!” Professor Sprout called, a light smile tugging at the edges of her mouth as she spoke, as though already expecting to be welcomed.The door creaked open to reveal an elderly man, bent with age, leaning heavily on a worn wooden cane. Vytenis blinked, momentarily taken aback. This, he realized, was Professor Kettleburn, though the state of him was far removed from the image he had conjured of a professor at Hogwarts. His hair and beard were graying, his limbs augmented with prosthetics that hinted at the decades of experiences that had shaped him."Is it you?" Professor Kettleburn peered at Vytenis with a faraway gaze, his eyes clouded for a moment before recognition flickered. “Why do you look so unfamiliar?”Vytenis was quick to answer. “Professor, I’m a first-year Hufflepuff student!” His tone was polite, yet tinged with a curiosity he couldn’t quite suppress.“A first-year... Hufflepuff,” Professor Kettleburn repeated, his voice softening. He looked away for a brief moment, as if lost in a memory. “Not long ago, I was a first-year Hufflepuff myself... more than eighty years ago now.”Before the moment could stretch too long, Professor Sprout interjected, her voice warm and eager to redirect their attention. “Syvanus, Vytenis’s pet has a problem, and he needs your help!”Professor Kettleburn’s gaze immediately returned to Vytenis, sharp and focused as he took in the glass cage the student was holding. His eyes flicked from the spiders to Vytenis, then back again.“Two spiders,” he muttered with a slight chuckle. “Very ordinary spiders. You've made them your pets?”Vytenis felt a flicker of embarrassment, but it passed quickly, replaced by the unease that had been gnawing at him since the night before.“I think you’ll get along well with Hagrid,” Professor Kettleburn mused, squinting at the spiders. “Though I do wonder about that Grindylow in the water tank behind you,” he added suddenly, shifting his focus to the tank. “Pomona, don’t let it escape!”Professor Sprout turned her attention to the water tank, a mixture of caution and familiarity in her movements. Meanwhile, Kettleburn’s gaze remained fixed on the spiders.“Careful now, Vytenis,” the professor said absently, as if sensing Vytenis’ hesitation. “There’s a bird-snake in that teapot by your feet, too.”Vytenis suppressed a smile at the oddity of it all, but his focus remained on the task at hand. He waited patiently as Kettleburn examined the spiders more closely.“They seem perfectly healthy. No problems at all,” Kettleburn muttered, almost to himself. His voice was measured, but there was a hint of uncertainty in the way he leaned in closer.Vytenis could feel the weight of the question hanging between them, unanswered. “But why are they tapping the glass? They’ve never done that before... not even last night.”Professor Kettleburn’s expression shifted as he knelt down for a better look. His brow furrowed deeply, as though this small behavior from two simple spiders was something he could not quite place.“This is definitely unusual...” he murmured. “I’ve never seen ordinary spiders this agitated before.”Vytenis, voicing the thought that had been creeping through his mind, asked quietly, “Could it be... fear?”Kettleburn glanced up sharply, squinting down at the creatures once more. “Fear?” he repeated, his tone skeptical but laced with curiosity. He straightened with a slow shake of his head. “It seems that way... but it’s impossible!” His voice dropped as he stood tall again, his eyes distant for a moment. “Only one type of extremely malevolent magical creature could make spiders feel this way... but that creature has been extinct in Britain for nearly four hundred years. The Ministry of Magic strictly forbids its return. So it couldn’t have come near Hogwarts.”As he spoke, Professor Kettleburn handed the cage back to Vytenis, who took it carefully. Kettleburn looked him over with a faint furrow in his brow, his eyes still lost in thought.“Maybe you haven’t been feeding them properly, Hart?” he suggested absently, his voice softer. “I’ll give you some calming potion. Try feeding it to them and see how they respond.”Vytenis nodded, though he could sense that the professor’s answer had not completely resolved the unease. There was something more there, something lingering beneath the surface. But for now, it seemed that the only solution was to follow Kettleburn’s advice. He took the cage with a small sense of relief, knowing that at least he planted the seed of doubt in one of the professors.--Time had a way of quietly slipping through the cracks at Hogwarts, unnoticed, until one day it was suddenly October, and the castle was steeped in the muted gray of autumn. The chill creeping through the stone corridors clung to everything, seeping into the bones of students and staff alike. The change of seasons brought more than just a shift in the weather—it brought a different kind of energy to the school, one that was sharper and heavier, a reminder that the year was progressing steadily.With the colder air came the inevitable seasonal cold that swept through the castle. Madam Pomfrey, with her usual precision, had requested that Professor Snape brew one of his more potent concoctions. The potion was a curious thing—burning hot as it coursed through your body, your head feeling as if it might burst with heat, and steam practically rising from your skin. Yet, despite the discomfort, the potion worked wonders, clearing up the worst of the chills and coughing in a matter of hours.Vytenis, on the other hand, had been more focused on a different sort of remedy—one for his two South African Red Spiders. Under Professor Kettleburn’s guidance, he’d been administering a calming potion regularly, watching carefully as the spiders’ agitation seemed to subside. Whether the potion was truly working or if it was simply a quiet lull in the events surrounding the Chamber of Secrets, Vytenis couldn’t say. The uneasy sensation of being watched, however, never quite left him.In the weeks following the incident with the spiders, Vytenis had begun to modify his routine. Where once he might have wandered the halls with a kind of quiet confidence, he now made a point to stay within the company of other first-years, sticking to the groups that formed naturally throughout the day. A part of him reasoned that if he kept moving, kept surrounded by others, the Basilisk—or whatever it was—couldn’t strike. Not in daylight, surely. And certainly not within the safety of the Hufflepuff common room, where the entrance was guarded by two barrels, old and trusted.The kitchen had become less of a regular stop as well. What once had been daily visits were now spaced out into every couple of weeks. Klein, the ever-smiling house-elf, and his companions still ensured that Vytenis’s pockets were filled with snacks, but now it was more of a luxury than a necessity. The house-elves always knew just how to sneak in a little extra, whether it was a handful of biscuits or a small pastry tucked into the folds of his robes.Even the Room of Requirement had seen less of him. Once, it had been his sanctuary—a place to practice, to test the limits of his skill, and to unwind in the midst of his increasingly complicated thoughts. Now, he only visited in the brief moments between classes, during lunch breaks or the occasional free period. There was still progress, of course, but it wasn’t as relentless as before.The Eye Disease Curse, for instance, was one area where his training had borne fruit. He could now strike with deadly precision, shattering the eyes of a moving dummy with a single, fluid spell. It wasn’t difficult, at least not after the first few attempts. Yet, despite the success, there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind: how would it perform against a real target? A real threat?The work on Mental Shielding, however, was a far more delicate matter. It had become a battle of its own, one that didn’t yield results quickly. The attempts were inconsistent—sometimes he felt a faint flicker of success, a sense that his mind was just a little more impenetrable than it had been before. But the lack of tangible progress, the uncertainty of its true effectiveness, weighed heavily on him. In the Room of Requirement, the tools for practice were plentiful, but they could not replicate the kind of pressure that would test his mental defenses fully. There were no moving dummies casting Legilimens at him, no way to know if his efforts could hold up against the mind games of more dangerous opponents.For now, all Vytenis could do was keep practicing, keep pushing against the invisible barriers that surrounded him. Every quiet step, every shift in routine, felt like a piece of a larger puzzle he had yet to complete. And while the outward world of Hogwarts remained unaware, Vytenis knew—somehow—he was on the verge of something much larger than simple magic.--His classes unfolded with a quiet predictability.Transfiguration, as always, was a delicate balancing act. Vytenis Hart didn’t attract attention, neither positive nor negative. The true star of the class was Ginny Weasley, who managed the transformation of a teapot into a mouse with a grace that Professor McGonagall couldn’t stop applauding. There was no mistaking her talent, and McGonagall’s praise rang out frequently, each word another layer of adoration for the young Gryffindor. Vytenis, observing from a distance, kept to himself, careful not to overstep. He had no desire for Ginny to mistake his reserved nature for anything more than what it was—just a student in the same class, quietly watching. Being too noticeable would invite complications he preferred to avoid.Colin Creevey, on the other hand, seemed entirely oblivious to the subtleties of social distance. The small Gryffindor had an eagerness that bubbled over, and he often found himself whispering animatedly to Ginny, his bright eyes alight with questions. There was a sincerity in Colin’s energy, though, one that Vytenis could almost envy. He understood the boy’s need to connect, but could not help feeling a small pang of sympathy when he saw how easily Colin’s enthusiasm went unnoticed.In Charms, Vytenis was steady but not exceptional—neither at the bottom nor at the top. Professor Flitwick’s lesson on the Levitation Charm had taken several attempts before Vytenis felt the weight of the charm solidify, lifting his feather off the desk with ease. It wasn’t the triumph of a first try, but it was a small, personal victory. He had learned patience with himself.Herbology, however, had become a place where Vytenis truly felt at home. The delicate art of plant life was something he had always appreciated, and Professor Sprout seemed to recognize that, often praising his understanding of the more obscure aspects of the curriculum. While the first-year students weren’t yet allowed to handle the plants themselves, they were introduced to the dangers and intricacies of magical flora. Vytenis had no difficulty identifying the withered figs, aconite, or even the more menacing Devil’s Snare and Mandrakes. His knowledge seemed to please Professor Sprout, and there was a warm appreciation in her smile that made him feel seen in a way that other classes did not.Potions was another area where Vytenis performed well. He and Alex Weston, working together with a quiet sort of coordination, had brewed every potion they attempted without error. Even Professor Snape, who was known for his biting remarks and favoritism toward Slytherin students, occasionally gave a word of praise, though it was rare and often came with an edge. But then there was Dark Arts Defense.It remained a disorienting experience, a spectacle rather than a lesson. Professor Lockhart continued his charades—an endless parade of exaggerated tales from his books, with students reading aloud passages as he beamed proudly at them. The highlight of every class was always the same: Lockhart, playing the charming hero, would invite a Ravenclaw girl named Melinda Boggins to perform demonstrations with him, his face alight with a self-satisfied gleam as he twirled and preened for his audience. Vytenis couldn’t help but roll his eyes when Lockhart wasn’t looking. Yet, he kept his thoughts hidden, listening attentively as he had in the past. Even when the lessons bordered on absurdity, Vytenis knew better than to cause a disturbance. Hogwarts, after all, was a place for patience, for timing, for understanding the underlying rhythms of its many strange and silent politics.So, he sat, observing, learning what he could, and letting the days unfurl with their own peculiar cadence.Before Vytenis Hart fully realized it, October had begun to slip away, and the air around Hogwarts grew ever more crisp, filled with a certain promise of change. The castle, still drenched in the quiet routine of the term, would soon give way to the restless stirrings of something more.“Forgetfulness Potion is likely the most complex potion you’ll attempt this year,” Professor Snape’s voice broke through the stillness of the Potions classroom. His words fell like ice, carrying that same unmistakable chill. “Frankly, I have little faith that any of you will manage it. But I hope, for your sake, that you don’t fail too spectacularly.”The weight of his words hung in the air, and almost as if on cue, a loud, piercing bang echoed from the back of the room. Vytenis turned just in time to see Madalena Yaxley’s cauldron erupt into a cloud of violet smoke and sizzling liquid.“Idiot!” Snape’s voice rang out, sharp as glass. He flicked his wand, clearing the mess with practiced precision. “Didn’t I instruct you to add Sneezewort first, followed by the Deadening Bird’s feathers? How on earth you even managed to make it into my class is beyond me!”Madalena, her face streaked with tears, was left ignored in the chaos. Snape’s eyes darted across the room, and Vytenis felt the weight of his gaze land on him and Alex Weston. They had not yet experienced Snape’s ire in its full form, but today might be different.“What have we here?” Snape sneered, his gaze narrowing at the bubbling, uneven concoction in their cauldron. “Looks like Mr. Hart and Mr. Weston are no better off.”Vytenis steadied his hand, watching the brew with focused calm as Alex, as always, spoke up in defense.“We haven’t added the licorice liquid yet, Professor,” Alex said, a slight edge of defiance creeping into his voice.Vytenis didn’t acknowledge the growing tension, instead reaching for the vial. He added the dark green liquid, watching as the mixture reacted—swirling, spiraling, and then gradually calming until the once-turbulent potion settled into a clear, vibrant green.