Author's Note:

Whew, I don't really do these things, just wanted to make mention of three quick things:
-Shout out to my older brother. He doesn't have an account on this site (despite the fact that he reads plenty of fanfiction), but the number of hours he and I have spent just talking about the world of Harry Potter is beyond count. The ideas we've discussed and talked over have influenced this story almost as much as the canon books itself. I wouldn't have had even half of my ideas if he wasn't willing to get drunk with me and talk about the world that helped shape our childhood.
-Friendly reminder that I really don't have anything about this story planned. I have ideas, sure, but the concept of outlining doesn't exist. Just bear that in mind when you're considering the direction of the plot.
-Thanks for reading and enjoying my work.

XXXXXXXXXX

"'Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster,' right, Nietzsche? Ah, how I would love to engage with a mind as wonderfully twisted as yours. Here is to you, my woefully mundane friend. I must have heeded your words to some extent, for I am not a monster at all – but I suppose I cannot deny that in the end, the abyss did indeed gaze back." -Tom to himself, whilst standing in the center of an alchemic circle. November, 1980.

Chapter 8:

"Knock, knock, Al."

"You may come through, Nicolas."

Nicolas Flamel stepped through the floo and into the office of Albus Dumbledore with a spring in his step and a quirk to his lips. For the seemingly youthful and handsome blonde, today was a very, very good day. It was the day that he was finally going to be free of the persistent annoyance that had dogged his life for the past few months. Well, annoyance was not giving nearly enough esteem to the series of extremely adept attempts to steal his beloved Stone. The mysterious thief, whoever they were, had never gotten truly close to succeeding, but they had gotten close enough for him to take personal notice – and that was not an easy task. 600 years of life and he could think of less than five times that an individual had actually come so near in their attempts to plunder what was his. The whole situation was disconcerting, to say the least.

"Must you insist on referring to me by that nickname, Nicolas?" Albus asked petulantly.

The number of people in the world that could get away with calling Albus Dumbledore petulant, even within the confines of their own mind was quite small. Luckily for Nicolas, he was one of these people.

"It does the soul some good to have to deal with things they aren't fond of, Al," Nicolas said happily as he took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs Albus had in front of his desk. He casually splayed his feet out over the armrest, reaching over and plucking one of the delectable little candies that his old student had available.

"Ah, how I wish your nicknames could be the worst I had to deal with in life."

Nicolas frowned at his longtime companion. If there was ever a man who took too much upon himself it was Albus bloody Dumbledore. Knowing just how much was on the man's plate almost made Nicolas feel bad about the burden that he had placed upon his friend. Almost. In truth, he had long suspected that Albus actually enjoyed being so involved with the world's problems. Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot – all of those horrible, dreadful titles on top of maintaining an active network of informants that kept him up to date on the movements of every known or suspected dark wizard across Europe. There was no reason for him to assume those mantles unless he derived some sort of pleasure from doing so. Or so Nicolas thought, anyway. The immortal knew that his friend wanted to do good in the world, but such pure motives were not mutually exclusive from the satisfaction he likely felt. Just as Nicolas was a researcher at heart – Albus was a meddler. The best kind of meddler, most assuredly, but a meddler all the same.

"I am not sure you have the right to lament your self-inflicted woes, Al," Nicolas said, rolling his eyes.

Albus sighed and removed his glasses, polishing them with an enchanted cloth. "We've had this debate numerous times, old friend."

Nicolas raised his hands in surrender as he mentally smirked at the fulfillment of the French stereotype. "You're right, Al, you're right. I still think you're wrong about the topic itself, of course, but that's not an argument we need to rehash at this time."

"I do appreciate that."

"I normally wouldn't give in so easily, but you are doing me a favor by getting involved this time, so I suppose I can't complain."

Albus chuckled lightly. "Consider it my way of repaying the debt I still owe you – for Paris, all those years ago."

"Ugh, don't remind me," Nicolas grimaced, popping another candy in his mouth. "You know how I loathe being involved in such affairs." His voice was warbled by the delightful lemon sweet.

The half-moon spectacles were returned to their proper place as his old student nodded. "Oh, I'm quite aware. Nevertheless, I believe my assisting you in catching this thief shall be enough for us both to consider the debt settled?" Albus raised an eye-brow questioningly.

"Oh, fine," Nicolas rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes – if you catch this would be larcenist than I promise to stop bringing up that nasty business in Paris."

Albus' eyes twinkled at him amusedly. A more impertinent student there never was, truly. "You know I would never turn you away should you require my assistance, Nicolas."

Were they having a moment? Well, that wouldn't do.

"I know, Al," Nicolas deliberately stressed the abhorred nickname. "I know."

The two old friends broke out into laughter together. Nicolas had known Albus for quite a long time, even by his own warped standards. In many ways, the two companions could not have been more different from one another. Their views on the world, their desire to get involved in the problems of others – they stood in direct contradiction. Despite their differences though, Nicolas viewed Albus as one of the few genuine friends he had. Albus was one of the few individuals in the entire world that he could truly engage with about magic. One of the only people that he could count on to help him should he truly need it. Nicolas greatly valued the man's friendship.

"Let's return to the reason why I'm here, shall we?" Nicolas asked, standing up. The tip of his finger began to glow brightly, and as he traced it through the air so that it formed symbols and shapes, he spoke in a strange language that did not sound fit for human conversation. When he was finished, there was a small flash of violet light that stayed floating in the air. Without hesitation Nicolas sliced open his hand and quickly stuck it inside the magical illumination. His hand disappeared for only the briefest of moments before the light was gone, and within his bleeding grasp was a pristine, crimson stone.

"Nicolas," Albus spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "is that really the Stone?"

"Of course not, Albus," Nicolas laughed heartily, "but this is a stone."

"I'm afraid I do not understand," Albus said, wrinkling his brow in confusion. "Did you create a second stone as bait?"

"Not a true Stone, no," Nicolas explained. "In my creation of the Philosopher's Stone I had many, many unsuccessful prototypes. As it turned out, not all of my failures were useless pieces of junk."

"Then that," Albus gestured towards the crimson jewel, "is one of your more useful creations, I take it?"

Nicolas smiled at his former pupil happily. "Indeed! Can you determine its potency?"

"Not to any great level of detail, not without studying it more closely – but it is apparent that there is a great deal of power held within that stone."

Nicolas reclaimed his comfortable seat and leaned forward to place the faux stone on the desk. "Oh yes, this little rock is by no means a trifling failure. In fact, despite it not being the true Stone, I would hesitate to call it a failure at all."

"Then why bring it to," Albus trailed off and suddenly narrowed his eyes. "You mean for me to use this as bait rather than what we had previously agreed upon." It wasn't a question.

Nicolas nodded his head. "An artifact of sufficient power is the only way to convince this thief to target you instead of searching for me." He idly began tossing the stone into the air and catching it with one hand. "We laid out the bread-crumbs perfectly, Al, there is no way the thief won't believe you're guarding the stone for me. And now, you'll actually have something worth protecting," Nicolas finished with a smug grin.

"What is this stone even capable of?" Albus asked. "I must confess that at this distance I cannot discern the magic layered within." Albus drew his wand and paused. "May I?" He asked.

Nicolas motioned him to go ahead. "By all means."

Albus quietly muttered to himself as he waved his wand over the stone for a few minutes. Nicolas could have just explained what the fake stone was capable of, but testing one another had long since been a game of theirs. Nicolas had been the master and Albus the student, it was true – but even when he was young and foolish by comparison, Albus Dumbledore could do things with magic that astounded even an immortal's old bones. There was never a dull moment in those years they spent studying dragon's blood and improving their alchemy. Just two brilliant alchemists spending night and day trying to fit the pieces for a puzzle they couldn't be sure was possible to put together. They had made games out of their discoveries. A challenge from one to the other, to see if they could unravel that which they had already figured out on their own. Those were good memories, and the habits from those times still remained.

"Nicolas, this is an incredible creation," Albus praised warmly. "Please, correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe this artifact would allow the user to bypass the need for a circle when performing alchemy!"

"Right in one, old friend," Nicolas said proudly.

Albus gazed at the fake stone with an almost childlike wonder before he suddenly sobered, his face grim. "Answer me honestly, please, I implore you – would I actually wish to know the details behind how this artifact was crafted?"

Nicolas shrugged callously. "Most likely not."

Albus sighed, and while he still looked quite healthy for his age, his eyes reflected a man that was far, far older. "I will use this as bait for our thief, Nicolas; but once I have caught the individual in question, I will destroy this artifact."

Despite the severity of Albus' tone, Nicolas couldn't help but chuckle. Their respective moral principles differed greatly, especially in regards to scientific ethics. The death of his sister had scarred the man for life. Albus was still far more brilliant than almost any other magical alive; but Nicolas couldn't help but feel wistful for how much further he could have pushed if only he had moved beyond his fears and regrets.

"Destroy it if you wish, Al. I personally have no need for it, after all."

At that moment, Fawkes the Phoenix swooped in from one of the grand windows and successfully distracted the two old friends. Phoenixes were incredible creatures in Nicolas' eyes. Their magic remained a mystery to him in almost every way. Studying one at some point was a dear wish for him, but it was unfortunately impossible to keep a phoenix in captivity against its will; and for those phoenixes that bonded with a human, the individual they bonded with never seemed inclined to investigate their magic for themselves. Someday, he planned to unravel their secrets for himself. It would take a long while, but he was unconcerned. After all, if there was one thing that Nicolas Flamel had in abundance, it was time.

"Ah, welcome back, Fawkes," Albus greeted the magical bird warmly. "As you can see, Nicolas decided to stop by."

Fawkes let out a rather plain – comparatively speaking anyway – musical cry, an acknowledgment of Nicolas' presence more than anything else. The immortal had always gotten the impression that the magical bird wasn't his biggest fan. Obviously the phoenix did not hate him, if he did than he likely would have attacked a long time ago – but the creature clearly did not hold him in the highest regard. Honestly, the feeling was mutual. Phoenixes were not the paragons of virtue that the layman had come to associate them with, but they did tend to bond with those that reflected what they as individuals valued. Albus and Fawkes were two peas in a very principled pod.

"Don't bother, Al, your faithful companion has never been fond of me," Nicolas grumbled good naturedly.

"To be fair, I do not believe Fawkes' distaste towards you began until after you tried to steal some of his tail-feathers," Albus said, looking over his glasses in a reprimanding fashion.

How dare you use that technique against me? I taught you how to do that, you brat!

Nicolas huffed and stood up from his chair. Better to walk around and play with Albus' numerous toys than sit quaintly and passively endure the judgment of a phoenix.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, where have you hidden away the actual Stone?" Albus queried as he gently helped Fawkes preen his feathers.

Nicolas wasn't certain of what most of the various contraptions did upon first glance, but poking them and seeing what happened was more fun anyway. "For now, a vault that has the Fidelius charm layered over it. I'll be retrieving it shortly though, and then I will be meeting up with Perenelle in Sierra Leone. She already has a vault underneath one of her laboratories prepped."

"You never did trust the Fidelius charm very much," Albus muttered.

"No, and for good reason. Despite that charm's vaunted reputation, I've always felt that it accomplished little beyond lulling one into a false sense of security."

Albus sighed heavily. "I will continue to maintain my stance on this point, Nicolas – your stubbornness against that charm is largely unwarranted. If cast correctly, the Fidelius charm is practically unassailable."

"Practically is not good enough for me, Al. Not if it means I am unable to put up any other defensive measures. Plus, we both know that the Imperius Curse can force a secret keeper to reveal the secret," Nicolas countered as he poked a strange, floating metal device with three, antennae like arms sticking out of it.

The Imperius Curse was easily the most disturbing piece of magic that Nicolas had ever seen. To attack and control someone's very soul... All of the Unforgivable Curses were disturbing spells, of course, but only those who had studied souls – and by extension soul magic – could truly understand just how abhorrent it was to deliberately target the soul and attempt to dominate it. Nicolas had never subscribed to the notions of good or evil, not since he was a boy anyway; but the Imperius Curse was the type of magic that even he had a difficult time not seeing as evil. Magic may not have an objective morality inherent to it, but any human that could successfully cast the Imperius Curse was one to watch out for in his opinion.

"While I understand your reticence, I am afraid that this will just have to be another subject that we agree to disagree on," Albus said diplomatically. "Oh, and I meant to ask, why Sierra Leone?"

"Ah, well, it appears the muggles there are in the midst of a civil war – and you know Perenelle, her little experiments always require a fair amount of bodies," Nicolas responded, chuckling at his wife's habits.

Albus grimaced but deigned not to respond. Albus and Perenelle had never seen eye-to-eye on anything. At all. They were never unpleasant to one another in person, but they had both long since given up on speaking with one another outside of civil small-talk at the occasional soiree.

"I imagine you're looking forward to seeing her for an extended period of time," Albus said, choosing to move past the details of her experiments. "If I recall correctly, you two have not seen each other very often over the past few years."

"Well, we haven't met up in person for any reason other than sex in almost three years, but those were fairly regular occurrences," Nicolas corrected, wagging his eyebrows. "Sex is another one of those things that's good for the soul, Al. Even meaningless sex with a stranger can be healthy. I should know, Perenelle and I experimented with that back in the 1700s."

"I have only taken one lover in my lifetime, Nicolas, and you know why." Albus' voice was calm, bordering on detached as memories from almost a century prior were brought to the surface.

Nicolas would burn the world for Perenelle, if she asked it of him. Not that she ever would, of course, his lovely wife had no interest in such wanton destruction. But there was nothing he wouldn't do for the woman he loved more than anyone, anything, else in existence. She was the very reason behind his fervent study into alchemy and eternal youth all those years ago. He couldn't bear to see her grow old – to slowly become a shell of the woman who had possessed such energy and life. For Perenelle, Nicolas would make any sacrifice. Unravel any secret. The immortal had always felt sorry for Albus that he and Grindelwald could not love one another so strongly.

The two friends fell into a silence that while not comfortable, wasn't quite awkward either. It was familiar, if nothing else – a sign that their conversational topic had reached a true impasse. Still walking around Albus' office, Nicolas found his attention pulled away by the sight of a dodecahedron with golden handles on two sides, emitting a dull, undulating gray glow. He had absolutely no clue what it was, but it was utterly enthralling. He wanted one.

"Was there anything else you wished to speak about, Nicolas?" Albus asked politely. "You know that on any other day I would not protest your continued presence, but I do have some last minute preparations to make as an educator. The students will be arriving in only a few scant hours, after all."

Nicolas sighed happily, memories of his past stints teaching at Beauxbatons returning to him. "No worries, Albus – I'll see myself out now," he said, acquiescing to his friend's courteous request for him to leave. "Do keep me up to date on any developments, if you don't mind," he walked over to the fireplace and withdrew a handful of floo powder. "If you discover that the thief has seen through our deception, I would like to be informed immediately."

Albus stood up and shook Nicolas' hand. "Oh, you know I shall, old friend. However, I am confident that will not be the case. I like to believe that between the two of us, we are able to outsmart a thief."

"A thief, yes, but a talented one, Al," Nicolas corrected. "This individual did successfully break through many of my own defenses, and even into Gringotts."

Albus quirked a smile, his eyes twinkling as he motioned Nicolas towards the fireplace. "Quite true, but I must admit that I have often pondered how I would break into the vaults of Gringotts – should the need arise, of course – and I do believe that I could do so, but I would accomplish it with far more finesse than our mysterious thief."

Nicolas laughed heartily as he tossed his floo powder into the lightly smoldering hearth. "We need to grab drinks together once this is all finished, Albus – The Three Broomsticks – farewell, for now."

With a jaunty wave towards his friend, Nicolas walked into the dazzling green flames. The travel itself was both brief and entirely forgettable. He'd been using floo travel for longer than anyone else alive, literally. It was no longer an experience of note to him. A galleon was dropped into the jar kept above the mantle. Most people tended to tip in knuts for use of a floo, but money was of no concern to him.

"Thanks for the tip, hon'," the ever attractive Rosmerta called out, winking at him as she delivered another patron their food.

Nicolas returned the wink and smiled, but didn't respond further. He couldn't stop his eyes from trailing the woman as she walked away though. Madame Rosmerta was famous for always fleecing a nice tip thanks to her ample cleavage and fondness for leaning over her patrons; but as Nicolas was realizing for himself, the way she sashayed her hips was worthy of songs.

Nicolas was definitely going to mention her to Perenelle now. The two of them had experimented many times over the years with ways to keep their sex life interesting – inviting beautiful people to share their bed was just one of their more preferred solutions. On their next trip to England, he rather hoped Rosie would be amenable to his flirtations; with over 600 years of experience in the art of charm and seduction, he was rather confident in his abilities. But, even if he did somehow fail, Perenelle could always give it a go. His lovely wife was far better at seduction than he could ever hope to be. God, I love that woman.

Nicolas walked out of the inn and into the delightful streets of Hogsmeade. The sprawling town was truly a wondrous place to visit, but he had done so once this decade already, and that was enough for him. A moment later and a small rope was in his hand. Every citizen was supposed to go through the Ministry operated travel-ports if they wished to take a portkey, especially an international one; on top of which the Ministries of the world generally liked to keep track of who was inside their borders. Not that Nicolas cared, he predated most modern governmental institutions by centuries. The Portus charm was difficult to cast and known by only a select few, but the immortal ranked highly among those select few. One of the many benefits to being him was being able to learn so many lovely spells before the Ministries of the world attempted to regulate them. Silly little governmental institutions.

With a contented sigh and an activation word, Nicolas Flamel was whisked away from the British Isles and off towards Russia, where he had temporarily stored the one and only, genuine Philosopher's Stone.

OoooOoooO

"There you are, Nott. I've been looking for you."

"Ohhhh, hey – hey there..."

"I'm Draco, you twit. Open your eyes and you'd see that."

"Drake! Hey – hey, Drake! What're you – I – I mean, what'dya – what'dya want?"

"Bloody hell, Nott, how many potions did you drink?"

"Mixed 'em last night! Noooo – no – two nights? No! No! Morning! This... morrrrn – this – this morning!"

"How many, Nott? A number!"

"Threeee? Three! Or – or – or – or was it – or was it four?"

"Damn it, you're way too high. It's useless trying to speak with you right now."

"I wanted – I wanted t'celebrate! D'ye know where're we – where we're going? Do ya, Drake? D'ye knooow?"

"Yes, Nott... I know we're going to Hogwarts -"

"HOGWARTS! Drake – Drake, d'ya know – d'ya know what Hog – Warts – Hogwarts – what Hogwarts means? Drake, I'm'o be freeeeeeeee~!"

"I know, man. I know..."

"Y'don't, not reeeeally – you might think – you think y'know. But y'don't! My brother! He knows – he knew... M'brother's dead, Drake."

"Theo, this really isn't a conversation we should have right now."

"'Twasn't an accid- accid-"

"Accident."

"AC-CI-DENT! 'Twasn't that! I told 'em – I told 'em what – told what happened!"

"You told me too, Theo. I know."

"MURDER! MUR-DERED! I – I – I TOLD THEM – I DID! I TOLD THEM – TOLD EV'RYTHING!"

"Damn it, Theo! Stop yelling!"

"But – but Mmmmm-sec did – didn't – didn't listen t'me! ME! THE – THE ONLY – THE WITNESS!"

"Crabbe, check his trunk! He should have a bunch of potions in one of the compartments, and he usually has them all labeled. Grab a sleeping draught."

"D'ye know – d'ye know I tried – I – I tried them – the aurors too – the aurors – I tried 'em. Yax though – Yaxley – Yaxley was the one – 'twas him in – the auror given m'case."

"Any luck, Crabbe?"

"He's got a lot of potions in here, Boss."

"Keep looking. I'm sure he has some in there somewhere. Merlin knows he has enough trouble sleeping without them."

"Y'know – y'wanna know some – y'wanna knooooow something, Drake?"

"What, Theo?"

"Someday I'm – I'm gonnaaaaa – that day – on that day – I'm gonna kill him."

"What...?"

"Mmmmmmmhmm! I'm'o kill him, Drake – kill him dead!"

"Stop talking, Theo."

"Her toooo~! If she – if she, y'know – if she does that thing – if sheee... lies – lies for him. Protects – if she does – if she protects him! She does that, then – then I'm'o kill her too."

"Theo! Shut the fuck up!"

"I – I think – I think it'll be. . . funny – Yeah, funny – it'll be a good thing – a good thing, y'know?"

"Found one, Boss!"

"About fucking time! Give it here!"

"I'll laugh – I'll laugh a – a lot – I'll laugh a lot. Laugh – laugh – laugh-laugh-laugh. Ha – Ha – Ha!"

"Shut up and drink, Theo."

"Hmmmm? Why – why am – is it – is it good? It's good – it's goooood, right?"

"It's very good, now drink."

"M-mkay – mkay. That – that was – good – that was... good..."

"Finally. He's going to be out for most of the trip now. Crabbe, Goyle – put him on one of the cushions but make sure he's laying on his side. Crabbe, you're going to stay here and keep an eye on him. Close up his trunk for now in case anyone drops by."

"No problem, Boss. I'll watch over him."

"Thanks. Goyle, you're with me."

"Where are we going, Boss?"