“Well done,” Snape muttered, though the words were empty of praise, as always. He turned without a glance back, continuing his rounds.As Alex moved to comfort Madalena, still sobbing in the back row, Vytenis felt the familiar stirring of impatience. He quickly gathered his things, his mind already a few steps ahead. There was no reason to stay, not with the evening fast approaching. He had other matters to attend to.Without a word, he left the classroom, slipping through the door as Snape's voice faded behind him. The Room of Requirement beckoned.Vytenis Hart opened the heavy, slightly musty pages of Advanced Potion-Making with a quiet sense of resolve. There was something about the worn edges of the book—the faded ink and the weight of its knowledge—that stirred an odd sense of familiarity, as though he had always known this moment would come. In his hands, the text seemed like a map of paths to mastery, and today, it felt right to begin.Turning the pages, he reached the section on the Polyjuice Potion, its illustration making him pause. The image was unsettling—figures caught mid-transformation, their faces writhing in painful contortions, an eerie reminder of the potion's volatile nature. Vytenis lingered on it for a moment longer than he intended, the unease it brought sharpening his focus.The ingredients for the potion were manageable—simple enough for someone with access to the standard student stores: lacewing flies, leeches, fluxweed, and lupine. Each could be obtained with little more than a trip to the supply cupboard. But the more elusive components—powdered Horned Serpent Horn, African Tree Snake skin—were another matter entirely.A faint thought lingered in the back of his mind, and with it, a tentative plan began to form. The apothecary in Diagon Alley would certainly carry the rarer ingredients. He could send an owl and request the items, though he was mindful of the price. After all, the cost of a dragon's liver was barely a handful of Sickles, and he reasoned that snake skin would hardly break the bank.Fluxweed, he noted with a wry smile, would require patience. Harvested only during the full moon, its timing was almost as fickle as the moon’s phases. Lacewing flies would take 20 days to brew properly, another task that would require careful coordination.If the pieces fell into place, Vytenis thought, the Polyjuice Potion might be ready well before Christmas. Just enough time for the others to be oblivious to his progress.Vytenis Hart had spent the better part of the day lost in a haze of letters and calculations—penning queries to various apothecaries in Diagon Alley about the cost of Horned Serpent Horns and African Tree Snake skin. His hopes had been tempered with the expectation that the prices would be steep, but he hadn’t let that deter him. The hours slipped by unnoticed, and by the time he’d finished mailing the letters, the sky outside had darkened, casting the castle in a soft, velvety twilight.As he made his way toward the Great Hall, the rich, inviting scent of roasted pumpkin caught his attention, filling the air with the promise of a satisfying meal. His stomach gave a soft, eager rumble, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma that hung in the corridors."Smells amazing," Vytenis murmured to no one in particular, the anticipation growing in his chest.The Great Hall stretched out before him, bathed in the glow of hundreds of flickering candles that seemed to float just out of reach. The air was alive with magic. Thousands of bats flitted gracefully along the walls and ceiling, and enormous pumpkins—each one easily large enough to seat three people—lined the tables, their glowing faces carved into intricate, ghoulish grins. It was as if the very walls of the castle had embraced the spirit of Halloween, transforming the Hall into something both wondrous and a little eerie.He spotted his friends almost immediately. "Vytenis, over here!" Hannah Abbott called, waving excitedly from across the room.A smile tugged at his lips as he made his way over, the warmth of the Hall mingling with the familiarity of good company. He slid into the seat between Hannah and Ernie Macmillan, who was already munching on a chicken drumstick."It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance to chat, Vytenis!" Ernie said with a grin, his mouth full but his tone lively."Yeah, it really has," Vytenis replied, chuckling as he settled into his seat. The conversation flowed easily, a comforting blend of everyday topics and casual chatter as the tables in front of them filled with steaming dishes, the abundance of food sparkling in the flickering candlelight.The lively hum of laughter and conversation seemed to wrap around them, a cocoon of warmth amidst the chill creeping in from the fall air.“Did you hear?” Ernie leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Professor Dumbledore invited a skeleton band to perform tonight!”Vytenis paused mid-peel, an odd clattering sound behind him breaking his concentration. He turned just in time to see a moving skeleton pass by, its bones gleaming in the candlelight as it carried a bass guitar. With a chilling laugh, it strutted toward the stage with a confidence that sent a shiver through the room.“Wow…” A soft murmur rippled through the hall as students stared, both bewildered and captivated by the sight.Moments later, the rest of the skeletal band appeared—a drummer, guitarist, pianist, and lead singer, each of them hollow-eyed and composed of nothing more than rattling bones, yet they moved and played with an eerie vitality. The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the gentle clink of cutlery as people took in the odd performance.Professor Dumbledore, always the picture of poise, stood at the head of the hall, clapping in time with the rhythm. His enthusiasm was infectious, and soon, the whole hall joined in, their applause echoing against the high, vaulted ceiling.The skeleton lead singer took a dramatic bow, offering a slow and exaggerated gesture to the four corners of the room. Then, with a wisp of something almost like a sigh, it began to sing, its voice a haunting harmony with the others joining in.“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts,” they sang, their eerie tones lifting into the air with an unsettling but captivating cadence."Teach us something,""Even if we are bald old men…”The first song they performed, of course, was the Hogwarts school anthem, filling the Hall with the strangely beautiful sound of skeletal music. It was odd, and yet it was perfectly at home in a place like Hogwarts—whimsical and unsettling in equal measure, a strange blend of the magical and the macabre.The feast lingered on, the atmosphere alive with the hum of conversation, as if the very walls of the castle were vibrating with energy. The skeleton band's last performance left an odd spark in the air, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. The room pulsed with excitement as students swapped stories and bragged about their various feats.Ernie Macmillan, his voice boisterous, recounted tales of his ancestors—two Ministers of Magic in his family’s history. Not far from him, Hannah tried, as she always did, to find Harry Potter among the sea of students. He, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Zacharias Smith, never one to miss an opportunity, bellowed across the hall about how Professor Sprout was about to make him Hufflepuff's new Seeker, ensuring every corner of the castle knew of his impending greatness.Vytenis, however, watched it all with a detached air. There had been a flicker of an impulse to join in—to bask in the attention the music had stirred—but it faded almost as quickly as it arrived. The surge of energy seemed to have no effect on him. It was as though an invisible barrier kept his mind calm, the pulsing excitement of the night slipping past him.Even Cedric Diggory, that confident and self-assured fourth-year, was caught up in the excitement, casually mentioning how he’d received 46 love letters over the years, his pride evident even in the light tone. Vytenis, for a brief moment, wondered if his recent practice of Mental Shielding had anything to do with his unnerving sense of calm amidst the madness. The song, for all its force, had seemingly had no effect on him. But he couldn’t be sure—perhaps it was simply the nature of the feast itself, a celebration that drowned the senses, leaving the professors and the students indistinguishable in the chaos.As the night wore on, Professor Dumbledore’s calming voice rose above the buzz. His wand flicked, and with a soft flicker, the enchantments that had fueled the evening’s revelry began to fade. The skeleton band shuffled off the stage, their eerie presence vanishing with them, leaving behind a hushed silence in their wake."Wonderful night, wasn’t it?" Dumbledore’s voice was warm, grounding, as he stood to address the room. "But now, it’s time for everyone to head back to their dormitories."The students began to spill out, some still flushed from the excitement, others dragging their feet as they made their way toward their respective houses. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherins began to merge, their chatter a mix of stories and plans, carrying them down toward the basement."Vytenis..." Alex Weston’s voice reached him, a hint of color still in his cheeks. "What did you think of the song?"Vytenis glanced over at Daphne, Alex’s cousin, who was walking ahead. She threw him a quick, guarded look before slipping out of sight, her expression unreadable."Well..." Vytenis began, unsure of how to respond, when the crowd ahead of him came to an abrupt halt."What’s going on? Move aside!" Gabriel, the Hufflepuff Prefect, and Gemma Farley, the Slytherin Prefect, tried to push their way through the throng, their voices thick with urgency.Vytenis squeezed between students to get a better look, his curiosity piqued. As he neared the front, something caught his eye—something strange, something out of place. Between two windows, just above the ground, a glowing message was scrawled on the wall in bright red letters, a sharp contrast against the stone.The room fell into an eerie silence, the voices from the feast vanishing as quickly as the sound of the skeletons’ song had.“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened... Beware the Heir of Slytherin,” Gabriel read aloud, his voice low, thick with a mix of fear and disbelief.Vytenis felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His breath hitched slightly, and his gaze flickered down to the floor. There, hanging limply from a torch stand, was Mrs. Norris—the cat belonging to Argus Filch. A dark pool of water had spread out beneath her, and three students hovered nearby, their faces painted with shock.Hannah whispered, her voice trembling slightly, "Hermione... Ron... Harry... What are you all doing here?"Vytenis blinked, his heart racing as the realization hit him. There, standing amongst the others, were the very students he had expected to see only in passing: Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger. The trio, rarely seen in this corridor unless they were on their way to Potions, stood frozen before the grisly sight. Their presence here, at this moment, with Mrs. Norris in such a state, made Vytenis’ mind whirl with questions.The Chamber of Secrets. The Heir of Slytherin. It was all beginning. The plot—slow, insidious—was starting to unfurl.The noise in the corridor seemed to vanish, leaving behind an uneasy silence that pressed against the walls. Argus Filch, the disheveled and irritable caretaker, appeared suddenly, his gait hurried, his eyes wide with alarm. His gaze fixed immediately on the limp form of Mrs. Norris, dangling from the torch stand. He froze for a moment, then staggered back, a harsh, strangled breath leaving him.“My cat... my poor cat!” Filch’s voice cracked, a tremor running through every word. His face contorted with panic, and for a moment, it seemed as though the sight of his beloved cat in such a state had stripped him of the ability to think.Before anyone could respond, his eyes snapped to Harry, narrowing with a wild, irrational fury.“Potter!” Filch howled, his voice rising to a pitch that cut through the tension like a knife. “You! You killed my cat! You did this!”Harry’s face turned ghostly pale. His hands instinctively raised in a futile gesture of defense, his words stumbling out in a desperate, disjointed rush. “No... I didn’t... I didn’t...” The panic in his voice was unmistakable, the weight of the accusation pressing down on him.Vytenis stood at the back of the gathered students, watching the scene unfold. His eyes flicked between Harry and Filch, noting the way Harry’s gaze darted around the corridor, searching for an escape, any answer that would quell the rising tide of panic. It was a look that made it clear Harry wasn’t guilty—at least not in the way Filch thought. Fear was written across his face, and it wasn’t just from the confrontation. Something else was wrong, something deeper than the accusation at hand.Filch, meanwhile, was beside himself. His finger trembled as he pointed at Harry, his voice a venomous hiss. “It’s you who did it,” he spat, his anger thick with grief. “You saw the letter in my office! You know I’m a squib... so you—”The words broke off abruptly, as if he couldn’t quite finish the thought, his mind running too fast ahead of him. But before the madness could spiral further, a commanding voice cut through the rising noise.“Wait, Argus.” The voice was calm, smooth, and with it came a quiet authority that made everyone pause.Professor Dumbledore emerged from the crowd, his tall figure casting a long shadow over the scene. The shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Where chaos had reigned, now there was only stillness—a strange sort of calm that settled over the students like a blanket. Behind him, several other teachers trickled in, forming a quiet perimeter, their presence commanding respect without a word.The crowd parted, creating a path for Dumbledore as he moved through. His gaze swept over Harry, Ron, and Hermione briefly, but his attention remained fixed on the unconscious cat. He walked with deliberation, his steps measured, and as he reached the torch stand, he carefully removed Mrs. Norris, lifting her with a tenderness that seemed almost at odds with the situation.“Come with me, Argus,” Dumbledore said, his voice gentle but firm, filled with both authority and a quiet, underlying concern. It was as though he had already started piecing things together—things that no one else yet could.He turned his attention to Harry and the others, the briefest flicker of acknowledgment passing through his eyes. “And you three—Potter, Weasley, Granger—come along too.”--The Hufflepuff common room buzzed with an intensity that was rare, even for a group so often content to relax in their corner of the castle. It was early morning on the first of November, and the chatter of the students filled the air like an electric hum, their voices a blend of excitement, fear, and curiosity.“Do you think it’s real? The Chamber of Secrets, I mean?” one voice asked, low and cautious, cutting through the clamor of other conversations.“I don’t know,” another replied, their tone wavering. “I heard it was opened once before... but only in whispers, you know? Nothing definite.”“I overheard my dad talking about it once,” someone else chimed in. “He made it sound like some old family tale, trying to make me go to bed earlier. I didn’t think there was any truth to it.”Around the room, eyes flickered nervously toward the windows, the flickering candlelight reflecting in anxious glances. The conversation moved in circles, edging closer to the topic everyone feared and speculated about.“Mrs. Norris... they say she was hit by something that not even Dumbledore could stop,” a voice whispered, disbelief evident in their tone.A few others nodded in agreement, but one of the older students scoffed. “I don’t believe that. Dumbledore couldn’t stop it? That doesn’t make sense.”“The twins from Gryffindor,” another muttered, “said that their youngest brother went with Dumbledore to check on Mrs. Norris. Maybe there’s more to it than we know.”The quiet murmurs blended with another growing theory that circulated with increasing fervor.“Didn’t Ronald Weasley get detention from Filch in September?” someone asked, and the question was repeated by a few more, their voices growing louder.“And Potter, too. He’s never had a good relationship with Filch,” another pointed out, and soon a murmur of suspicion began to swirl around the room like a storm cloud gathering.Before the speculation could spiral any further, the soft clatter of footsteps broke the tension. Professor Sprout entered the common room, her figure slightly slouched, her eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights spent tending to both the students and the castle’s peculiarities. The students’ eyes turned to her in near unison, their questions all tumbling over each other.“Professor… what’s going on? What’s the Chamber of Secrets?” came the voice of a first-year.“Professor, how’s Mrs. Norris?” asked Cedric Diggory, his tone concerned, his brow furrowed.“What’s a squib?” Justin Finch-Fletchley inquired, his voice edged with confusion.Professor Sprout held up a hand, a tired but reassuring smile forming on her face as she listened to their chorus of questions. “Let me take them one at a time,” she said, her voice laced with the warmth and patience that endeared her to her students. She glanced at the room, her eyes weary, but steady as she began to respond.“Mrs. Norris will be fine,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “She’s been petrified. The Mandrakes will take care of her, just as they’ve taken care of others in the past. It’s nothing to worry about. We have a fresh batch growing in the greenhouse, so she’ll be up and about in no time.”A wave of relief washed over the students, the tension easing as they realized that the catastrophe they feared was more inconvenience than tragedy.“But the Chamber, Professor?” a sixth-year pressed, their voice trembling slightly.Professor Sprout’s expression shifted, the easy warmth fading as she regarded the students with a quiet seriousness. “The Chamber of Secrets,” she said slowly, as if weighing her words carefully, “it’s no joke. It’s not a prank.”She paused, her eyes briefly flicking to the flickering flames in the hearth before she continued. “There’s a legend, of course. It’s only a legend, mind you… but the story goes that when Hogwarts was first founded, the four founders—Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin—worked together to build the school and teach young witches and wizards.”Her voice grew quieter, more measured, as she continued. “But Slytherin… he didn’t believe in teaching Muggle-borns. He thought that magic should only be for pure-blood families, and he didn’t want anyone else in his school. And so, after a fierce argument, he left Hogwarts.”Sprout’s eyes briefly met those of the students around her, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “And that’s when the legend of the Chamber began. They say that Slytherin built a secret room somewhere in the castle, a room that no one else could open. He sealed it, so no one would ever be able to enter—except for his heir. The one who could open the Chamber and release the creature inside. Only the heir could do it. And then, the creature would purify the school, getting rid of those who were unworthy to be here.”The room was quiet, the weight of her words sinking in. No one spoke, but the questions in the air hung heavy.“But it’s just a legend, right?” Eloise Midgen asked, her voice wavering with unease. Her eyes darted around the room as if seeking reassurance.Professor Sprout’s face grew serious, her usual warmth giving way to something deeper, more reflective. “We all used to think it was just a legend…” She paused, her gaze momentarily distant as if pulled back into the past. “But fifty years ago, when I was a second-year Hufflepuff student, the Chamber was opened.”A sudden gasp rippled through the room, and several girls took a hesitant step backward, their eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and fear.“A Ravenclaw student died,” Professor Sprout continued, her voice quieter now, almost reverent. “It was terrifying. A dark magic, powerful and unknown, was at work. No one could explain how she died. It wasn’t until Professor Dumbledore uncovered the true culprit that we thought it had ended.”A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. Susan Bones, her face suddenly pale, stumbled forward, her hand clutching the nearest chair for support. Her voice, barely a whisper, was filled with dread. “Did... did the creature come back?”Professor Sprout’s frown deepened, and before she could answer, a sudden shriek broke through the room, followed by a rush of panicked voices. The students around her jumped, their fear palpable.“Not again,” Professor Sprout muttered under her breath, her wand flicking with practiced precision. “Obscuro!” she whispered.Two small, scrambling creatures—one with wild, frenzied eyes and the other with twitching limbs—were gently levitated into the air. They froze mid-run, held suspended by a soft, calming charm. The room fell silent as the creatures, now harmless, were carefully lowered back to the center of the common room.Vytenis, still holding the glass cage, hurried toward Professor Sprout. “I’m so sorry, Professor!” he called, his voice apologetic and anxious.Professor Sprout raised an eyebrow, a slight but firm reprimand in her gaze. “Vytenis,” she said, her tone not unkind but laced with concern, “letting your pets out to startle your classmates isn’t the wisest decision.”Vytenis quickly set the cage down, acting visibly flustered. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said quickly, his words tumbling out. “I’ve been feeding them the calming potion from Professor Kettleburn. They were fine at first, but since last night... they’ve been acting strangely. None of the potions worked, and I accidentally opened the cage just a little... and they jumped out. I almost lost them!”Professor Sprout’s gaze softened slightly, but her eyes remained steady. “I understand,” she said, her voice soothing but still firm. “But you must be careful, Vytenis. These creatures can’t be taken lightly, and they won’t hesitate to panic when something’s wrong.”Vytenis nodded quickly, his hands still nervously clutching the cage. “I’ll make sure they stay in their cage from now on,” he assured her, feeling a slight weight lift off his shoulders.“That will be for the best.” Professor Sprout’s expression softened, though her eyes remained serious.Half an hour later, Vytenis found himself at the Owlery, standing before the haphazardly perched owls that blinked lazily in the dim light. The exchange had been swift—19 Galleons and 7 Sickles for the ingredients he needed, and with the transfer of the funds, his savings had all but evaporated. The Horned Serpent Horn and the African Tree Snake skin lay wrapped in plain brown paper, their weight a stark reminder of how costly potion-making could be.It seemed that, much like magic itself, potions had a tendency to drain one's resources. The thought barely bothered Vytenis—Hogwarts had no real expenses for him, and with his funds emptied, there was little to worry about for now.As he made his way back toward the castle, he walked through the basement, the stone steps cool beneath his boots. A lingering unease prickled at the back of his mind as he passed the spot where Mrs. Norris had been found. The eerie glow of red letters on the wall caught his eye, their message unchanging, unyielding:“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened.” “Beware the Heir.”Vytenis’ lips curled into a half-smile of disdain. The letters glowed with an unnatural vibrance, but he didn’t stop. His fingers brushed lightly against the rooster-shaped alarm clock hidden in his robes—a small comfort amidst the disquiet. Without a second glance, he turned his attention forward and continued on his path, the words behind him fading into the stillness of the stone corridor.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Since Mrs. Norris’s incident, Argus Filch had fallen into a quiet, brooding routine. His once-constant pacing around Hogwarts had become more purposeful, a silent vigil in the very spot where his beloved cat had been found. The cold, stony glare he cast at passing students seemed particularly pointed toward the Slytherins, as though he suspected one of them might be the culprit—waiting to strike again.In a way, Filch wasn’t entirely wrong.Behind a brass door marked “Out of Order,” hidden away from the usual flow of students, lay the washroom that had borne witness to the last attack of the Chamber of Secrets fifty years ago. It was an eerie thought, especially when Vytenis passed by it on his way through the castle, the familiar chill creeping up his spine with each hurried step. The thought that the Chamber’s deadly secrets might be lurking there—waiting to be unlocked—was enough to make the air feel heavier, colder.What added an uncomfortable layer to his trepidation was that the washroom, conveniently, was near the entrance to the basement, a path Vytenis took often. With the Hufflepuff common room nestled near the dungeons, it meant he had little choice but to pass the ominous door time and again. His steps quickened whenever the hall seemed too empty, always careful to avoid lingering too near the washroom’s shadowed door. If he could manage it, he’d find another route—his instincts telling him it was better to take the long way around than risk walking too close.Meanwhile, word of the Chamber had begun to drift through the school like an insistent breeze, carried in whispers. The library's copy of Hogwarts: A History had been checked out entirely, and though the Hufflepuffs had remained discreet—thanks, in part, to Professor Sprout’s quiet influence—the rumors had inevitably spread. But the chatter was more hushed now, more wary, as if the walls themselves had begun to listen.It was in one of those quieter moments, during a Potions class, that Vytenis overheard something that piqued his interest. Alex had mentioned offhandedly that two rare ingredients had gone missing from Professor Snape’s personal stock—a quiet, deliberate theft that no one had yet cracked. Several students were under suspicion, and the word from Snape was clear: the thief would be expelled if caught.Vytenis didn’t need to guess. It was obvious who was behind it: Hermione Granger, no doubt, working her way through the Polyjuice Potion, now likely at the stage of gathering her ingredients. She and her friends, always up to something, had undoubtedly crossed paths with Snape’s private collection.While Hermione might be a step ahead of him in some areas, Vytenis was no slouch. He was already two weeks into his own progress, having spent the time carefully cultivating the ingredients needed for his own brewing. The Lacewing Flies had been brewing for two weeks now and needed only one more before he could add the fluxweed and leeches. The process was moving along as planned. The Room of Requirement, after all, was far more accommodating for his brewing efforts than Moaning Myrtle’s dismal washroom. He had no doubt his potion would be successful. Despite losing a year, his confidence in his brewing skills remained unwavering. And if anyone could match Hermione’s progress, it would be him.–It was another Saturday morning.Vytenis Hart awoke slowly, still wrapped in the haze of sleep. The Brain Locking Charm, a spell he had been practicing in bed, was barely leaving his wand in a proper form. His eyes were heavy, his thoughts distant, until a loud knock at the door shattered the quiet."Vytenis... wake up... wake up..."The voice, urgent and insistent, came from the other side. Vytenis groaned, his head still heavy with sleep, and muttered without much enthusiasm, "Good morning, Zacharias.""Hurry up, Vytenis... Quidditch match! At 9 AM we’re facing Ravenclaw, and at 11 AM it’s Gryffindor vs Slytherin... We have to hurry and cheer for Hufflepuff..." Zacharias’s voice, tinged with excitement, echoed from the hall. He rushed off, no doubt to gather the others.