"We're still going to go see Daniel Potter."

OoooOoooO

"You're kidding me?" Harry gasped at his tall, redheaded friend. He and Ron had stolen two empty seats at the bar – the bar that wasn't really a bar in Harry's mind since it didn't serve alcohol, he'd asked – and were now talking about the best sport in the world while they waited for their meals. Chef's choice was a favorite of Harry's to order, it was almost always guaranteed to be something truly delicious.

"Not you too," Ron groaned, looking towards the sky desperately. "How do you already hate the Cannons?"

"I don't hate the Cannons, I just think they suck." Harry didn't hate any of the other teams. Yet. Well, discounting Puddlemere of course. But the Harpies had a rivalry with them, so not only was his hatred understandable, but it barely even counted.

"They beat out five other teams last year! Ninth isn't the best, but it could be a lot worse!" Ron would clearly defend his team through thick and thin. Harry could respect that he was a genuine fan rather than just being a fair-weather one.

"Mate, they haven't won the League Cup in almost a hundred years," Harry snickered, casually leaning on the bar as he kept an eye on the other students in the car. He was half hoping to run into one of the many Hogwarts students he'd met over the past two months. Especially that girl, Pansy. Damn, he had not been able to get that girl out of his mind.

"They're just going through a rough patch!"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "A hundred years is just a rough patch?"

"They're going to do better this year!" Ron swore emphatically. "Their talent scouts have been putting in a lot of work. Plus, Biscus' contract is up in a couple of months! So if they don't resign him they'll have a lot of extra money to try and entice some of the current stars! Just you wait, Harry, the Cannons will prove everyone wrong."

Harry didn't even try to hold back his doubtful chuckle. There was a saying in magical England that he had already become quite familiar with: 'You can only count on three things in this world – Life. Death. And the Cannons not winning the Cup.' Harry didn't consider it the most fair saying given that there were plenty of magicals still alive that had seen the Cannons win, but it amused him all the same.

No one had faith in the Cannon's ability to have a good season, no one. With their current coach, their roster, their management staff, or hell, even their facilities it was looked at as being impossible. Ron was technically correct in his rant that it wasn't impossible for them to turn things around for the upcoming season, but it would take a miracle for them to make it happen. Fans of quidditch lived in a world where magic was real, a world where teenagers and morons could bend reality to their will on a whim, a world where their sport of choice involved flying through the air at high speeds on enchanted brooms, and still no one had faith in the Cannons winning the Cup. That simple fact spoke volumes about their current players and staff.

Both of the teenage boys were distracted from their conversation by their food being placed before them. Two piping hot steak pies, complete with a golden-brown, flaky pastry, and a rich, savory filling. Harry looked up to thank the woman that had dropped off their orders, but she had already moved across the room. Didn't want to talk to you anyway, he thought as he dug into his food.

"Ohhhh, blimey..." Ron practically moaned. If Harry hadn't seen him take a bite he'd assume he was having a shag. He couldn't even blame the guy for making noises like that though, their steak pies were just that fucking good.

"There is a god," Harry murmured before digging in with gusto.

Not a single word was exchanged further as the two teens devoured every single bite of their delicious meal. It had only been a few hours since Harry had last eaten, but food that good could never be allowed to go to waste. That would be a crime against food – against humanity! If Hogwarts had food even half as good as what the train served then Harry was going to love every single meal.

Ron leaned back in his chair, rapture painting his features as his hands rested contentedly on his stomach. "I cannot believe I almost turned that down."

Harry laughed heartily and tossed two sickles on the counter top. "Lesson learned then, always accept my offers to buy food!"

Still slightly stunned by the heavenly food he'd just partaken of, Ron nodded slowly, but happily. "When it comes to food, you're buying. Every time."

"I can agree to that."

"Wicked."

Now that he had thoroughly erased the memory of corned beef from his brain, Harry leapt to his feet and clapped Ron on the shoulder. "Come on, let's go find something interesting to do." Harry had greatly enjoyed the food, but if he couldn't have a smoke right now then he needed something to distract him. Interesting things generally did a good job of taking his mind off of his never ending desire for nicotine. Drugs were funny like that, being addictive and all.

"What else is going to be interesting on a train?" Ron asked.

Now that was an excellent question – one that Harry hadn't actually given much thought to. "I'm not sure. You have any ideas?"

"None at all," Ron helpfully supplied.

"We could try to get on the roof?" Harry offered, rolling a galleon in between his fingers. It helped him focus.

"Likelihood of us falling off?"

"It's a magical train, it's probably been warded so dumb students like us don't fall off, right?" Harry was trying to convince himself more than anything.

Ron shrugged, just as clueless as Harry was, "dunno, never been on a magical train before."

"Want to risk it?" Harry was already sold but it didn't hurt to confer with his newfound partner in crime.

"I'll try anything once," Ron said, grinning at Harry as he quoted his own adage back at him.

Harry groaned loudly. "That was cheesy as hell, man."

"I thought it was brilliant!" Ron proclaimed, clearly just trying to tease his friend.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say it," Harry muttered, rotating in place as he looked for a sign to point him towards the higher floors. "Where the hell do we go to get upstairs?"

Ron just raised an arm towards the very obvious sign indicating stairs, quizzically watching his friend spin for seemingly no reason. It wasn't Harry's proudest moment, so naturally he chose to ignore the fact that it happened at all.

"Hey look, I found the sign!" Harry exclaimed happily.

"You're a special kind of bloke, Harry."

The two eventually found their way to the top floor of the dining car they'd just eaten in. On one of the walls, there was a ladder that led up to a hatch that opened directly to the roof. Harry was a bit surprised that no one so much as questioned why they were going to the roof, but he wasn't going to complain about the lack of obstacles. The last thing he actually wanted to deal with was some eighteen year old arse with an overinflated ego trying to boss them around.

The hatch opened without issue, allowing the two boys to easily climb onto the roof and into the open air. The wind buffeted them to a decent degree, but it wasn't enough to make them lose their footing. The weather was gorgeous, the warm sun casting its rays with only the occasional white cloud dotting the sky. Harry cast his gaze as far as he was able, searching for any signs that the train was about to pass through a tight tunnel, or indications of an imminent giant attack. Fortunately for them, the horizon was devoid of any such threats.

"Um, Harry," Ron cut through his analysis of the direction in which the train was traveling, "does that guy look weird to you?" He inclined his head towards a person that was sitting on a roof a few cars back from them.

Details were nigh impossible to make out given the distance that separated them, but Ron was correct in his assessment that something about this individual was off.

"Yeah, they do," Harry replied slowly. "Let's go say hi, yeah?"

They had come to the roof in search of something interesting after all, and a strange individual fit the bill pretty damn well.

"Why not, right? They're on the Hogwarts Express, how dangerous can they be?"

Harry stopped Ron from walking any further with a single hand on his shoulder. "Let's not tempt the gods of fate going forward, please," he pleaded, his severe tone offset by his smirk.

"Religion isn't really much of a thing in our world, mate," Ron corrected, chuckling at the presumed error of his muggle raised companion.

Harry shook his head in the negative. "Nah mate, the gods of fate aren't related to a religion, they're a curse upon humanity."

Ron hummed along to Harry's explanation as the two slowly walked towards the strange figure, every step deliberate so as to avoid slipping off the speeding train. "They sound bloody dreadful."

"They're the worst," Harry concurred.

Finally getting a good look at the strange individual when they were about twenty or so feet away, Harry was shocked to see a man well beyond the age of a student, lounging in a chair. The man in question appeared to be in his mid-thirties with a heavy five o'clock shadow coloring his jaw and cheeks, dressed in a tattered brown coat and matching flat cap. The man looked rough, and that was a kind description. Seated in a raggedy and worn folding lawn chair, the man was playing what appeared to be a beat up guitar. Despite the wind and the distance between them, Harry had no difficulties hearing the music the man produced. A beautiful yet melancholy tune, one that almost felt out of place coming from this drifter on top of a train.

Ron continued to move towards the man with an inquisitive grin on his face, but Harry refrained from taking one step closer. This strange individual eerily reminded him of someone else. "Hey!" Harry called out, shocking Ron who turned to look at him.

"Is there something I can do for you boys?" The man yelled, greeting them neutrally. His voice was gravelly and coarse, a stark contrast to the music he produced.

"Your name's not Tom, is it?" Harry demanded. He was not going through another round of that bullshit again. Not before he knew a shit-ton about magic anyway.

The strange man chuckled, it was not a pleasant sound. "And if it was?"

Well, that answer was easy. "I'd walk away without saying another word," Harry responded loudly.

Ron studied Harry intently, trying to get a grasp on his friend's bizarre reaction to the man. Harry was thankful the redhead wasn't making humorous comments or teasing him right now; the lessons imparted by his previous strange encounters had stuck with him – for better or for worse he wasn't quite sure.

"The name is Hank Mots, kid," the man, Hank, responded. He hadn't ceased playing his music and nor had he yelled, yet his voice still carried to the two boys perfectly.

Harry was put at ease by Hank's assurance that he did not share a name with the man that still haunted his dreams and nightmares. Ron, still ignorant of just exactly why his fellow teen was so tentative in his approach, calmly walked forward and claimed one of the two free empty chairs. Harry snorted at the obvious 'convenience' of their being a total of three seats, but he still followed his friend's example. Until the man started spinning coins or using Legilimency, Harry was content to talk to Hank the stowaway.

Since when do strange people doing strange things make me so nervous? Harry thought to himself, the moment of honest introspection suddenly making contact with his psyche. Fuck you, Tom. You creepy, informative arse. Weird people should excite me, not scare me! Harry was going to have to make an effort to approach people even if they were reminiscent of Tom. Hell no was that encounter going to dictate how he lived his life. He didn't have to be cavalier or moronic – but frightful? Fuck that.

"So, I'll ask again now that you boys are seated," Hank's unpleasant voice pushed its way through Harry's self-analysis, "is there something I can do for you?" Hanks demeanor was gruff but not unfriendly. Most likely easily misconstrued as blunt or even rude, but Harry could tell that if the man really had no desire to speak with them then he would simply say as much.

"Just looking for something to do that might be fun or entertaining, figured the roof was a good place to start," Ron replied for them, not put off by the man's attitude in the slightest.

"Two lads taking a break from their socializing and flirting, come up here to see the sights and meet the king?" The man reclined further into his chair, his eyes locked on the teens even as he continued to strum away.

Harry gave Hank a once over, from his ragged cap to his muddy boots and raised an eyebrow, unconvinced by the absurd claim. "You're the king?"

Hank rolled his eyes. "'You're the king,'" he parroted back, his tone mocking. "You're goddamn right I am, kid. Oh, yeah, yeah, it's true. You see, I hop aboard this old rattler any time I feels like it."