“So the Quidditch match is finally here...” Vytenis muttered under his breath as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. "The next victim is about to show up."With a sigh, Vytenis climbed out of bed, pulling on his already prepared yellow outer and scarf. He made his way out of the Hufflepuff common room, rubbing his eyes as he walked.On the way to the pitch, he caught up with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, both chattering excitedly. As they passed the spot where Mrs. Norris had been found, the air around them seemed to hold its breath. Vytenis’s gaze lingered on the spot for just a moment, a cold chill stirring in his chest.The Quidditch pitch loomed ahead, alive with the sound of student cheers. The air, crisp with the bite of early autumn, crackled with excitement. On one side, Hufflepuff supporters in yellow and black filled the stands, and on the other, Ravenclaws dressed in blue and silver raised their voices in competitive enthusiasm. The crowd’s energy swelled as Ernie Macmillan, ever the enthusiast, waved a rag with a drawn badger on it, and across the pitch, Ravenclaw’s supporters had arranged themselves in a formation resembling an eagle—an impressive display."Go Cedric, you’re the best!" shouted Hannah, her voice cutting through the noise.Vytenis, standing beside her, could hear the distinct cry from the crowd: “Go Hufflepuff!”The players emerged, and Vytenis spotted Cedric Diggory at the front of the Hufflepuff team, his posture commanding and confident. He looked out at the other team, catching a glimpse of Cho Chang in the back of Ravenclaw’s lineup, her dark hair fluttering as she adjusted her broom.After the players shook hands, they gathered around Madam Hooch, who gave a sharp whistle. The match was underway.Lee Jordan’s commentary filled the air, his voice full of energy as he narrated the game’s action: "The Quaffle is grabbed by Ravenclaw’s captain, Roger Davies... He’s speeding down the field, dodging Bludgers, weaving around Cadwallader... is he going to take a shot? No, Davies passes to Chambers, who’s facing an open goal... And it’s in! Ravenclaw leads 10-0!"Vytenis listened, the commentary managing to hold his attention, though he couldn’t bring himself to care too much. Quidditch had always felt a bit too chaotic for his liking. He was here because he had to be, not because he felt any particular pull towards the game. His classmates were enthusiastic enough, and he didn’t want to be the odd one out.The match quickly tilted in Ravenclaw’s favor. Their Chasers seemed unstoppable, weaving past Hufflepuff’s defenders with ease, the score climbing relentlessly. Ravenclaw’s side cheered loudly, their voices ringing through the air, while Hufflepuff’s crowd grew quieter, their hopes slipping with each goal."130-20, Ravenclaw, last year’s Quidditch Cup champions, have gained a commanding lead in just twenty minutes. Hufflepuff seems to have no response..." Lee Jordan’s voice rang through, and Vytenis felt the familiar tug of indifference, the cool breeze making him drowsy once again.But then, something shifted."Wait a minute… The Golden Snitch! Cedric Diggory has caught the Golden Snitch! Well done, Diggory, and the match is over! Hufflepuff wins 170-130 with a last-minute victory!"The crowd erupted into cheers as Hufflepuff supporters flooded onto the field, celebrating their unexpected win. Professor Sprout was among the first to reach the players, clapping her hands and laughing with delight.Vytenis watched the Ravenclaw players sulk off the field, their heads down, while their supporters, along with Professor Flitwick, stood in a tense silence. The sudden shift in the match’s energy made Vytenis smile just slightly. For once, the outcome had become interesting.“Ladies and gentlemen, in twenty minutes, the Gryffindor vs Slytherin match will begin…” Lee Jordan’s voice rang out once more, cutting through the noise of the stadium.The Hufflepuff fans, still riding high on their team's victory, began to trickle out of the stands. The air shifted as Gryffindor supporters, red scarves wrapped around necks and faces painted with fierce loyalty, started to flood in, eager for the next match.Vytenis’s eyes scanned the crowd, and they landed on a familiar cluster: Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Colin Creevey, and a smaller figure, Ginny Weasley, her posture hesitant as she trailed behind the others. At the sight of them, Vytenis instinctively ducked his head, shifting his path to avoid the group altogether.His instincts were right; keeping a low profile was necessary. With the Trio now fully formed, their presence felt like a beacon in the sea of students. And Ginny, too—more dangerous than she appeared, with her shadow of possession lingering just beneath the surface—made Vytenis all the more cautious.In the stands, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall had finally arrived, their figures standing out against the sea of red and gold as they took their seats. The match was drawing near, and the weight of it all seemed to settle onto Vytenis’s shoulders.A thought struck him then, sharp and sudden: In just an hour, the Trio—and Ginny, who’d once been possessed by Voldemort—and the ever-watchful Professor Dumbledore would all be out of the castle. A rare opportunity. He'd need to avoid them, to slip away unnoticed.He took a breath and, without looking back at Zacharias’s enthusiastic gestures towards the post-match celebrations, Vytenis quietly declined.“Sorry, I need to head back to the common room to grab something,” he murmured, already pivoting and making his way out of the crowd.The castle loomed ahead of him as he walked, the familiar stone corridors welcoming him. He moved quickly, a sense of urgency pushing him forward. Once in the Hufflepuff common room, he grabbed his robe and rummaged through the drawer for his pen. His mind was already whirring with plans—an opportunity like this was too rare to waste.Three minutes later, Vytenis Hart stood before Moaning Myrtle’s washroom, positioned just behind the spot where Mrs. Norris had been found. The place felt... wrong, heavy with the weight of its secrets.He pulled his robe tighter around his face, concealing his features. It was a small precaution, but one he couldn’t afford to dismiss.The brass, ball-shaped handle felt cool under his fingers as he grasped it. With a push, the door creaked open, releasing a damp breath from within. The air inside was thick with moisture, and the floor slick, as though the room itself resisted holding onto anything—or anyone—within its walls.A cauldron near the sink bubbled gently, its contents simmering with quiet fervor. Several candles flickered weakly in their stands, casting an uncertain light that barely fought back the oppressive gloom. The floor felt grim, the very stones seeming to decay, like something forgotten for too long. Beneath a cracked mirror, the sink appeared to crumble at the edges, water slowly collecting around its base. It was as if the room itself were eroding, unwilling to retain its shape or purpose.At the back of the room, the faint, mournful cries of Moaning Myrtle drifted through the air, and Vytenis’s stomach tightened.“Another living person...” Myrtle’s voice, as tired and drawn out as ever, floated toward him. “Another boy…”Vytenis took a slow breath, steeling himself, and deliberately dropped his voice into a hoarse, mocking tone. “Go away, you ugly ghost! Fat, hideous, crying ghost!”Myrtle whimpered, her sorrowful sobs rising before she retreated to her toilet, splashing water everywhere in the washroom.“Oh, and with pimples all over your face!” Vytenis sneered, his words sharper than intended.With a shriek, Myrtle vanished into the depths of the toilet, her presence fading with a final splash.Vytenis exhaled in relief, his pulse steadying, and turned his attention back to the sink. He knelt, his eyes scanning the worn fixtures under the basin. The room remained still, but his senses hummed with the knowledge that he wasn’t just here to avoid ghosts. He had a purpose.It didn’t take long for his gaze to land on something peculiar—a small, etched snake in the side of the brass faucet. His fingers brushed over it, cold metal beneath his touch.Reaching into his robes, Vytenis pulled out a marker, ready to leave his mark. But then he paused, an uncomfortable thought creeping into his mind.If he wrote here, wouldn’t it be Ginny—possessed by Voldemort—who would find it? She would recognize what had happened, and things could spiral quickly from there, making everything worse than it already was.Instead, Vytenis pivoted to the left side of the washroom, near the faint outline of what he knew to be the entrance to the Chamber. Kneeling beside the water basin, he moved quickly, writing small, deliberate letters:“I am Ginny Weasley. I feel like I opened the Chamber, and something is controlling my mind. The entrance to the Chamber is under the right-side faucet. It must be opened by Parseltongue. Help me.”His writing was careful, subtle—small enough to be overlooked unless someone took the time to crouch and search. It would blend with the dim light, hidden in plain sight.Satisfied, Vytenis stood and gave the room one final glance. He clapped his hands together softly, as if sealing the moment. Then, with deliberate precision, he wiped the door handle clean, ensuring no trace of his presence lingered.–“Do you know Colin Creevey?”“Vaguely… I think he’s a short first-year Gryffindor.”“He was attacked by the monster in the Chamber of Secrets, right outside the hospital wing… Now he’s lying in bed, like a lifeless statue, turned to stone, just like Mrs. Norris!”“Goodness! Colin’s from a Muggle family, isn’t he? Could it really be true? Is the Heir of Slytherin targeting all Muggle-borns and squibs?”“That’s terrifying...”Since Mrs. Norris’s attack, the Chamber of Secrets had become the center of every conversation in the Hufflepuff common room. But with the appearance of a second victim, fear began to settle deeper, coiling through their discussions.“It’s definitely Potter’s fault!” Ernie Macmillan declared with startling certainty, his voice full of conviction.“How can you say that?” Hannah Abbott, her golden ponytail swaying slightly as she turned to him, tried to argue, looking genuinely upset.“Potter had an argument with Filch, then Filch’s cat was attacked—Potter was the first to ‘discover’ her. And now, Colin Creevey, who was always bothering Potter, ends up turned to stone right outside his hospital room...” Ernie paused for effect, striking a detective-like pose, arms crossed dramatically.“I still can’t believe it. After all, Potter stopped You-Know-Who...” Hannah’s voice softened with doubt, but she refused to accept what Ernie was implying.“Stop being naïve!” Ernie snapped, rolling his eyes. “No one knows how he survived You-Know-Who’s curse. He was just a baby, for Merlin’s sake—he should’ve been obliterated! Only a truly powerful Dark wizard could’ve escaped a curse like that...” His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “So...”Vytenis Hart didn’t feel the need to intervene in the spread of rumors, nor did he bother to challenge them.The Muggle-born students in Hufflepuff were becoming increasingly anxious as the days passed. Justin Finch-Fletchley, in particular, had been noticeably absent from classes, his face pale and drawn. It was whispered that during an early conversation with Harry Potter, Justin had unknowingly revealed his blood status, which had now become a point of silent speculation.As a first-year, Vytenis remained the most composed among his housemates regarding the rumors surrounding the Chamber of Secrets. Life, for him, continued largely unaffected by the whispers that filled the common room. He made sure to walk with others whenever leaving or entering, subtly taking precautions without drawing attention to himself.When Professor Sprout made her rounds to collect the list of students staying at Hogwarts for Christmas, Vytenis was among the first to sign up for the list of those leaving.Much like him, most students opted to leave, as though trying to distance themselves from the invisible threat that loomed over the castle. The fear of the monster in the Chamber of Secrets seemed to cling to the walls like an unshakable fog.Before the Christmas break, however, Vytenis received a letter delivered by owl.Inside the envelope were several delicate, inexpensive trinkets—exactly what he had asked Eric to purchase and send. The small items were nothing of great value, but Vytenis had chosen them with care.He carried the trinkets straight to the kitchen and handed them over to the house-elves.“These are early Christmas gifts for all of you,” Vytenis said, his tone genuine but humble. “Though they aren’t precious, I wanted to thank you for all the delicious treats you’ve given me this semester.”The house-elves were visibly moved, their faces lighting up as they quickly adorned themselves with the little trinkets. The mismatched decorations made them appear even more endearing, giving them an almost comical, joyful appearance.Klein, one of the elves, clung to Vytenis’s leg, overcome with emotion. Vytenis spent nearly ten minutes comforting him as he cried out loud.“This is the first time a wizard has given Klein a Christmas gift...” the house-elf sobbed, looking up at Vytenis with watery eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Hart…”In the end, the house-elves, grateful and eager to show their thanks, filled Vytenis’s pockets with snacks—so many that his robes strained against their weight. As he left the kitchen, arms laden with treats and his pockets bulging, Vytenis felt a wave of gratitude mixed with a quiet sense of overwhelm at the kindness he had just received.Before leaving Hogwarts, there was one final task that Vytenis Hart needed to complete: the Polyjuice Potion.Over the past week, he had worked with methodical precision, carefully adding ingredient after ingredient to the brewing concoction. Fluxweed, harvested during the full moon, ammonium chloride, powdered leavins, bicorn horn—each measure taken with care. The last of the rare ingredients, such as the dried African tree snake skin and the finely ground metals, had all been added with exacting attention.Though the Polyjuice Potion was notorious for its complexity and danger, it was within the grasp of students like Vytenis, who had a solid foundation in potion-making. The challenge lay in the exactness—each step, every minute, the timing. The potion demanded a steady hand and an even steadier focus.Now, as the cauldron simmered with thick, black smoke and the air filled with its pungent odor, Vytenis knew that it was on the right track. The viscous liquid that poured from the cauldron had an unsettling, sludge-like consistency. But there was no time for hesitation.