Harry and Ron exchanged a wry glance, neither of them moved by Hank's flimsy defense.

"What? Don't believe me?" Hank didn't seem affronted at all, more amused than anything. "I understand, I understand. Nobody wants to go through life getting conned or duped at every turn. Hoodwinked!" His voice more intense than it was a second prior. "They don't want to have the wool pulled over their eyes!" He leapt to his feet, his body passing through the guitar as it continued to play on its own. "You don't wanna be taken for a ride, railroaded!"

Hank leaned down and grabbed a handle that Harry knew hadn't been there previously. "You've gotta see something to believe it, am I right?" His voice was barely a whisper, but it was still clearly audible.

"I suppose so?" Ron sounded like he was guessing.

"You suppose, eh?" Hank slid his eyes over to Harry. "And what about you, kid?"

"I guess I'd agree, yeah," Harry concurred. "For the most part anyway."

Hank chuckled as he lifted up the hatch. "Then follow me, boys – oh, but first, give me your names. If you would be so kind."

"Harry."

"Ron."

"Thanks for the names, I promise to return them to you before we're done," Hank cackled as he leapt into the hatch. Though Harry was inclined to believe the man's parting comment was just a quip, he didn't like how his hair stood on edge at the thought of such magic. Impossible or not, he wasn't sure, but it unnerved him all the same.

"Is this what its normally like with you?" Ron marveled at him with wide eyes. "Blimey, mate – we met an hour ago and already we're doing stuff like this?"

Harry was quite pleased that he gave off the impression that his life was this adventurous all the time. "I couldn't have planned this if I tried," he divulged, happily. "Hogwarts is going to be fun, man!"

"So we're following after this guy?" Ron asked, incredulity clear in his tone. "The random bloke we met on the roof of a train meant for students only?"

"I mean, why not, right?" Harry grinned back at his friend. "He doesn't seem like a crazy ax murderer to me."

"Not an ax no, but..." Ron pondered to himself for a few seconds before snapping his fingers. "I bet this guy has a cursed hammer that he carries around."

"I can see that," Harry agreed, trying to create a mental picture of Hank with a cursed hammer. "Think it's called the 'Mallet of Misfortune', and that's why Hank's a drifter?"

"It would make sense."

"I bet we could take a guy with a hammer if he attacked us, don't you?" Harry posed, confident that if he dodged Hank's initial swing, then he could tackle him while Ron tried to remove the weapon from his grasp. In his mind, it was now all but confirmed that Hank did indeed have a hammer.

"Hmmm," Ron hummed in thought. "Maybe, but if he lands one good hit we're screwed."

"Then we just don't get hit, simple as that!"

Ron chuckled but still seemed unconvinced by his plan. "You ever been in a fight?"

"Two of them, yeah. First fight I was in I punched a guy, but then he punched me WAY harder. It knocked me right to the ground. I was lucky that he walked away after that."

"So, you got your ass kicked, right," Ron summed up.

Harry cringed slightly. "It wasn't even close."

"And the other time?"

Harry's eyes hardened and he clenched his fists. "There was this arsehole that wouldn't stop being a creep to my foster sister, Sarah – worse was the fact that she was only eleven at the time."

"You better have hurt this guy," Ron said, his eyes narrowing.

"Kicked his knee in, broke three of my fingers when I punched him in the face, then stomped on his ribs before running away with Sarah," Harry effused, vivaciously. The memories of what he'd done to that cunt always brought a smile to his face. He knew that the older teen would have likely kicked his teeth in had it been a fair fight – but there weren't many people that could fight back with a wrecked knee. Harry had made sure that his opening strike fucking hurt.

"Good," Ron nodded before sighing dramatically. "I'm fairly certain I'm going to snap when blokes start making a move on my sister..."

"You have a sister, hmmm?" Harry waggled his eyebrows mischievously.

"I have five older brother's Harry. Make a move on my sister and I promise that we'll win."

Harry laughed and raised his hands in surrender. "Message received. Seriously though, any guy that makes a move on her gets your wrath? I understand beating up ass-holes, but what if he's a nice bloke?"

Ron groaned and rubbed the back of his head. "Haven't given that one a lot of thought, mate. I'm sure Ginny will be able to take care of herself just fine, but..."

"Oi!" Hank poked his head back out of the hatch. "Get your heads out of the clouds, you lazy sods! We gotta get a move on here!"

"Get your crotchety ass out of the way, we're coming," Harry barked amusedly, shrugging at Ron before following after the strange man. As he stepped inside, Hank grumbled something about kids and respect but pulled back before Harry could catch exactly what he said.

The journey through the hatch was unquestionably the most disorienting experience of Harry's entire life. Apparition and floo travel had both been uncomfortable, but neither of them had been quite so bewildering, they hadn't been so odd. Harry had been on the roof when he stepped down and into the hatch, so having to step up and out to pass through made his sense of equilibrium go absolutely batty. There were no words to describe the feeling of descending into a state of ascension. It didn't make sense – it simply felt wrong.

"Alright, that was weird," Ron succinctly described, having followed after Harry.

The three of them and the floating guitar were now standing in a slim, fairly dark hallway, the dim light was source-less, but still present. There were large, floor-to-ceiling windows dotting the walls, and a single door at either end of the corridor. Harry looked through the window to his left and saw a group of older students lounging inside a compartment. One guy was asleep, his head resting on a girl's lap as she read a book. The other two guys were playing some kind of card game while the final girl chatted amiably at all of them. None of the teens seemed to notice Harry as he stood there, despite him being less than two feet away from some of them. Harry couldn't hear what the talking girl was saying at first, but the moment he actually tried to listen, her words were suddenly clear as day.

"- forward to seeing Professor Snape still. I know the man is a genius when it comes to potions but -"

"Everyone hates him, Taylor," the guy Harry had presumed to be asleep chimed in.

"Everyone but the Slytherins," said the the girl that was still reading her book.

One of the boys playing a game of what Harry now saw was simply War, looked up after his jack of hearts was brutally stabbed by his opponent's king of spades before being dragged away. Harry missed what was said due to being distracted by how awesome the magical deck of cards was. Even the non-face cards had a soldiers befitting the card's value and suit. The pictures were intricately designed, and the combat between cards seemingly not scripted at all – the four of hearts started cheering when the three of clubs slipped off the seat and splattered onto the floor, his screams cut short by the violent landing. Harry was definitely finding a deck like this for himself.

"Hank, where the hell are we?" Ron loudly questioned their mysterious guide, pulling Harry from his rapt focus on the game of War.

The moment his attention shifted away from the compartment he could no longer hear inside of it. Turning back towards his friend, he noticed Ron standing next to a separate compartment entirely.

"Why can't they see us?" Harry asked, continuing down the same line of questioning.

"And why can I hear them when I focus?" Ron had apparently had the exact same experience as himself.

"Never mind that fuckery with the hatch, what was up with that?" Harry finished, still more than a little perturbed by their entrance into... wherever they were.

Hank held his arms up triumphantly, almost as if he were standing before a large crowd and his prized creation was behind him. "Welcome to the Hogwarts Express, boys!"

Harry and Ron shared a confused glance as Hank took a bow before them.

"Yeah we'd gathered that we're still on the train," Harry declared.

"This guy's barmy," Ron whispered, chortling at the the self proclaimed king as he took a second bow.

"Seriously though," Harry called out to the bowing drifter, "where are we right now?" The strange locale they'd found themselves in was extremely interesting, but he still wanted to know what was going on. Magic was the obvious answer, but that wasn't nearly enough. The colors of this thin corridor didn't match any other part of the train, and some of the windows looked into compartments while others into the actual hallways that every other student was using. They were on the train, but something was different.

"Any guesses from you two non-believers?" Hank taunted, plopping down in the lawn chair that materialized underneath him. "What's your persuasion on all of this? If you don't mind me asking."

Harry rolled his eyes at the patronizing attitude while Ron muttered at the man quietly, "just tell us, you wanker."

"I heard that, you know," Hank said, chuckling at their surprised features. "Oh yeah, the king hears everything in his castle. If he didn't it wouldn't really be his castle, now would it?"

"He's not going to tell us, is he?"

"Doesn't look like it," Harry replied.

Hank rose to his feet and beckoned the two teens towards him, gesturing inside the window he was leaning next to. "I'm done messing with you boys. Yeah, I'm done. We're inside the walls, we three. A place where space has ceased to have meaning."

Harry and Ron walked forward and saw the inside of Daniel's compartment, viewing it as if they were standing opposite the compartment's actual door – Hank wasn't kidding about the whole space losing meaning thing. Daniel and Neville were both on their feet, confronting a neatly dressed blonde boy and his very large, very stout friend. Damn, they look pissed off.

"Holy shit, their wands are drawn!" Harry exclaimed, smiling at the display. Kick his ass, little brother!

"They're about to fight!" Ron yelled eagerly.

"My money is on Blondie and Gorilla," Harry challenged. He'd pull for his twin of course, but he'd place his bets on who he thought was going to win. There was almost no way that Daniel was going to win.

"What? But Neville and your brother both have their wands out already!" Ron countered, gesturing wildly with his hands.

Hank shook his head and pointed at Gorilla. "No no, lookie here at this one, see him, his stance says he's ready to fight. No wand, yeah, but at this distance he could easily get a few licks in before the other two know what hit them."

"There's that," Harry agreed, "but there's also the fact that I doubt any of them know any combative spells."

"Or if they do, they're weak as hell," Hank nodded along with Harry's logic. "Never go into something ill prepared, boys." The way the man spoke when he offered his advice sent a small chill down Harry's spine.

"Plus, they don't have the ability to take cover around the corner of the door like Blondie does," Ron observed, his hand held in his chin. "If Blondie knows any dueling spells, he could duck back and then hit them without exposing himself to further danger. You guys are right, Daniel and Nev don't have much chance."

Blondie and Gorilla then exited the compartment without a fight actually breaking out. Harry didn't necessarily want to see his little brother get pummeled, but it probably would have been entertaining all the same. He rotated to look into the window directly behind him, and watched as the two boys walked away. Damn, doesn't look like they're going to pick a fight with anyone else. Shame.

"What do you guys think set them off at each other?" Ron wondered aloud.

"You could always listen in and find out," Hank said, gesturing back towards the window.

Harry waved off the suggestion. "Nah, I'm good. I'll just ask Daniel about it later." He had no qualms about spying on others but it felt pointless to spy on his brother. There was a chance that Harry would get some dirt on him, but that slim percentage was of little interest.

"Wait!" Ron exclaimed, pointing at Hank bemusedly. "You're not a bloody voyeur, are you?"

Of all the things Hank might have been expecting at that moment, Ron's question was obviously not it. The ragged man stood there, mouth agape, and with the most gobsmacked expression of all time parked on his face. "What kind of manky bastard do you take me for?" He bellowed angrily.

Ron, that's absolutely brilliant. Harry cheered in his head. It was pretty obvious that Hank wasn't voyeuristic at all, or at least no more so than your average individual. His ability to navigate the train in seemingly impossible ways would make it easy for him if he were, but the man just didn't seem like the type to get off to students having a shag. That didn't mean the two teens couldn't mess with him though. It was so easy to do so that they pretty much had to.

"I don't know, Hank, it kind of fits..." Harry jeered, casting a fake look of disgust around the corridor. "Oh god, what kind of things have you done in here?"

The two teens tried to stifle their laughter as Hank scowled at them. It was quite a low blow, accusing someone of being a deviant. Even in jest, that was considered pretty damn rude. Ron held back his mirth admirably; Harry on the other hand gave up rather quickly, and then guffawed for all that he was worth.

"You boys finished now?" Hank asked, his gravelly voice one step short of a guttural growl.

"Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist, Hank," Ron teased playfully. "It was a funny joke, you've got to admit that." The redheaded teen motioned to a still chuckling Harry as an example.

Hank fell back into his chair and clapped slowly once. Twice. A third time, "oh yeah, yeah yeah, you're a right couple of comedians."

"We're done, we're done," Harry conceded, though he was still smirking.

Hank returned the smile, though his carried a distinct edge to it. "Come now, boys – let's continue to believe what we see, shall we?"

"You think he's upset?" Ron whispered to Harry.

Oh, he's definitely upset.

"Nah, I'm sure he's fine."

The look Ron gave him said that he didn't believe his deceit even a for a single second. Damn, I really need to work on my lying skills. Apparently I suck now.

"If he goes to murder us with his cursed hammer, I'm reminding him that you laughed more," Ron said bluntly.

A small part of Harry appreciated the honesty, the rest of him was just confused by why that was something that needed to be mentioned, especially when it was obviously irrelevant. "You know you were the one that made the joke, right? You started it, so you should be the one that gets murdered."

"That's not fair at all!"

"Sure it is."

"It was your idea to follow after Hank to begin with!"

"Again, you made the joke that pissed him off."

"Boys, boys," Hank interjected, "should we go down that route together, I'll just kill you both. Promise."

Hank's words didn't ease their fears in the slightest. In fact, if anything, it did nothing but accomplish the opposite.

"Was that supposed to help? Like at all?" Harry posed.

"Don't think so, no," Ron answered blankly.

Hank walked towards the end of the corridor, and opened the door into the passageway beyond. He glanced behind him for the briefest moment, and whispered – despite the distance his voice still carried to their ears as if he were right next to them, "the primrose path awaits us, boys." And then he just kept walking, not bothering to see if he was being followed.

The trio neither stopped nor slowed as they passed window after window, each glass panel revealing various compartments, hallways, kitchens, and dining rooms. The entire train was theirs to view, and still they walked. The corridor's design never changed or shifted; there was nothing significant about passing through the doors at all. Hell, even the hatch remained on the ground behind them. On and on they walked, but for the life of him, Harry couldn't tell how far.

Had they actually walked anywhere? Had they made any progress at all?

Still they walked.

What direction were they moving in? There was only forwards and and backwards, wasn't there?

Still they walked.

Were they going any which way? Anywhere? Had they stopped?

Still they walked.

If they stood still would anything change? Time was passing, of that he was certain. He could hear the guitar still making music behind them, and even brief glances through the windows showed that the students weren't frozen in place. But were they moving? Were they actually traversing through space at all?

Still they walked.

This is so bloody weird.

No one spoke, funnily enough, but every time Harry glanced at his friend it was like they didn't need to talk out loud. Body language, facial expressions, an understanding of intent that went beyond the physical. The two friends had barely stopped speaking since they met earlier that day, but in this brief time in the place beyond space, they'd progressed past the exchange of words.

One minute turned to five, and then ten followed after. They continued to walk. Twenty eventually came and still the two teens followed their guide. When thirty had passed the two friends stopped by unspoken, mutual agreement.

"Where are we going?" Ron asked their guide. His words sounded... off. Almost as if the sound waves vibrating through the air weren't functioning properly. Unexplainable. Bizarre. Harry had never heard anything akin to it before. "Actually," Ron continued, "have we gone anywhere at all?"

Nice correction, Ron. Harry hadn't spoken yet; he wasn't sure he wanted to. What would his own voice sound like to his ears? Why the hell does the music still sound normal?

Hank didn't turn around to the face them, he merely inclined his head slightly and spoke three little words, "so many questions." Just like Ron, his voice was distorted and odd, utterly beyond explanation.

Harry blinked, and Hank was suddenly at the end of the hallway, his hand reaching for another door. The two teens raced forward – or was it backwards now? Which direction had they not been standing still in? No, they'd been moving in place. That was it. They didn't have to move, they just needed to not be where they were. They stopped right in front of Hank as he opened the door, and it was at that exact moment that Harry realized this door was far, far different than those that had come come before it.

The others had been simple doors that slid open and closed, their color mattered little in this corridor inside the walls, but as doors, they had been exactly what one would expect to find on a train. This door though, no, not a door, but an archway. An archway that had simply been blocked, this final archway was different. It was twisted and curved in a manner that almost hurt to look at; Harry couldn't tell where it connected to itself, where it began or ended, only that it was compiled of separate pieces despite still being a cohesive whole. The more he tried to focus on its shape the more his eyes slipped away.

'You do not yet know what lies beyond the door.'

Was that Hank's voice? Was that his own? Why had it sounded like Tom?

What lay on the other side of the twisted archway was an inky, all consuming darkness. This darkness was not simply a mist or a fog, nor was it a solid mass either; but to describe it as a void would be inaccurate – the blackness was still something. There was something there. A formless mass of black that had a texture the mind could not quite define. Existing, yet not. Observable, yet not. Hank invited them to step into the darkness – for there truly was no other way to describe it – with a formal bow and a smirk that spoke of unshared knowledge. "After you, boys."

The atmosphere had shifted when Hank revealed the way forward. Earlier they'd been amused, jovial in their exploration with Hank as their guide. That casual and easygoing mood had long since passed, it had been replaced by confusion and disorientation. What else could their human minds feel as they traversed through the place where space had no meaning? But that confusion too, had faded. What was left now was only a sense of wonder. The type of wonder that could only be felt when pondering that which would never be understood. It was only then that Harry glanced behind him and realized the hatch leading to the roof was gone. The windows were gone. The source-less light of the corridor faded further and further until there was nothing but the dull glow of the twisted archway. Fuck.

"Can't say I'm fond of the turn this took, mate," his friend murmured from beside him, his voice still distorted and warped.

Harry appreciated that the redhead didn't look scared, rather he just seemed prepared. Ready. The two of them had both reached the same conclusion – there wasn't anything to fight, not here. They simply had to walk forward.

"Nothing else for it then, is there," Harry spoke. Oh god, why had he spoken? Why did he have to hear his own voice? He would not do so again.

The tune being played on the man's guitar had never faded away, but the moment Hank revealed the depths of the twisted archway it became more. What was once background noise became a theme. That which was forgettable would now never be forgotten; a melody that he would carry with him forever more. As he stood in front of the archway that led to the unfamiliar, he listened – truly listened – for the first time. The beautiful tune composed of musical notes that were interwoven with melancholy – notes that belied the ominous truth hiding deep within. For underneath was an eerie mystery, one fraught with the uncanny and strange. The music and the archway worked in concert – one complimenting the other in a bizarre dance that ensnared the mind and beckoned the spectator towards the unknown.

Harry and Ron walked past the grinning king and into the darkness of the twisted archway – neither of them questioning the title the man had bestowed, nor the crooked crown that rested upon his head.

OoooOoooO

"What's wrong with him?"

"Oh, finally decided to show up, did you? Spare me your faux concern."

"He's my friend, I do care."

"Save it, Zabini. You're just like your dear old mum. Nothing is more important to you than yourself. We both know this, so cut the act."

"I'm not my mother."

"That so? Then you might want to learn a charm to straighten out your clothes if you're going to lie about their recent place on the floor."

"I'm not certain of what you're implying, but I don't appreciate your tone."

"Ha! So you're going to deny that you just got back from being waist deep in Terence Higgs' arse?"

"What does that have to do with anything? Why do you care about who I fancy a shag with?"

"I couldn't care less about where you stick your dick, Zabini."

"Then what's the issue, Malfoy?"

"The issue is that Nott told me last week that we would meet on the train, but that he was meeting you on the platform."

"So what?"

"So what? Do you know what kind of state we found him in?"

"High as a kite, I'm guessing."

"Fuck you."

"What? You know as well as I do why he drinks those damn things. Why he needs them."

"He drank four, Zabini. Not one or two like normal, but four."

". . ."

"No defense? No excuses about why your dick mattered more than your 'friend's' safety?"

"I saw him on the platform and he seemed fine..."

"Oh, well that makes everything okay then."

"I'm not his baby-sitter, Malfoy."

"Good to know that watching over a supposed friend is a chore to you."

"How was I supposed to know that he'd down four potions?"

"We agreed to help Lillian keep an eye on him. Or had you forgotten in between all that time you spend trying to fuck everyone that catches your eye?"

"Like you've ever actually helped look after him! Crabbe and Goyle are the ones that watch him, not you!"

"And they do so under my direction. Had I known you were going to be giving Higgs a hand-job on the train I would have sent one of them in your stead. I thought you had things covered. My mistake for thinking you actually cared about your only friend."

"Stop pretending that you actually give a damn about Theo! We all know that you just enjoy feeling superior thanks to your family! Theo isn't your friend, neither are Crabbe and Goyle – they're just tools to you!"

"You're just projecting, Zabini, and I'm sick of listening to it. Get out."

"Vaffanculo a chi t'è morto, Malfoy!"

"Get out, now. Or I'll have Goyle force you out. He's very good at what he does."

"You're just proving my point! You're nothing without your family name."

"Hold on, Goyle – I'm curious about why Zabini thinks he's better than me? Better than any of us for that matter?"

"I am."

"That so? Riddle me this, Zabini: how are you, the bastard son of a cheap whore pretending to be something she's not, better than the heirs of pure-blood lines over a thousand years old?"

"How do you –"

"Know you're a bastard? Know your family's secrets? Oh, I know far more than just that. Information is fairly easy to come by if you have the gold. Your mother may be beautiful, and she may be able to swindle rich, old fools, but she has no clue how to erase her past."

"You're bluffing!"

"We both know I'm not. My father and I decided to go digging you see, and what we found... well, I imagine that both the Ministry and the Daily Prophet would greatly enjoy our discoveries."