“Now, it’s time for the real test,” Vytenis muttered quietly to himself.He took out a small vial containing a few yellow-black hairs, carefully saved from his earlier encounter. With a steady hand, he dropped them into the brew. The liquid hissed, its surface rippling as the potion reacted, and within moments, the color shifted, settling into a deep, muddy yellow.A single sip would be enough to trigger the transformation. Ten minutes of life as someone else.Vytenis took a deep breath, steeling himself against the bitter taste that awaited. He closed his eyes, pushed the vial to his lips, and drank. The liquid seared down his throat like liquid fire, a mixture of bitterness, rancid taste, and an overwhelming heat that spread quickly, churning his stomach. It felt as though the potion had set something alive within him.He doubled over, struggling to suppress a violent gag. As the transformation began, a sharp pain tore through his body, a searing warmth radiating from his stomach and outward, spreading through his skin like hot wax melting and reforming. His body twisted and contorted, fingers thickening, skin pulling tighter, muscles expanding. He collapsed to the floor, unable to look away from the horrific changes happening to his own form.Moments passed, and when Vytenis finally forced himself to stand, he felt taller, broader—his smooth face now dotted with freckles, his once straight hair transformed into a messy, wild black mass. He was nearly an exact replica of Gabriel Truman, the Hufflepuff Prefect, down to the smallest details. Vytenis had carefully gathered a strand of Gabriel's hair during the Quidditch victory celebration, when no one was looking.With his new form, Vytenis quickly donned a large Hogwarts robe he had prepared earlier, his transformation now complete. The reflection of Gabriel stared back at him from the cracked mirror—he was ready.He raised his wand with Gabriel’s characteristic ease and flicked it with practiced precision."Reducto!" Vytenis spoke in a deep, magnetic voice that was Gabriel’s own.But the result was not what he had expected. The curse failed to take its usual force, emitting only a faint blue glow instead of the explosive blast it was known for.The Polyjuice Potion, he realized, had only altered his physical appearance. It didn’t lend him the magical power of the person he had become. He hadn’t gained Gabriel’s skills or knowledge—only his form. This wasn’t the same as replicating a wizard’s magical prowess.Vytenis lowered his wand, watching the animated dummy dissolve into thin air, replaced by a heavy stone slab.With a smile of quiet satisfaction, he bent down and grasped the stone easily, lifting it as though it weighed nothing. The slab, once heavy enough to be nearly impossible to move, now felt weightless in his hands. His body had become stronger, his muscles more substantial—just as he had hoped.The Polyjuice Potion may not have given him the ability to cast powerful spells as another person could, but it had certainly made him stronger, physically more capable.Vytenis set the stone down and took a moment to catch his breath, the faintest of smiles touching his lips. –By mid-December, a soft blanket of snow had draped over Hogwarts, the grounds now a vision of frosty white beneath the grey skies. The Scottish Highlands had a way of turning its moods on a whim, with rain turning to snow without warning, and the cold seeping into everything it touched.Vytenis, having grown up near the coast of Southampton, was still adjusting to the biting chill that swept through the castle. He layered his sweaters thickly each morning, doing his best to stave off the cold, but there was no escaping the harshness of the winter air.Despite the chill, there was a subtle hum of excitement in the castle. The end of term was near, and with it, the promise of more than two weeks of holiday. The rush to secure seats on the Hogwarts Express was palpable, the halls buzzing with the eager anticipation of returning home for Christmas.Vytenis, however, was puzzled. Christmas—wasn't it a holiday tied deeply to Christianity? Growing up in a world that had witnessed centuries of persecution between Muggles and magical folk, he couldn’t help but wonder how witches and wizards, who had been hunted and oppressed, could bring themselves to celebrate the birth of the Christian Savior.He decided to ask Professor Binns, of all people, during their final History of Magic class before the break."Professor," Vytenis began, his voice steady but laced with genuine curiosity, "why do witches and wizards celebrate Christmas?"Professor Binns blinked at the question, his expression as vacant as ever. He seemed momentarily caught off-guard, before clearing his throat and launching into his usual dry, wheezing voice."Ah, yes, a fair question, Mr. Hart," he replied, his voice trailing off in its familiar rhythm. "While Christmas is indeed celebrated by Muggles, witches and wizards have celebrated it far longer than them, long before their time. In fact, we can trace it all the way back to the 14th century BCE, when the Mithani wizards of Asia Minor celebrated the birth of the god Mithras on the 25th of December."Vytenis leaned forward, intrigued by the unexpected depth of the professor’s response."Mithras," Binns continued, adjusting his glasses, "was the god of contracts. In languages like Sanskrit and Avestan, the word ‘mitra’ means ‘contract’ or ‘companion.’ For witches and wizards, this is the true origin of Christmas."Vytenis nodded, his mind already weaving connections between the god of contracts and the intricate bonds magical people formed with their world."Contracts," Binns went on, "are central to our magical progress. Our ancestors forged contracts with elemental spirits, binding them to our will, marking the beginning of our magical abilities. The very act of wielding a wand is a contract between the wizard and the magic it channels. Through time, we have formed bonds with fairies, centaurs, and even Muggles, ensuring our place in a world that could otherwise be... dangerous for us."Binns coughed, the sound as brittle and dry as chalk against a board, before continuing, "As a result, the celebration of Mithras’ birth on December 25th has always held significance for us. Muggles later adopted this celebration, of course, but due to confusion and the blending of histories, their beliefs became muddled. Their Savior wasn’t born on December 25th—it was autumn, but over the centuries, the blending of our traditions led to much misinformation.”Professor Binns seemed to soften slightly, a brief flicker of amusement crossing his eyes. "As for the tradition of gift-giving, that, of course, comes from Muggles. Witches and wizards found it quite amusing, and so we added it to our own customs. Quite a delightful tradition, really."Vytenis mulled over this new perspective as Binns returned to his dry, rhythmic tone."Any other questions, Mr. Hart?"“No, thank you, Professor,” Vytenis replied, settling back in his seat, his thoughts still lingering on the layers of history that Binns had so casually revealed.With a slight nod of approval, Binns continued, shifting the topic back to the eccentric wizard Yorick, who, according to the history books, had once...Time seemed to pass by. With the final Potions class of the term drawing to a close, the students of Hogwarts were granted their long-awaited reprieve: the Christmas holidays.The school year was carefully partitioned into three terms. The first stretched from the beginning of the year until the Christmas break; the second took students from the holiday through to Easter; and the third term spanned from Easter to the end of the year. Each term was marked by a two-week break, while summer holidays offered a more substantial respite. For now, the students were ready to enjoy a break from their studies, to briefly turn away from the ever-present hum of magical theory.Vytenis, along with a few of his housemates, boarded the Hogwarts Express bound for London, finding a compartment already occupied by Zacharias Smith and Eloise Midgen. Zacharias wasted no time in launching into one of his long-winded boasts, an unrelenting stream of words that seemed to carry on indefinitely. Vytenis, though polite, found his thoughts wandering as the train clattered steadily along the tracks, the repetitive nature of Zacharias’ anecdotes lulling him into a distant state of mind.As the train journeyed on and the first signs of dusk began to settle over the countryside, Vytenis found his attention returning to the outside world. The hustle of the station loomed ahead as the Hogwarts Express slowly came to a halt at King’s Cross. Through the misted window, he spotted the familiar sight of his parents waiting at the platform.A soft smile tugged at his lips as he made his way to the door.“Mum,” he whispered, voice warm with affection as he stepped off the train and found himself enveloped in a comforting embrace.“Merry Christmas,” Judy murmured into his shoulder, her voice thick with a kind of quiet joy that only a mother’s greeting could hold.“Merry Christmas,” Vytenis repeated, his own smile broadening as he held her tight.The bustle of the station seemed to fade as he was drawn back into the warmth of home, the holiday that lay ahead offering him a moment of reprieve from the complexity of life at Hogwarts. Christmas at 86, Eastley Road, passed quietly, without much fanfare.The magic of the holiday season seemed a distant thing here—no flickering spells, no enchanted decorations. It was almost as if there had never been a wizard in the family at all, though, in truth, Vytenis couldn’t practice magic within the walls of his home. There was a peaceful normalcy to it, an ordinary sort of warmth.Eric had set up the Christmas tree, its branches weighed down by sparkling lights, delicate ornaments, and the usual stockings. Judy, ever the gracious host, had prepared a hearty spread: a massive ten-pound roast, yule log cake, gingerbread, and more, all piled high on the dinner table. Vytenis, like any other child, indulged in the meal, his appetite satisfied with every bite. Eventually, full and content, he drifted into a deep, undisturbed sleep.The morning after Christmas arrived quietly. As the pale light of dawn filtered through the curtains, Vytenis awoke to find a small pile of gifts waiting for him at the foot of his bed, neatly arranged. The sight of the presents stirred something within him—an uncomplicated, familiar feeling of joy.Among them, his eyes landed first on the gift from Eric. A sleek Cartier watch, its silver gleam almost too perfect, engraved with his name: “Vytenis Hart” on the side. Vytenis felt the weight of the watch in his hand before setting it aside.Next, Judy’s gift—a black coat, elegantly tailored, its lines sharp, almost as if it had been crafted with the very precision of a wizard’s robe. It fit him perfectly, a little reminder of his mother’s quiet attention to detail.Zacharias had sent a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, a book Vytenis wasn’t particularly interested in, though he appreciated the thought. It was quickly set aside.A box of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans from Alex lay tucked among the other gifts. Vytenis briefly smiled at the simplicity of it before moving on.Professor Sprout, in her own curious way, had sent him a specimen of mandrake root—its fresh green leaves a stark contrast to the rest of the gifts.And then, the last package, the largest, carefully wrapped, revealed a small cake—a beautifully crafted chocolate confection from the house-elves in the Hogwarts kitchen. Vytenis took a bite, the rich flavor filling his mouth, and for a brief moment, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace. It was simple, but it was perfect.After collecting the gifts, Vytenis made his way downstairs and out into the small yard. The air was crisp, the ground layered with a dusting of snow.Eric was outside, his figure hunched over as he shoveled the snow. Vytenis watched for a moment before approaching him, his footsteps soft on the ground.“What's up?” Eric looked up, noticing Vytenis’s quiet presence.Vytenis hesitated, unsure how to broach the subject. “Um... Dad...” He shifted on his feet. “Could you lend me some money?”Eric paused, a look of confusion crossing his face. “Money? Didn’t we agree that our currency doesn’t work in your world?”Vytenis nodded slowly. “Yes... but I need to buy something else.”Eric gave him a puzzled glance. “Alright, how much do you need?”Vytenis thought carefully, weighing his words before speaking. “Around thirty thousand pounds. That should be enough.”– At 21 Winchester Road, Southampton, there was a curious little hardware store that had become a familiar landmark to the locals.The shop owner, Mr. Robert Wilson, was a tall, solidly built man in his sixties, his thick Northern Irish accent betraying a background steeped in the rugged landscapes of his homeland. Despite his age, there was an undeniable energy to him, a quiet sort of vitality that filled the cramped space of his store. He had that commanding presence that seemed to demand respect without effort.Inside the store, there was no shortage of practical goods—faucets, screws, door locks, and tools of every shape and size. But there were other, less ordinary items as well. Amongst the shelves stacked high with utility items, tucked away in discreet corners, were old shotguns, revolvers, and other firearms—far from typical merchandise.England’s gun laws were notoriously strict, which made acquiring modern firearms an almost insurmountable task for ordinary citizens. But as with most restrictions, there were ways around it—loopholes. While new firearms were heavily regulated, older models, like antique shotguns or commemorative revolvers, could still be sold with little oversight or paperwork.Mr. Wilson had built his livelihood on this very system. The laws in Northern Ireland allowed residents to own handguns without the same kind of restrictions imposed on the rest of the UK. That, coupled with the fact that he had many loyal customers from across the Irish Sea, made his business a key part of his existence. He catered to those who knew where to look, and for years, the business had flourished in relative quiet.It was December 30, 1992, the day’s fading light casting long shadows across the store. Mr. Wilson had spent the day tending to the usual ebb and flow of customers when the door creaked open, announcing the arrival of an unfamiliar figure.The man who entered was large, well-built, and looked every bit the part of someone used to being noticed. His frame was imposing—at least 6'3"—his face stern, with sharp lines that suggested an air of authority.“Mr. Robert Wilson?” the man’s gravelly voice rumbled, breaking the silence that had hung in the room.Wilson, looking up from his work, gave a polite, measured smile. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”The man didn’t immediately respond, instead extending a hand. “Varian Urian.”“Ah, Mr. Urian,” Wilson replied, a slight trace of curiosity tugging at his features. “How may I assist you?”“I hear you sell handguns here?” The man’s question was direct, his tone unwavering.Wilson’s smile remained, but it tightened just a fraction as he studied the newcomer. “Handguns?” He paused, his gaze sharpening slightly. “Yes, but I only sell to customers from my home region.”Urian's reply was immediate. “I’m from Northern Ireland, born in Belfast…” He spoke with a calm assurance, his words slipping easily into a measured cadence.Wilson’s sharp ears caught something—an odd note in the man’s voice. There was something a touch too polished, a touch too refined in his accent, despite his claim of Northern Irish origins. But it wasn’t an immediate cause for alarm. He had met plenty of people who adapted their speech when they traveled.As the man continued speaking, his hand subtly slipped several £50 notes into Wilson’s, an unspoken gesture of trust—or perhaps expectation. Wilson’s eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in silent assessment. There was more to this visitor than met the eye, he realized. This wasn’t just a man looking for an ordinary transaction.“I see.” The suspicion dissipated, replaced by a more professional smile. “I’m honored, Mr. Urian. Please, follow me.”–Vytenis Hart had spent a significant amount of time getting used to his new form, though it was far from an easy adjustment. The transformation felt less like a subtle shift and more like an unnatural stretching of his body, as if every muscle, bone, and tendon was reshaping itself, twisting and thickening in ways that didn’t feel entirely his own.The figure now standing before him was taller by nearly a foot, a near 6'3" frame modeled after one of Eric’s security guards. The man, broad and imposing at first glance, was an odd source of inspiration—tough-looking but, as Vytenis knew well, remarkably timid beneath his exterior. It had been easy enough to collect the guard's hair when he had dozed off after a long shift, a few strands taken without him noticing. Vytenis had prepared for this moment with careful attention, making sure everything was in place.Vytenis, with his grounded, methodical approach to the world, had always found comfort in technology and scientific solutions. Magic, with all its unpredictable nuances, was far less reliable when it came to the pragmatic side of things—especially when it came to self-defense. Though he had spent months trying to master spells that could serve as a means of protection, he found himself failing time and time again.The slow pace of his magical studies had become a constant source of frustration. The spells that were meant to be quick, precise, and functional were always just out of his grasp, leaving him feeling vulnerable. The urgency of having something reliable, something real to fall back on, gnawed at him daily. Magic wasn’t his answer, not yet. And in that moment, Vytenis felt the weight of his decision to use the transformation, hoping that it would serve as the first step toward something—something that could safeguard him.–The heavy footfalls of Urian echoed through the narrow aisles as he followed Mr. Wilson to the back of the store, his gaze flickering over the racks of tools, yet always wary, his fingers still clutching something hidden in his pocket. The tension in his posture was palpable, each movement measured and deliberate as though the smallest deviation from the routine might tip the balance of something much larger.Mr. Wilson, oblivious to the man's sharp vigilance, bent down to retrieve a box from beneath the counter, his back slightly hunched. “I’m not sure what kind of gun you prefer,” he said, his tone polite yet tinged with an undercurrent of uncertainty. As he pulled out the Colt M1911, he continued, “Mr. Urian… this is a Colt M1911, been around since 1911. Widely used in the U.S. Army for years—fires .45 caliber rounds. Effective range of about 50 meters.”Urian’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at the handgun. His expression remained impassive, but there was a subtle shift, a tightening around his mouth that betrayed his opinion of the weapon. This was nothing new to him. The gun was classic, yes, but it lacked the precision or power he sought.“Mr. Wilson,” Urian spoke again, his tone low and deliberate. “I’m looking for something more advanced.”Wilson let out a short chuckle, clearly used to the occasional picky customer. He dug through the box, his hands moving quickly. “Alright then, a more discerning taste,” he muttered to himself. After a moment, he pulled out another handgun, smaller but sleek. “Here, how about this? A PSM handgun, made in 1980. A little palm-sized thing, weighs just about a pound. Fires 5.45mm rounds. Pretty popular with KGB folks—lightweight, low noise. A good, cheap option.”Urian took the gun, his fingers brushing over its smooth surface. He examined it carefully, his eyes narrowing as he turned it over in his hand. Then, his voice dropped lower, almost a whisper as he asked, “How’s the recoil?”Wilson grinned. “The least recoil you’ll find. A 12-year-old could shoot this without flinching.”A small spark of interest lit up Urian’s eyes as he nodded, impressed. “A 12-year-old, you say?” He smirked slightly, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “I’ll take it.”Wilson couldn’t help but smile privately at the contrast—the man, so imposing, so physically powerful, holding a gun smaller than his palm. It was almost ironic, but there was no mistaking Urian’s decision. A sale was a sale, and the ease of it all was a welcome relief.But then the man’s voice cut through the air again, firm and unyielding. “I also need something... more powerful. The bigger, the better.”Wilson’s grin didn’t falter. “Ah, now we’re talking.” He reached down, pulling out a handgun from the bottom of the box. The Desert Eagle Mark I. “This is a beast. Desert Eagle Mark I, released in 1985. Fires .357 Magnum rounds. Weighs a solid four pounds. Effective range? About 200 meters. At close range, it can take down a brown bear or a wild boar, no problem.”Urian’s face grew more serious as he ran his hands over the firearm. The weight seemed to please him. “Could it kill a boa constrictor?” His question was not one of curiosity, but practicality, as if he had considered the need for a gun capable of that kind of precision.Wilson didn’t hesitate. “One shot, straight to the head? Even the world’s biggest snake wouldn’t stand a chance.”Urian’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll take both of these,” he said, decisively. “And some ammunition, too.”Wilson didn’t waste a moment. He quickly packaged the guns, slapping faucet labels on the bundles as he worked. The transaction was smooth, routine. He handed the guns over, keeping his smile wide.“That’ll be three thousand pounds, sir.”Without the slightest hesitation, Urian reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick stack of notes. He counted them methodically before handing them over. “I have one more question, Mr. Wilson.”Wilson’s hand reached for the money, his mind already planning the next transaction. “Of course. What is it?”Urian’s gaze sharpened, and for the first time, there was a slight shift in his posture. “I need you to help me find someone.” In the heart of East London, where the city’s raw edges meet the ever-changing tides of migration, there lies a stark contrast to the polished tourist attractions near the Thames. The Newham district, home to many of the city’s most underserved communities, remained in the shadows of its own history—an area steeped in a mix of hardship and resilience. It was here that the whispers of old ghosts still lingered, in the same fog-drenched alleys once stalked by figures like Jack the Ripper.The area had long been a haven for those pushed to society's margins: dock workers, immigrants, and the destitute. In recent years, the arrival of Eastern European refugees, following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, had further broadened the district’s already diverse community. The faces of London’s immigrant populations had shifted once more, blending new struggles with old ones, weaving yet another layer into the complex fabric of the city.When a man appeared in Newham one chilly evening, the reaction of the local residents was one of instinctual wariness. A group of men, initially intrigued by his unfamiliar presence, quickly gauged his size and demeanor. His tall, imposing frame and the cold set of his jaw spoke volumes, and one by one, they faded into the streets without confrontation.He didn’t notice their retreat, his eyes fixed on the bottle of liquor he clutched in his hand. The man moved with purpose, a slow, deliberate stride as he made his way through the streets. The grime of Newham’s buildings and littered alleys seemed to fade around him as he approached a low-rise apartment block—a place with cracked paint, peeling columns, and the quiet of neglect.He knocked softly on the door, waiting a moment before it creaked open. Inside, the apartment felt more like a storage unit for forgotten lives—old furniture sagging under the weight of time and neglect, empty liquor bottles strewn across the floor. A thin man, his graying hair and faded clothing making him appear older than his years, sat slouched on a battered sofa, eyeing the newcomer with bleary suspicion."Who are you?" he asked, his voice rough from too many cigarettes and too much silence.The stranger didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he held out the bottle of liquor, his face neutral. The man’s eyes lit up at the sight, and he snatched it from the stranger’s hands with surprising speed, uncapping it and drinking deeply, like a man starved for something—anything."Sergei Ivanovich Pavlov?" The stranger’s voice, low and calm, cut through the air.Pavlov paused mid-drink, lowering the bottle with a sharp look. "Who are you?" he demanded, the lethargy replaced by a flicker of suspicion. "From Scotland Yard? MI6?""No," the stranger replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Just a curious man. My name is Varian Urian."The name caused Pavlov to stiffen, his brow furrowing as he regarded the man more closely. "Mr. Urian," he said, his English faltering slightly. "Why have you come?"Urian reached into his coat and slid an envelope across the table. Pavlov’s eyes widened when he saw the stack of £50 notes inside. His hands trembled slightly as he picked up the money, his desperation clear."I can’t do anything illegal," Pavlov muttered, a soft hesitation in his voice. "Scotland Yard... they want me in Edinburgh. I have a family."Urian’s expression remained unwavering. "There won’t be anything illegal," he assured, his tone steady, his gaze unwavering. "I’m a law-abiding citizen. But I need to ask you something. Do you know Robert Wilson from Southampton?"Pavlov’s eyes sharpened at the mention of the name, and for a moment, bitterness flickered across his features. "Wilson," he said, his voice growing darker. "He helped my family escape to the UK last year through Southampton Port." He paused, his expression turning cold. "I worked with him. But... why are you asking about him?"Urian didn’t flinch. "He told me you were once an outstanding KGB agent."Pavlov’s lips curled into a bitter smile. "I was top of my training in Kazan," he said, his voice growing harder with each word. "In Afghanistan, I killed six militants who tried to break into our camp under the cover of darkness. For that, I earned the Red Banner Medal."There was a long pause, as the weight of his words lingered in the air. "But that medal," he continued, his eyes darkening, "it was traded for two loaves of black bread when I was in Moscow."The stranger’s question hung in the air for a moment before he tossed the Desert Eagle Mark I handgun toward Pavlov. The heavy weapon thudded softly in Pavlov’s hands, its weight and presence momentarily commanding attention.“Can you use this?” the stranger asked, his tone quiet but sharp, as if measuring Pavlov’s capabilities with a glance.Pavlov caught the gun, his grip firm despite its size. He turned it over in his hands, examining the sleek contours of the weapon with practiced eyes. "The recoil’s heavy, but one-handed... should be manageable," he said, the faintest trace of a smile crossing his lips before he adjusted his grip.Before the moment could stretch further, the door to the small apartment creaked open, breaking the silence. A woman entered, her presence striking yet tired—her face marked by the years more sharply than the bright red lipstick she wore. She was draped in a simple cotton coat, a stark contrast to the rest of the apartment’s neglected atmosphere. Her eyes flicked nervously between the men as she stepped in."Sergei... I didn’t know you had a guest..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed the unfamiliar presence, her gaze dropping almost immediately. She retreated swiftly into the back room, leaving only the soft echo of her footsteps.Pavlov’s posture shifted at the sight of her, his eyes darkening for the briefest of moments. "She... Sarah... my wife," he muttered, his voice low, with a subtle edge of regret threading through his words. His gaze followed her retreating form before he turned his attention back to the stranger.The stranger observed the shift in Pavlov’s demeanor, the flicker of something unsaid passing between them. He recognized the unspoken, and with a slight adjustment of his posture, he pushed forward. "Take a look at the gun first."Pavlov's eyes snapped back to the weapon in his hands. "No problem," he replied, steadying his breath. He ran his fingers along the grip, weighing the weapon as he spoke. "The Desert Eagle Mark I, developed in Israel in 1985... considerable recoil, yes. But with my strength, shooting one-handed shouldn’t be an issue. If you doubt me, I could go to a range and show you."The stranger nodded, a brief flicker of understanding in his expression. "No need, I believe you."Pavlov’s fingers tightened around the handle, and a tension, subtle but noticeable, tightened in his chest. He tilted his head, lowering his voice slightly. "Then what exactly do you want from me?" he asked, the words slipping into a more cautious, almost wary cadence. "You looking for a bodyguard?"The stranger shook his head, a slight smile barely visible on his lips, though his eyes remained focused, unreadable. "No, nothing like that," he replied, pulling a small envelope from his jacket with careful precision. He slid it across the table toward Pavlov, the crisp edges of the paper catching the light. "I just need a small sample of your hair."Pavlov blinked, his brow furrowing at the unexpected request. "Hair?" His voice echoed the confusion that filled his mind, but his hands remained steady.The stranger’s expression didn’t shift. He placed a thick stack of banknotes in front of Pavlov with deliberate ease. "Yes," he confirmed, his tone unwavering. "Here’s three thousand pounds. I just need a little bit of your hair."