". . ."

"What's the matter, Zabini? No clever retort?"

"What do you want?"

"Where's your misplaced superiority now, Zabini?"

"Damn it, Malfoy! Tell me what you want?! What will it take to keep you quiet?!"

"For now, just your obedience. I had no intention of revealing anything today, but the way things have gone... Well, I have no complaints. But that also means I have no explicit instructions for you right now."

"And my mother?"

"My father is handling your mother in his own way. You know your mother though, so use your imagination."

"You're a right, foul cunt, Malfoy. You know that?"

"Your opinion is of little worth to me, Zabini. Your place is beneath my boot, just remember that. Oh, and get out."

OoooOoooO

Hermione Granger looked down at the two unconscious boys entangled in a mess of limbs with a hint of exasperation. She knew that her vexation was directed more at herself than either of the two passed out boys. Yes, they were passed out in the middle of the floor and thus the source of her problem, but they hadn't asked for her help. They hadn't asked and yet, no matter how much she honestly didn't want to, Hermione wasn't the type of person that could walk away without checking on them. Never mind that she'd purchased her food and come up to this comparatively quiet top floor in an effort to escape distraction while she ate and read her book; the simple fact that she'd discovered the passed out boys in such a state meant that she was going to try and help them. That was just who she was.

She tried to gently shake the two boys awake, but that accomplished literally nothing. Shaking them a tad harder and telling them to "wake up" still yielded no results, unfortunately. Huffing in frustration, Hermione spent the next few minutes trying to untangle the two boys from each other – a difficult task as both of them were a fair bit taller and heavier than she was. If they weren't going to wake up at this moment, then she was going to make sure they were at least fairly comfortable. Well, as comfortable as one could be while laying on the floor.

Honestly, what were they even doing to wind up like this? Hermione mused. For their sakes she hoped they would wake up shortly. They would be arriving at Hogwarts in two hours, nineteen minutes, and thirty three seconds, if her math was correct – which it always was. If they weren't up in the next hour then she would go find a Prefect to assist them. If she knew any magic to wake them up then she would do so, of course, but nothing of the sort had been covered in her books just yet. All of her attempts to cast spells thus had far had gone splendidly. If a spell of the sort had been mentioned in her books then she was confident that she would be able cast it successfully, but that was not the case. Oh! If I have to get a Prefect, perhaps they wouldn't mind teaching me the spell they use?

Hermione had been on cloud nine ever since Professor McGonagall arrived at her door with her invitation letter to Hogwarts. Magic was just so amazing! Different and challenging, far more so than anything else she'd studied in school thus far. She didn't have an overinflated ego when it came to her intellectual prowess. She knew she was above average intelligence, and she knew that she was highly logical. With those two aspects of her personality, combined with her diligent study habits and mnemonic techniques, she excelled as a fantastic student. Top of her class almost across the board. Magic on the other hand, wasn't quite as simple to learn.

She was, of course, still confident in her ability to be a top student; she wouldn't be able to live with herself otherwise – but she still expected to have to push herself in order to stay on top of all the new material. Unlike those who had been raised in the magical world, she had no prior foundation on which to build her knowledge. Every single piece of material was brand new to her. Not that what she'd spent the past decade studying in school was useless, of course, but it didn't exactly have the same level of application in regards to her magical education.

While waiting for the two boys to awaken, Hermione busied herself by arranging her book of choice, The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, in such a way that she could easily eat and read at the same time. Despite the title suggesting a broader field of magic, the book was entirely devoted towards charms – a classification of spells that caused an effect or behavior. Hermione thought the breadth of charms was ever so wide, with the majority of the magic she'd seen thus far likely falling under that designation. She hoped the charms professor was as impressive of an individual as Professor McGonagall. The Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Professor had left quite the impression on the young teen.

Hermione had been very pleased to learn that cultural sexism just wasn't a thing in the magical world. There were individuals that looked down on the opposite sex, of course. But as a society, there was equal treatment and opportunity regardless of sex. Professor McGonagall was a stately and dignified woman that had risen to the second highest level of authority at Hogwarts – the premier magical school in Europe according to the books she had read – and she was still a woman in her prime! The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was also a woman in her prime, and she wasn't the only currently sitting Department Head that was a woman! The previous Minister for Magic had been a woman! Two of the founders of Hogwarts were woman, and all four Houses were viewed with equal levels of respect! It was a wondrous dream come true.

The only genuine concern Hermione had about the magical world was in relation to the discrimination she might be subject to as a result of her blood status. Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and pure-bloods – it all sounded like a load of rubbish according to her, an opinion backed up by everything she'd researched. Professor McGonagall had assured her when she first made mention of the subject that it was nothing more than segregationist nonsense; but Hermione had decided that some additional reading and a differing perspective on the subject couldn't hurt. Professor McGonagall had been correct, of course, an individual either had magic, or they did not. There was no middle ground or gray area from which you could interpret alternate meanings.

Hermione couldn't deny that there was a certain advantage to having a magical pedigree that could be traced back thousands of years. It was no secret that many of the old bloodlines had successfully cultivated treasure troves of books and knowledge that they then sealed away, only to be seen by members of that bloodline. She considered it to be a travesty that such vast quantities of knowledge had been secreted away from the rest of the world, but she couldn't begrudge these old Houses for taking pride in what they had access to. What Hermione did take issue with was notion that the many books and tomes these old, 'pure-blood' families had stored away made them superior to everyone else. That was where the moronic bigotry began. All bigotry was moronic, of course, but her own personal relationship to this particular brand of intolerance had made her a tad passionate.

The book, The Majesty of Dynasties by Asim Shafiq, had delved into the subject of pure-blood families quite thoroughly. While initially skeptical of the contents based on the title, Hermione had to give full credit where it was due, it had proven to be quite the fascinating and insightful read. She would have to thank the helpful witch at Flourish and Botts that had directed her towards it. The book focused on Ancient and Noble Houses in Britain, specifically the history of Britain and how it was shaped by those magical and venerable dynasties that endured even to the modern day. The author did not hold back on his opinions, he praised some aspects of the Ancient and Noble Houses whilst harshly criticizing others.

Shafiq rightfully applauded the manner in which these families had gathered together to form ruling councils many years prior, especially since said councils actually served as the foundation for the Wizengamot – an impressive judicial body that still played a central role in magical Britain. While the concept of Noble Houses wasn't ratified until the creation of the Wizengamot in 1106, the Wizards' Council, and many of the families that helped found it, had helped govern magical Britain for over 500 years prior. Hermione wasn't entirely certain how magical Britain compared to other nations throughout the world; but according to Shafiq, the only time of true instability had been during the Norman conquest. After the conquest was complete, the surviving families that had formed the Wizards' Council disbanded, and then reunited to form the Wizengamot alongside the Houses that had accompanied William the Conqueror over from the mainland. Almost 1500 years of relative peace and stability within the magical community was an almost unrivaled feat, and it was almost entirely thanks to the efforts of the Ancient and Noble Houses, many of which were pure-blood. That wasn't even counting the role these Houses had played in the formation of the British Empire, which was apparently a much larger and more complicated subject that Shafiq only referenced briefly. Hermione very much intended to find a book on that subject alone at a later date.

The Ancient and Noble Houses had, literally for centuries, maintained a culture of pushing their children towards greatness. Whether it be business, politics, education, research, military, regardless of the subject, one only needed to read through textbooks to find the surnames of these Houses repeated time and time again. Shafiq and Hermione both agreed that the level of continued excellence achieved by the sons and daughters of these Houses was worthy of respect.

Of course, there was also the other side of these Ancient and Noble Houses – a history of espousing vile and bigoted rhetoric that was targeted towards those that weren't born into a magical family. Hermione absolutely loved reading Shafiq's arguments against pure-blood supremacy, he systematically ripped apart the moronic and patently false claims that were upheld as reasons for muggle-born inferiority, and he did it in such a brilliant fashion. She hadn't yet faced any targeted discrimination herself, but it was immensely satisfying to read a logical and well-structured take-down of such narrow-minded ways of thinking.

The best part of the book had easily been when Shafiq revealed that he himself was from an Ancient and Noble House, a pure-blood line that dated all the way back to Imperial Rome. His ancestors had migrated to the Roman Empire from an unknown region of the Middle East, as was quite common during that period, and they had settled as wealthy researchers within the capital city itself. The man was clearly proud of his heritage, and Hermione wouldn't dream of begrudging him that, but he didn't allow his pride to falsely inflate his ego. He didn't turn towards denigrating minority groups as a method of seeking self-assurance and power. Despite being pure-blood, he wasn't a horrible excuse for a human being.

Hermione didn't know what degree of bigotry she would face at Hogwarts, but if anyone tried to harass her over her heritage then she could not wait to quote Asim Shafiq and put them and their asinine views back in their place! She had already intended to strive towards being one of the best in her year – and she was confident that she could do so after her early success with casting spells – so if anyone had tried to bully her for being a muggle-born, she could easily shut them down by showing her competence with magic. But even then, it certainly didn't hurt to have a nice book to reference, especially when said book was backed up by historical facts and empirical data.

Almost an hour had passed by the time the two boys began to stir. Hermione had spent her time well, in her opinion. She'd finished her food and completed her review of chapters three through six of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. All things considered, it had been a fairly productive hour. Plus, with the two boys returning to consciousness, she would be free of her responsibility to watch over them. Admittedly a self assigned responsibility, but that's neither here nor there.

A number of other students had taken notice of the two unconscious teens throughout the time Hermione had watched over them, but they'd all quickly moved on after lightly laughing. At most someone would mutter "they're probably fine", but then they too would move on. The lack of care exhibited by the other students did help Hermione feel a bit better in her decision to watch over the passed out boys. She wasn't perfect, obviously, but she felt proud that she took time out of her day to help others.

"GAAH!"

The two boys, who had only just begun to stir – now that Hermione thought about it, they had been awfully still before – lurched to their feet in a panic.

"What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?" The black-haired one exclaimed, throwing his back against the wall and placing his hands on his head. Apparently, alongside having quite the foul mouth, he'd had an awful dream as well.

"Bloody hell! What was that?" The redhead yelled, following his friends actions and placing his back against a hard surface. He seemed quite scared as well, which was honestly quite peculiar, and that was putting it lightly.

"Excuse me, could you both please calm down? Yelling and running around really isn't conducive for good conversation – and I would very much like to know why you two were both passed out on the floor?" Hermione tried to get the two boys' attention, but neither of them seemed very keen on listening to her at that moment.

"Seriously, Harry! What was that?!" The redhead yelled once more. She learned the black-haired boy was named Harry, that was at least some measure of progress.