–The Hogwarts Express stood ready at Platform 9¾, its steam rising in the crisp winter air, preparing to carry the students back to school. Vytenis Hart sat within the train, watching the busy bustle of families and friends saying their goodbyes as the clock inched toward departure. The long Christmas break had felt like an eternity, the quiet of Southampton stretching endlessly before him. No magic, just an absence of it. A few books had kept him company, and the daily practice of his Brain Shielding spell had been a quiet constant. The rest of the time, it was as though his world had been suspended in a lull of normality—too normal, in fact.The holiday had been uneventful, but at least there had been one small victory: Vytenis had managed to convince Eric and Judy to let him travel alone to London, a small gesture of independence that made the rest of the break bearable.Now, as the train slowly filled, Vytenis found a vacant compartment. He stowed his luggage with practiced ease and then pulled something from his pocket: an old, weathered diary. The cover, black and worn with use, seemed to hum with a faint, unsettling energy, as though it held something more than just words. The corners were frayed, and the pages within were yellowed with age—this was not a new book. Vytenis had come across it by chance, after an afternoon spent as Varian Urian, running across London’s familiar streets. His transformation had led him to an old, forgotten bookstore. A haggling match had ensued, and in the end, he left with the book for only fifteen pennies.With the noise of the station now fading behind him, Vytenis opened the diary, its pages creaking slightly as he turned to one of the blank spaces. His handwriting was neat, the ink dark and precise."Polyjuice Potion, recorded in the book Powerful Potions, is a potent and complex brew. By adding a sample of the target’s body—typically hair, though nails can also be used—and drinking the potion, one can take on the appearance of the target for a set period.The ingredients for the Polyjuice Potion include lacewing flies, crude antimony, leech essence, fluxweed picked during the full moon, powdered chloride, powdered two-leaf grass, powdered bicorn horn, nitrate, mercury, iron filings, and dried African tree snake skin.Though the brewing process is intricate, it is not overly difficult for a skilled potion maker.The effects of Polyjuice Potion vary depending on the amount consumed. A small sip (around 5ml) lasts approximately 10 minutes. 50ml extends the transformation for about an hour, and a large dose (over 1L) can stretch the change for 24 hours. However, no matter the quantity, the maximum duration is 24 hours.The taste of the potion is initially similar to overcooked cabbage, though the flavor may change depending on the drinker’s feelings towards the person they are transforming into. If you feel positively towards the individual, the taste will be more bearable; if you dislike them, it becomes quite intolerable.Polyjuice Potion is strictly for human transformations. Attempting to transform into an animal results in severe side effects. Trying to change into a half-blood creature, such as a half-giant or werewolf, may fail and lead to unforeseen complications.Once the transformation is complete, the user can replicate the target’s voice, physical strength, and instincts. However, the potion does not grant the target’s magical abilities. You cannot expect to gain the powers of a wizard simply by drinking it.There have been instances where the potion was used for gender transformation, but…”Vytenis paused for a moment, reflecting on the implications of his notes. The Polyjuice Potion was both fascinating and dangerous, and though the ingredients were now gathered, there was still so much to consider. Carefully, he folded the page, marked it with the abbreviation "P-P" for Polyjuice Potion, and slipped it into a hidden compartment of his suitcase, along with a few other private notes.A gentle knock echoed at the compartment door, pulling Vytenis from his thoughts. With a swift motion, he tucked the diary into the folds of his cloak and looked up.“Come in!”The door creaked open, and a tall figure filled the frame. Messy blonde hair framed a youthful face, and a mischievous smile played on his lips. Alex Weston, just as they’d arranged in their letters.“Merry Christmas!” Alex greeted, his voice light, the sparkle in his eyes undeniable.“Merry Christmas to you too, Alex,” Vytenis responded with a nod, the words coming easily, though his mind lingered on the diary hidden within his cloak.Alex slid into the seat across from him, and the train’s steady hum filled the space between them. They exchanged a few pleasantries, the kind that would have been expected between any acquaintances. The sort of comfortable silence that accompanied the occasional clink of a fork or the swish of a drink being stirred.“How were your Christmas presents?” Alex asked, his eyes twinkling with curiosity.“Presents? Amazing!” Vytenis grinned, leaning back. “I got this book on magical creatures, and my dad sent me a Muggle board game that was surprisingly fun.”Alex chuckled lightly, as if he could picture Vytenis navigating the intricacies of Muggle games. “Well, that’s cool. You know, I got the most amazing gift—A three-way mirror. It's fantastic! Even my mum praised it, and you know how serious she usually is!”“Really? That’s awesome!” Vytenis smiled, the enthusiasm infectious. “Sounds like something you’d get up to some mischief with.”Alex grinned back. His expression shifted, though, turning more playful as he leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. “And you... Did you find the secret note in the Chocolate Frog?”Vytenis froze for a moment, his gaze briefly flickering towards the remnants of the Chocolate Frog Alex had given him. He hadn’t eaten much of it; the chocolate didn’t appeal to him. It had been discarded without much thought, left half-eaten on the table.“The secret in the Chocolate Frog?” Vytenis asked, his voice faltering for a split second.Alex raised an eyebrow, his playful expression faltering into an exaggerated pout. “Idiot...” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “Honestly.”He crossed his arms, purposefully looking away, though the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.Their brief silent standoff was interrupted by the arrival of a cheerful train attendant, which broke the tension. The conversation resumed naturally as they both tucked into their pies and pumpkin cakes, the earlier awkwardness dissolving into the warm, familiar comfort of shared food.Alex, finishing off a licorice wand, suddenly seemed to recall something important. His voice lowered, the easy mood from before replaced with something more serious.“Did you hear…?” Alex asked softly, his eyes darkening slightly.“Really?” Vytenis frowned, his curiosity piqued.“Sir Nicholas, the Gryffindor ghost, was attacked, and another one of your Hufflepuff students, Justin Finch-Fletchley…” Alex's tone shifted, carrying a note of gravity now. “They were both turned to stone, just like Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey. This happened just before we left for the break.”Vytenis listened intently, though his face remained unreadable. It made sense. According to the events he knew, this would be around the time the next attacks occurred. Sir Nicholas, Justin... it all fit. But the quiet of the holiday had kept it away from public knowledge, and perhaps for good reason. Alex’s family, though, had their ways of knowing.“I was going to write to tell you about it…” Alex continued, his voice soft and almost hesitant. “But my mother stopped me. She said it shouldn’t be spread around.”Vytenis nodded slowly, processing the new information. “Professor Sprout’s mandrakes should be fully matured in a few months,” he said with a quiet certainty. “Once that happens, all the petrified students will be revived. Everything will return to normal.”Alex lowered his head slightly, leaning in closer, his voice dropping into a whisper. “Be careful.” There was a distinct concern in his tone now, the playfulness entirely gone. “My mother almost didn’t let me return to school… Hogwarts really is dangerous. The Slytherin monster really exists.”“I know…” Vytenis replied softly, his gaze meeting Alex’s with quiet understanding. “And thank you.”The words hung in the air, their weight unspoken, and for a brief moment, the world outside the compartment seemed to fall away. The Hogwarts Express eased into the station, its wheels creating a steady, rhythmic hum as it slowed to a halt. Vytenis Hart, along with the other students, disembarked, the chilly evening air greeting them as they stepped onto the darkened platform. This time, there were no boats waiting to ferry them across the Black Lake. Instead, a line of carriages stood ready, their shadows long in the dim light.Vytenis could see the outlines of Thestrals waiting to pull the carriages, though the creatures themselves remained unseen to him. He and Alex Weston climbed into one of the carriages, settling in as it began its steady journey through the grounds. The carriage swayed gently as it passed through the main gates and along the long, gravel path leading to the looming silhouette of Hogwarts Castle in the distance.The ride was smooth, familiar, comforting even. They didn’t speak much as the castle grew larger in the distance, its towering spires reaching upward like silent sentinels. The soft clatter of the carriage’s wheels on the path was the only sound, the night wrapping them in quiet.The carriage eventually came to a stop at the foot of the stone steps leading up to the castle's great oak doors. Vytenis and Alex stepped out into the cold, the faint chill of the evening air settling on their skin. They made their way up the steps and entered the vast, towering entrance hall of Hogwarts, but it felt different this time—quieter, subdued.The usual buzz of excited voices and the clatter of students rushing to the Great Hall was absent. Students moved more slowly, the familiar sense of anticipation dulled. Vytenis exchanged a quick goodbye with Alex as they prepared to head toward their respective common rooms, but they were halted by a middle-aged witch in a green robe."Professor McGonagall, is something wrong?" came the voice of a Ravenclaw student, his tone betraying a hint of concern.Professor McGonagall, looking wearier than usual, gave a curt nod. "I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for your house professors to escort you to your common rooms." Her sharp gaze swept over the students, pausing briefly as she gathered her thoughts. "Gryffindor students, come this way," she added briskly, her voice tinged with a gravity that caught Vytenis’ attention.A few of the older boys muttered in confusion. "What’s going on?"McGonagall’s expression hardened, her usual sternness overshadowed by something heavier. "There’s been another attack," she said quietly. "Just over ten days ago. Two victims: Hufflepuff’s Justin Finch-Fletchley and Gryffindor’s ghost, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington." Her words were clipped, each one carrying a weight that pressed down on the room.A shocked murmur rippled through the gathered students."Justin was attacked?" one student gasped."Wait… even the ghost?" another murmured, unable to believe the words.Vytenis felt the coldness of the news sink in. As Alex Weston had mentioned earlier, this was news to most of them. The Hufflepuff students, especially, looked stricken by the revelation. The room seemed to hang heavy with the unsettling knowledge that the danger was not just a rumor, but something real, something terrifying.Just then, Professor Sprout entered, her face marked with concern. She scanned the group and, without wasting time, addressed the Hufflepuff students. "Hufflepuff students, please follow me," she instructed gently but firmly, her expression softening only slightly as she gestured for them to come forward.Vytenis hesitated for just a moment before falling in step with the others, his thoughts a swirl of unease.–"Definitely Potter’s doing!" Vytenis Hart overheard Ernie Macmillan’s voice echoing through the tunnel as he crawled through the wooden barrel and into the underground passage.Ernie, who hadn't gone home for Christmas, was evidently very well-versed in the “truth” about Justin's attack. A small group of Hufflepuff students, those who had returned early from the break, were clustered around him, eager to catch the latest rumors."Did you hear? Potter just so happened to be right there when we found Justin and Nick attacked," Ernie continued, his words tumbling out in a rapid-fire sequence, as though he were piecing together an intricate puzzle. "If it was a coincidence the first time, fine. But after three incidents where he’s been right there? Something's off, don’t you think?"Vytenis paused, listening intently from the shadows. Ernie certainly had a point—Harry Potter was starting to look more like a prime suspect with every passing incident. The strange occurrences—like the eerie hissing noises—and Harry always appearing just when the attacks happened... It was beginning to add up. It seemed almost too convenient, as if Harry had an uncanny knack for being in the right place at the wrong time. Yet, it also felt too neat, too simple."Why would he attack Justin?" Hannah Abbott's voice interrupted, the confusion in her tone clear. "I thought Harry and Justin got along well in Herbology..."Ernie’s voice dropped lower, more certain. "Justin told Potter in Herbology that he was Muggle-born. Potter must’ve held a grudge about it. Just a few days before Christmas, Potter even ordered a snake to attack Justin. If it weren’t for Professor Snape stepping in, Justin would’ve been dead. That incident revealed Potter’s secret, though.""He’s a Parselmouth?" Hannah gasped, the words hanging in the air like a heavy weight."Exactly," Ernie continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Parselmouths are a trait of the darkest wizards, just like Salazar Slytherin himself. Do you see? He’s been hiding it all along!""Hannah’s eyes widened. "I can’t believe it...""That’s it!" Ernie declared with absolute certainty. "Harry Potter is the murderer!"But before he could continue, Professor Sprout appeared, her steps firm and her expression one of restrained frustration."Ernie, stop making wild assumptions about your classmates!" she snapped, her voice cutting through the tension. "Professor Dumbledore believes Potter is not the murderer, and that’s enough."Ernie muttered something under his breath, clearly not pleased, and turned away, his shoulders slumped as he walked off.Vytenis, still leaning against the wall in the shadows, was about to turn back when he felt the weight of a gaze upon him. He looked up to see Professor Sprout’s eyes fixed on him."Vytenis, could I speak with you for a moment?" Her voice was calm, yet there was a seriousness behind it that made Vytenis’s stomach tighten."Of course, Professor!" Vytenis replied, his voice steady as he quickly stood up.He followed Professor Sprout out of the barrel and into the dimly lit corridor, his steps deliberate, his mind already racing to guess the reason for her summoning."Professor, is something wrong?" Vytenis asked, his curiosity piqued."I wanted to ask you about your two spiders," Professor Sprout said, her expression turning grave. "How are they doing?"Vytenis’s heart sank. "They’re dead," he replied quietly. "After you helped me retrieve them from the common room, they weren’t doing well. Then, in November, they started screeching one day. By the time I went to feed them, they were gone."Professor Sprout’s brow furrowed in concern. "Can you remember the exact day they died?"Vytenis thought for a moment. "I think... it was the day after Hufflepuff beat Ravenclaw in the Quidditch match."Professor Sprout’s face shifted subtly, her expression tight with some unspoken realization."What’s wrong, Professor?" Vytenis asked, his voice quiet, already suspecting the answer. That was the day Colin Creevey had been