"I don't know, man! Fuck!"

"Will you both calm down, and share with me what's going on?" Hermione said, slightly raising her voice to try and get their attention.

"We were fine, joking around and having a good time! What did he do to us?" The redhead yelled, now pacing and hugging his chest as he walked back and forth, demanding answers from his friend.

Harry took multiple, very deep, long breaths as he sunk to the floor. His skin was pale and... was he shaking?

"The last thing I remember before things went to hell was that we started walking after Hank! If he did something else to cause that change then I don't fucking remember it!" Harry then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette that he immediately stuck into his mouth. In the blink of an eye his wand was in his hand, he then used a spell she wasn't familiar with to light the end of his toxic habit.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in confusion, she was now both annoyed and perturbed for a number of different reasons. First of all, she wasn't pleased that Harry was smoking indoors – there may not be a sign expressly forbidding such an action, but it was still inconsiderate and rude. Secondly, both of the boys seemed genuinely freaked out about something despite being peacefully asleep just a minute prior. She was becoming both very curious and very concerned about their behavior. Thirdly, whoever 'Hank' was, he was apparently the one that had done something to them. So where was he now? Oh, and she was ever so interested in learning the little candle-flame spell that Harry had used. That hadn't been mentioned in any of her spellbooks, and it could prove quite useful for lighting scented candles.

The redhead, who's name she still hadn't caught, sat down on the floor next to Harry. He appeared to have calmed down to some degree as he breathed deeply. "Blimey – that was – I don't know what that was, mate."

Harry slumped down on the floor as well. Smoking seemed to be helping him calm down quite rapidly. "I know man. I mean, I've already been through some shit since learning about magic – but that was just weird. I mean, that was really fucking weird."

"Language!" Hermione chided loudly. The two boys had slowed down enough for her to seize her moment and intervene.

Harry and his friend suddenly looked up at her, just now taking notice of her presence at all. Both of them still appeared rather flustered, but now they also showed a fair bit of incredulity.

"Did you just try to unironically 'language' me?" Harry asked, blowing his smoke to the side and away from both her and his friend. At least he wasn't a complete boor. Smoking indoors was still impolite though.

"Also, who the bloody hell are you?" The redhead added.

Hermione wasn't the biggest fan of sitting on the floor, especially not since she'd already changed into her Hogwarts uniform, but standing in front of the two boys whilst they sat on the ground was just awkward. She lowered herself to the floor and took a moment to adjust her skirt before responding, "I'm Hermione Granger – and yes, I believe your name is Harry, I did censure you for your ever so foul language, and might I add that smoking indoors is exceedingly rude – but that's not important right now. Since I currently have both of your attention, I have to ask – what were you two doing earlier that ended with you being passed out on the floor? And what exactly did this 'Hank' do to you that caused you both to be scared out of your minds upon waking up?"

The two boys continued to stare at her, somehow even more incredulous than before she'd sat down.

"Blimey, are you for real?" The redhead said, amazed at her admittedly long-winded series of questions and remarks.

"You talk really fast," Harry added, also astonished by her rapid fire way of talking.

Hermione huffed at them for still not giving her the response she was looking for. "Yes, I know I talk quickly – it's a habit I'm working on breaking. Never mind that, answer my questions, please."

She knew that she could be a tad on occasion, but with this circumstance she thought her curiosity was more than justified. Not only had she watched over them to ensure they were okay, but their strange behavior upon waking merited further investigation.

The two boys turned to look each other and began muttering quietly. Hermione wasn't quite sure what the point of lowering their voices was though since she could still hear them without issue.

"Should we tell her?" The redhead asked.

"Do we have any reason to keep it a secret?"

"I suppose not."

"Do we actually want to tell her?"

There is literally no reason not to tell me, Hermione thought as she blatantly rolled her eyes.

"I don't know, do we?"

"I'm not sure..."

Alright, she'd had enough of that. "Oh, will you two just tell me already?" She pleaded, desperately trying not to scream at their obstinate attitude.

"Ugh, she reminds me of my mum," the redhead muttered.

"I might avoid meeting your mum for a bit, Ron," Harry responded.

He did not just say that!

At least she finally had a name for the redhead. "Now that was just rude!" Hermione exclaimed. Even if he wasn't fond of her, saying as much to her face was uncalled for.

"Oh, relax. I'm just messing with you."

She was really getting tired of them dancing around the topic at hand. "Never mind that, just answer my questions, please!"

"Fine, fine – we decided to follow in Alice's footsteps," Harry answered quickly, as if such a simple response covered everything that needed to be said. Which was of course far from the truth, in fact, the boy's was entirely unhelpful - even his friend seemed confused by his reply.

"Who's Alice?" The other one, Ron, asked, and she was thankful he did so. With him asking the questions she might actually get some definitive answers.

"You know, Alice, from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll? The crazy guy that was tripping out the entire time he wrote his books?"

Hermione was beyond surprised to hear a wizard referencing a non-magical work of fiction. Though, after he started smoking a cigarette she should have expected he might have been raised in the non-magical world. There were plenty of people enjoying pipes in Diagon Alley, but cigarettes specifically she had not yet seen. Regardless of his habits and upbringing though, what was he trying to say by implying he and his friend went on an adventure to a world filled with the nonsensical?

"Never heard of him," Ron responded with a small shrug. "Muggle author?"

"Yep, muggle author. I didn't realize you were raised in the magical world."

"Yeah, I'm actually pure-blood. I've got magical family on both my mum and dad's side."

Are they ignoring me again? Hermione thought to herself. She could swear she was beginning to develop a twitch.

"Huh, wouldn't have called that. Cool."

Oh my gosh, they're actually ignoring me again! Are you kidding me?!

Harry paused briefly and then physically faced his friend, tuning her out entirely. "So, what was it like growing up in the magical world?"

"Will you two please focus!" Hermione yelled. She'd tried to avoid raising her voice, honestly she had, but these boys were easily some of the most infuriating individuals she'd had the displeasure to deal with! Their ability to be difficult without actually shutting her down was beyond infuriating. She would rather just be told no than be forced to engage in such a maddening back and forth! Her stupid curiosity got the best of her once again. Why couldn't her brain have just allowed her to walk away? Why did she actually have to care about the misadventures they had gotten up to?

"What?" Harry raised his arms in defense, physically shielding himself from her metaphorical wrath. "I already said we followed in Alice's footsteps!"

Hermione wasn't the type to generally think in terms of physical violence – but at that moment, she kind of wanted to hit him. "Are you really trying to say that you went to Wonderland... whilst riding on a magical train?"

Harry exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Close enough, honestly."

"What's Wonderland?" Ron interjected.

"A fucked up place," Harry eloquently responded.

"Definitely went to Wonderland then."

"I give up!" Hermione proclaimed. "You two are utterly impossible." She began to rise to her feet before the two friends seemed to take a bit of pity on her.

"Okay, okay," Harry sighed, opening a window and gently tapping off the gathered ashes. "What do you want to know? Oh, but first – why do you care?"

Hermione returned to her seated position in front of the two boys and sighed. "First, please throw that disgusting thing out the window," she pointed at his cigarette. "You can harm your own body all you want, but inside you're forcing others to breathe in toxins as well."

Harry rolled his eyes but acquiesced to her demands, sort of anyway. He muttered a spell under his breath that completely put out the cigarette and placed it in a nearby bin. She was quite pleased about that. "Jesus, woman – if you knew what we'd just gone through you wouldn't begrudge me a smoke."

"He's right," Ron mumbled, now laying face down on the floor.

"Besides, there are magic potions that can cleanse your lungs pretty damn easily. I bought like two dozen of them last week."

"He's right," Ron mumbled again, still face down on the floor. It appeared that he was going to let Harry handle most of the talking for now.

Hermione crossed her arms and huffed. "It's still rude!"

Harry shrugged and joined his friend in laying down. At least he was face up and easily comprehensible. "Yeah, well, we've had a day and a half. So you'll just have to forgive me if courtesies aren't high on my priority list right now."

Hermione supposed she couldn't get on his case too much about being rude. Goodness knows her mum had spent enough time trying to explain social niceties to her. "Then explain to me what happened. I wish it wasn't the case, but I really am beyond curious about how you both ended up passed out on the floor?"

"Well," Harry began, "I guess it started when we got bored and decided to head up to the roof."

"What!?" Hermione shrieked. "Don't you two know how dangerous that is?"

"Oh, relax. I'm sure there are wards that prevent people from falling off."

Hermione would swear that her jaw hit the floor as she looked at Harry, aghast. "NO!" She yelled. "No, there's not! There are no wards up there at all!"

She had read all about the Hogwarts Express thanks to her dad expressing an interest in magical engineering that resembled non-magical technology. That had led to them buying a book. Which of course had led to her actually reading the book. Which in turn led to her knowing everything there was to know about the Hogwarts Express. The book expressly mentioned that there were NO wards on the roof! None!

"Really?"

"Yes, really!" She cried out, dumbfounded at how casual the boy was in his inquiry.

"Well, shit. Hey, Ron – my bad on that one."

Ron rolled over onto his back and shrugged nonchalantly. "Eh, no big deal, I agreed to go. Besides, it was fun. Well, kind of. Fucking Hank."

"Fucking Hank," Harry agreed with a sharp nod.

"How are you both so blasé about almost dying?" Hermione asked, shocked at how little the two friends actually cared about their own well being.

"What? It's not like we fell off," Harry countered. "Not to mention it was nice and sunny out, so there was little chance of us suddenly slipping off. It was perfectly safe."

"It really wasn't any more dangerous than riding a broom," Ron agreed, a huge yawn following his words.

Hermione began to rub her temples soothingly. She could feel a headache coming on, and she wanted to preempt it as best as she could. "Just... keep telling your story." These boys were utterly beyond her comprehension, of that she was certain; but for some ungodly reason she still wished to know what had happened to them.

"Okay," Harry continued, still laying on the ground. "So there was this bloke just sitting on the roof, right?"

Harry then told their bizarre tale. He did so with copious amounts of fanfare and theatricality – the side of Hermione that appreciated verbal storytelling as an art form was begrudgingly impressed – while Ron occasionally chimed in with his own experiences or to add a detail that his friend had neglected to mention. Their tale wasn't a particularly long one, but she found herself engrossed all the same. At first glance, Harry and Ron meeting a strange drifter on the roof of the train before being taken on a journey into the walls of said train was one that beggared belief. And yet, she was actually inclined to believe they were telling the truth.

Hermione knew she barely even qualified as a novice when it came to magic, which was why she ignored her automatic response to dismiss the boys' experiences as nothing more than drug induced hallucinations. Who was she to say what was impossible?