attacked, after all."Nothing, child..." Professor Sprout stammered, quickly regaining her composure. "I need to speak with Professor Kettleburn. Excuse me, I must go!" She took a few hurried steps back before pausing and turning to face him again. "Vytenis... don’t leave the Hufflepuff common room alone," she added softly, but there was an underlying firmness to her tone."Okay, Professor!" Vytenis replied, his mind racing as he watched her hurry off down the corridor, her steps quickening as she disappeared from view.The weight of her warning lingered in the air, and Vytenis, though outwardly calm, felt his planted seed of doubt, began to bear fruits. His eyes settle to the corridor before returning. Leaving the castle, Professor Pomona Sprout moved with purpose, her footsteps steady as she made her way toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest. The chill in the air was sharp, and the dense trees loomed like dark sentinels against the fading light of the afternoon.Her destination was a small straw hut, nestled at the forest's edge, where she had hoped to find Professor Kettleburn. Yet, as she approached the familiar structure, an uneasy sense of realization crept over her. He wasn’t there.She paused for a moment, scanning the surroundings, but there was no sign of him. Instead, she was met with the hulking form of Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, his broad shoulders filling the clearing as he made his way toward her, a large cage in his hands."Hello, Hagrid!" Professor Sprout called, her voice carrying a hint of mild frustration.Hagrid turned, his booming voice carrying across the distance, as he always greeted others. "Hello, Professor!" He was smiling, but there was something in his demeanor—perhaps the way he carried himself or the weight of the cage—that seemed just slightly out of sync with his usual cheerful disposition."I came to find Professor Kettleburn," Professor Sprout explained, her gaze moving from the cage to Hagrid, her brow knitting in quiet concern. "He’s not here, is he?"Hagrid chuckled, a rumbling sound that seemed to echo from deep within him. "Kettleburn? Nah, he’s off to London—getting himself a new prosthetic limb," Hagrid explained, an almost wistful tone slipping through his voice. "Won’t be back for a month, I reckon. Professor Grubbly-Plank’s covering for him in the meantime."Professor Sprout nodded, absorbing the information with a thoughtful frown. She knew that Kettleburn’s health had been declining for some time, but hearing that he was taking a leave of absence still felt a bit unsettling.She glanced at the large cage in Hagrid’s hands, curiosity piqued. "What’s in there?" she asked, her voice softening as she spoke, despite her growing sense of unease.Hagrid’s eyes lit up with pride as he grinned, seemingly eager to share what was inside the cage. "A bunch of little roosters!" he said casually, a spark in his eyes. "The ones here at school, well, they’ve all disappeared. Not sure if it was a fox or a vampire that got 'em, but twelve roosters gone just like that. Not a single one left to crow anymore…"Professor Sprout’s face hardened as she processed his words. The disappearance of the roosters, though seemingly trivial, struck her as strange. And the way Hagrid spoke of it, with such an air of casualness, seemed almost at odds with the deep sense of foreboding that was building within her.She paused for a moment, her mind racing. "That’s unfortunate," she murmured, her thoughts wandering to the larger context of the strange events that had been unfolding at Hogwarts. Every day, it seemed, there was something more unsettling to contend with. The mysterious occurrences, the attacks, the growing tension—it was as if the castle itself were on the brink of something far darker.As her gaze flicked from the cage to Hagrid’s face, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this, too, was somehow connected. The events at Hogwarts weren’t isolated incidents; they were pieces of a much larger puzzle, one that was slipping further out of reach with each passing day."Do you have any idea what’s causing all of this, Hagrid?" she asked, her voice quiet but laced with the weight of an unspoken question.Hagrid shook his head, his grin fading into something more thoughtful. "Not a clue, Professor. But it sure feels like somethin'’s stirrin’ up trouble, don’t it?"Professor Sprout didn’t reply immediately. She stood still for a moment, her gaze shifting toward the towering trees beyond, the shadows lengthening as dusk crept in. The sense of unease in her chest grew, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if the strange happenings were more than just coincidences.With a final glance at the cage, she turned away, her mind set on the next steps to take. She needed to speak with the other professors, piece together whatever information they could gather. Whatever was going on, it was clear that something far more dangerous was unfolding, and she wasn’t sure they had much time left to prevent it.– Although Vytenis Hart had dropped subtle hints more than once, Professor Sprout continued to approach the idea of the creature behind the recent attacks with a degree of skepticism. She seemed reluctant to fully embrace the notion that the culprit was the Basilisk, despite the mounting evidence and the strange happenings that had surrounded the school in recent months.At least, for now, Hogwarts had refrained from any drastic public measures. There had been no sudden influx of snake-repelling potions or an unexpected surge in the number of badgers being bred for defense, as Vytenis had once half expected. The school, as always, was a strange mix of understated tranquility and hidden peril.By the time the students returned after the Christmas break, the atmosphere had shifted back to a sense of normalcy. The usual hum of life at Hogwarts returned, albeit with some lingering whispers. The mystery surrounding Hermione Granger’s sudden and unexplained disappearance for several weeks had stirred up quite a bit of gossip. Students speculated on the cause of her absence, the common assumption being that she had fallen victim to the attacks.However, Madam Pomfrey had put those rumors to rest. She clarified that Hermione's absence was due to a transfiguration accident—not an attack—and assured everyone that Hermione would soon recover. With that, the air of suspense that had clung to the halls loosened a little, though the curiosity of the student body remained.The sun, too, had come out again, casting its warm light over the castle and its grounds. The sense of dread that had been pervasive since the attacks seemed to have melted, replaced by the familiar rhythm of life at Hogwarts. No further incidents had occurred since the petrifications of Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick, and the students carried on with their studies, breathing a little easier.Professor Sprout, for her part, reported that the Mandrakes were flourishing in the greenhouses, nearing the time when they would be ready for harvest. This would allow for the restoration of the students who had been petrified, their stone-like bodies soon to be returned to their natural states.Vytenis overheard a conversation one day during Herbology between Professor Sprout and Filch that caught his attention."Once they mature, we can transplant them, and soon after, Professor Snape will be able to brew the antidote," Sprout said, her voice a mix of relief and satisfaction. "Mrs. Norris will be back in no time."For now, things seemed to be moving in the right direction. Ginny Weasley, free of the influence of Tom Riddle’s diary, was no longer a danger to the school. With the Horcrux no longer controlling her, the attacks were unlikely to continue.Tom Riddle’s diary, now in Harry Potter’s hands, was something Vytenis couldn’t ignore. Harry had yet to understand the full weight of the diary’s power, but Vytenis knew it wouldn’t be long before Harry stumbled across its influence. For now, at least, there would be no further attacks. Ginny was no longer under the sway of the diary, and the Basilisk’s deadly gaze had not been seen for months.Vytenis, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, allowed himself to breathe a little easier. The weight of constant suspicion and tension that had followed him for so long seemed to lift, even if only for a moment.Still, in the midst of this temporary calm, there was one figure who seemed convinced that the peace was entirely his doing. Vytenis overheard Gilderoy Lockhart, ever the self-assured braggart, speaking to Professor McGonagall one afternoon."I believe there won’t be any more trouble, Minerva," Lockhart said with the air of someone who truly believed his words. "The Chamber of Secrets will never be opened again. Those criminals must know that I’m here, and sooner or later, I’ll catch them!"Vytenis listened, a quiet unease stirring within him. There was something off about Lockhart, though he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t that Vytenis thought Lockhart had orchestrated the events at Hogwarts, but the man’s certainty, the way he so thoroughly believed in his own importance, felt... misplaced.But for now, Vytenis couldn’t afford to dwell on it. There were more pressing matters to attend to, and the calm that had settled over the school, however fragile, was a welcome relief.During this time, Vytenis Hart found himself frequently seeking refuge in the Room of Requirement, where the hours seemed to pass unnoticed as he made up for the lost time from the Christmas break. The room, a place of endless possibilities, had become a sanctuary for his practice. After months of uncertainty and caution, Vytenis felt that the period of relative peace afforded by Hogwarts had finally allowed him to breathe a little easier. He no longer felt the need to be as circumspect about his movements in and out of the Hufflepuff common room. As long as he obeyed the rules, he was fairly confident that he could move around the school without undue risk.In the quiet of the room, a new kind of intensity had taken over. Before him, a figure moved with remarkable agility, dodging attacks from several practice dummies. His movements were swift, calculated, and fluid—effortlessly avoiding each strike aimed his way. This was Sergei Pavlov, an agent whose reputation for combat prowess had preceded him long ago. He was a specimen of human strength, speed, and precision—traits that made him a dangerous figure indeed. Vytenis had been in Sergei’s body for hours now, fully immersed in controlling the movements, the reflexes, and the strength of a warrior.Vytenis found it strange, yet necessary, to practice in this way. The feeling of controlling another's body—of becoming someone else entirely—was unsettling at times. But the end result was undeniable. With Sergei’s training and instincts, Vytenis had made remarkable strides in perfecting his abilities.He had long since become familiar with the PSM pistol, a weapon designed for clerks and smaller-framed agents. The small gun had been manageable for Vytenis, and he had grown proficient at hitting targets with accuracy. Yet, the more powerful guns still posed a challenge. He had hesitated to test them within the confines of the Room of Requirement, unsure of how loud the shots would be, and whether the soundproofing would truly be enough to keep his activities unnoticed.But the transformation, when it occurred, was always the same—unpleasant, jarring. It felt as if the very essence of his being was being twisted, stretched, and reshaped into someone else’s form. The pain that accompanied the Polyjuice Potion was intense, but nothing compared to the suffering young Barty Crouch Jr. must have endured in his long charade as Mad-Eye Moody. Vytenis had barely lasted a few minutes before he felt the need to change back into his own form, but Crouch had persisted for months. The thought of that endurance both amazed and unsettled him.After a few moments of recovery, Vytenis stood, shifting into fresh clothes before retrieving a nearby wand. The practice dummy before him was now the target of his focused intent. The wand flicked, and a stream of orange-yellow light shot toward the dummy's eyes. The spell hit, and the dummy’s form recoiled from the force of the Eye Disease Curse. Vytenis knew the spell well by now—he had perfected it over months of constant practice. It had become a reliable tool, one that could cause great pain if needed, and though he knew its limits, he couldn't help but feel a surge of satisfaction every time he used it.But there were other spells, ones that hadn’t come as easily. The Brain Sealing Spell, for instance, had eluded him. Unlike the Eye Disease Curse, it didn’t rely on simple incantations or precise gestures—it required a kind of mental clarity, an understanding that was hard to come by. Vytenis had spent countless hours trying to master the technique. He practiced daily, following the instructions in Seal Your Mind, but each time he tried, he was left with more questions than answers.With no way to measure his progress, Vytenis often found himself frustrated. He couldn’t know how close he was to success. There was no way to test his abilities by having a powerful wizard cast Legilimens on him. Without a true measure of his progress, it felt like a constant, silent battle.But then, an idea began to form, one that made his heart race with excitement. The Brain Sealing Spell was based on instinct, on mental reflexes. Vytenis had always been good at learning through intuition, a skill he had honed in his pursuit of mastering magic and various skills. And, he realized, if there was one way to replicate the kind of intuitive mastery he needed, it was through the Polyjuice Potion. When he had transformed into Sergei, he had accessed his battle instincts unconsciously—his mind had aligned with Sergei's, amplifying Vytenis’ own abilities.If he could use Polyjuice Potion to take on the form of someone with mastery over the Brain Sealing Spell, would that help him gain a deeper understanding of it?There was one obvious candidate: Severus Snape.Vytenis had never quite warmed to Snape, but there was no denying the man’s power and skill. If Snape’s own mastery of the Brain Sealing Spell could be accessed through the Polyjuice Potion, Vytenis might finally be able to understand the spell in the way he needed.But pulling this off would require caution—and a great deal of risk. Snape, known for his secretive nature, wasn’t exactly someone easy to approach, let alone take a sample from. Yet, Vytenis couldn’t ignore the potential of what could be learned from such a transformation.As he stood there in the Room of Requirement, surrounded by practice dummies and the remnants of his transformation, Vytenis felt a surge of determination. It was certainly worth a try.