So, since she was operating under the assumption that what the two teens described was possible, she then only had to determine whether she believed they were lying. In Hermione's admittedly amateurish opinion, it was obvious that they were being honest. Both their initial fear and then the steadiness in their voice when sharing their story, thanks to those two aspects, she was simply inclined to believe them.

"So, you just woke up here after walking through the archway? You can't remember anything else that happened?" Hermione asked, seeking a bit of clarification on the detail that bothered her the most.

"Yep," Harry said, popping the 'p'.

"In that case you need to inform a member of the train's staff, or a teacher when we arrive to Hogwarts," Hermione told them in a matter of fact voice.

"Yeah, I'm good not doing that," Harry brushed off her advice with a negligent wave.

"Same here," Ron said, only just now rising into a seated position. "Why would we tell them something that might get us in trouble?"

"You're more concerned about getting in trouble than the possibility that your mind has been tampered with?" Hermione asked, horrified by their utter lack of care towards the sanctity of their memories.

Harry stood up from the floor and stretched. "We're probably fine."

"And if you aren't?" Hermione demanded imperiously, following the boy's example and rising from the floor. Taking a brief moment to smooth out her skirt. She'd double check her appearance in a mirror before they arrived at the school.

"It's our memories, right, so we wouldn't really know, would we?" Ron joined his friend in his stretches, successfully popping his back by the sound of it. "Blimey – that felt good."

"You two really don't care, do you?" Hermione genuinely couldn't believe them. This was a level of personal negligence that she just couldn't wrap her head around. They had absolutely no clue what this 'Hank' had done to them, but they were content to stay ignorant lest they get yelled at for breaking a rule? What kind of person actually thought that way?

"I'd care more if I thought Hank had actually done something to us," Harry replied easily. "He was weird, no doubt about it, but I didn't get the impression that he was malicious."

"What he," Ron cut off as he yawned again, "said. Creepy bloke, but not evil."

"And the fact that you both got the exact same impression of him doesn't disturb you?" Hermione asked, her skepticism obvious.

"Look, Hermione," Harry began, placing his hand on her shoulder, "he was probably just some ghost hobo that haunts the train and has way too much fun messing with students. Nothing to be that concerned about."

That explanation was not good enough for Hermione Granger. Not by a long shot.

"I can't just leave it at that," Hermione declared adamantly.

Ron rolled his eyes at her, seemingly exasperated at her insistence. "Okay, but we can."

"And will."

"Fine!" Hermione said, stomping her feet. "I hope for your sakes that Hank really was a benign spirit, and not some malevolent force that manipulated your minds!" She huffed and grabbed her book, holding it tightly against her chest.

About to storm away, Hermione was distracted by Harry abruptly slapping himself in the forehead. "I am so fucking stupid!" He burst out.

Part of her wanted to again chide the boy for his language and walk away, the other part of her was just curious about his sudden revelation.

"What?" Hermione and Ron said in unison. Both of them recoiling slightly at their shared response.

"I'm a bloody sensor, and not once did I think to actually focus on what I felt when we were inside the walls! Why am I so fucking stupid?"

"You're a sensor?" Ron exclaimed

"What's a sensor?" Hermione asked at the same moment. None of her books had so much as mentioned the term. She had only ever heard it in reference to the non-magical device that wasn't even invented until the fifties.

"A sensor can sense magic!" Ron explained. "Supposedly really powerful wizards and witches can do it too, but sensors can do so naturally. Everyone else has to use spells to even try! They're extremely rare!"

Hermione was amazed that such an ability actually existed, and honestly, she was a bit jealous that she wasn't one. "That's incredible! What is it like? Was the non-magical device named after it in some fashion? Is there a limit on how much you can sense? Can you sense location or just the existence? How about the nature of the magic? Or perhaps its classification? Did sensor as a word evolve from 'sense-er', or was 'sensor' always the word and muggles accidentally adopted it for their own use?" She wanted to know everything about the esoteric ability, and she would not settle for anything less than everything.

"Incredibly hard, more like," Harry responded, shaking his head in annoyance and ignoring all of her questions. "I'm not very good at it yet, most of the time I have to focus if I want to actually sense something. And that focus isn't second nature, so like a bloody idiot, I completely forgot!"

Hermione sympathized with him. That frustration he felt towards himself was a feeling she was familiar with quite well. Every time she missed an easy answer on a test. Whenever she said the wrong thing and pushed a potential friend away. It never evolved to self-loathing, but frustration was an old friend to her.

Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder, commiserating with him. "Don't beat yourself up about it, mate – no point in doing so when its already happened. You'll be better at it for next time."

"Ahhhh," Harry groaned, "you're right, you're right. Fuck, that's really annoying though. I mean, think about what -"

"Could you tell me more about sensing, or at least recommend a good book on the subject?" Hermione interjected, her natural curiosity about the intriguing ability getting the better of her. Time and time again her parents had talked to her about not being rude even when presented with information that interested her. It appeared that she still needed quite a bit more practice on that front.

"Seriously?" Harry asked, momentarily stunned before a predatory grin took hold. "Now who's being rude?"

"Please?" Hermione pleaded, her voice much smaller than it was the first time she had asked.

"Okay, sure, but on one condition," Hermione's hopes plummeted as Harry held up a single finger, smirking down at her. "You admit that we're BOTH rude people. Payback from earlier when you called me rude."

"Really?" Hermione sighed, trying to use her eyes to express what she thought of his conditions. Honestly, interrupting someone and smoking inside of a confined space were on entirely different sides of the rude spectrum.

"Say it quickly, or I might make you speak some 'foul language' as well," Harry added, clearly enjoying his sudden position of power.

"You're evil," Hermione pouted. A small part of her, deep, deep down inside, appreciated the humor of the scenario. It wasn't often that she got to speak with people her own age like this. Most would have either insulted her and walked off, or she would have insulted them and done the same. Harry and Ron were both more maddening than almost anyone else she'd ever dealt with; but the longer she spoke with them the more she came to realize that she honestly didn't hate either of their company. She could easily imagine hitting a daily limit on how much of their presence she could tolerate; but in short bursts, they weren't completely dreadful.

Off to the side, Ron suddenly guffawed loudly. "You did say you were the evil twin," he chuckled, pointing at his friend. Apparently Harry had a nicer twin? The twin part was surprising; the fact that Harry was the more evil of the two was not.

"Told you," Harry grinned mercilessly.

"Oh, fine!" Hermione huffed, a hint of a smile threatening to show on her face. "I admit..." She paused, shaking her head as her own amusement broke through. "That we're both rude -"

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed joyfully.

"- BUT you are far more rude than I am, or could ever hope to be for that matter! Interrupting someone doesn't even begin to compare to the level of rudeness and apathy one has to have to smoke indoors!" Hermione finished, watching the dark haired boy celebrate the most meaningless confession of all time.

"The details don't matter, we're both rude. End of story," Harry declared.

"I'm a witness, all I heard was that you were both rude," Ron lied, holding his wand aloft. "So I swear, and so mote it be.."

Hermione and Harry both looked at the redhead with confusion, though Harry was still grinning. "No idea what that was a reference to, mate."

"Oh, yeah – raised by muggles," Ron murmured, returning his wand to his sleeve. "Right."

"Well, are you going to explain what you were doing?" Hermione tried to coax. She wasn't too skilled in the art of persuasion, but she tried.

"It's just an old joke about how easy life would be if magicals could all just hold up a wand and swear something to be truthful, and magic would just take away our magic if we were lying," Ron sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. "My dad works in a department that's connected to law enforcement, so its a, uh, it's a common joke."

"Don't worry, Ron – I'm sure Daniel would have laughed," Harry teased.

Hermione wasn't a fan of obscene gestures, but even she thought Harry deserved the two fingers Ron flipped in his direction.

"Anyway, Hermione, I have a book on sensing you can borrow. Follow me to my compartment and its yours."

Hermione was almost stunned that he was actually going to lend it to her. "Really?" She asked, her surprise evident in her tone. "Just like that?"

"Yeah, really. We're attending the same school and you're a friend. Why wouldn't I loan it to you?"

Hermione quickly turned away to hide her growing blush. It wasn't often that she was called a friend, even casually as Harry had done. "Thank you," she said meaningfully, turning back to meet his eyes.

"No biggie," Harry waved off her thanks. "Just don't lose it or destroy it or anything. I paid like five galleons for it."

"Bloody hell!" Ron exclaimed, looking at Harry. He appeared to be utterly dumbfounded by his friend's spending habits. "You paid that much for a single book?"

Even Hermione had to admit that was a great deal of money for one book. She was lucky that her parents were well off enough to purchase her any extra books on magic that she – or they, honestly – desired, but roughly 600 pounds for a single book was a lot. Especially since the Gringotts Goblins refused to exchange pounds for magical currency. They insisted that paper money was worthless and mundane gold only half a step above worthless – but they were at least still willing to trade for gold.

Apparently, there were magical deposits of gold in the world that were far, far more valuable than mundane gold – and that mundane gold was only valued thanks to how much it resembled magical gold. Once muggles forgot about magic, they forgot about magical gold. Hence the many ancient legends and stories that surrounded the precious metal. Not that the goblins had explained any of this, of course. As was the case with every other subject, Hermione's mum and dad had been more than open to buying a few books if it helped them be less ignorant.

'Our little girl is now apart of an entirely new world, a new society that we know nothing about. If books can help us learn how to navigate it, then we'll buy as many as it takes.'

Hermione loved her parents for their willingness to embrace magic. She also loved books, but books were just a bonus on top of everything else that her parents had done for her.

"I told you mate, money isn't a concern of mine at all," Harry said dismissively, casually rolling a galleon in between his fingers as he began to walk away.

"Clearly," Ron murmured, plodding along after him.

Hermione trailed behind the two boys, their banter was as humorous as it was exasperating. As soon as the book Harry agreed to loan to her was in her hand, she was going to return to her compartment. Neither Harry nor Ron were awful by any means, but she could tell that her daily tolerance limit was close to being reached. It would just be better for everyone if they parted ways before they said something hurtful to one another.

Hermione tried to imagine a world where she became best friends with the two boys and shook her head ruefully. The stress alone would give me an ulcer! Not to mention how frizzy my hair might get like when I was younger! Or the anxiety I'd feel being dragged on their silly adventures! Better we all just remain casual friends, or perhaps good acquaintances. She resolved then and there to not get entwined in Harry and Ron's antics once they were at Hogwarts. Maybe the nicer twin would be better company for her disposition? There was no way he was going to be more adventurous and crazy than his brother, after all.

XXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note:

Oh, just to let you all know - the song the guitar was playing was a cover of the Harry Potter theme by Eddie van der Meer. I probably listened to that song at least a hundred times over the past few weeks, and I just couldn't resist referencing it in some fashion.