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[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 20
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 21:12:49 +0000 UTC“I can no longer kill you or Sola-Ui… I can’t but…”
"Damn it," Kayneth swore under his breath as he woke up. That same nightmare again, ending in a burst of gunfire and the sensation of bullets tearing through his body. Over the past year, he had trained himself, using meditation and self-hypnosis, to enter a dreamless trance whenever possible. But tonight, of all nights, he'd hoped for a proper rest. He should have expected this.
He glanced at the clock—only half past six. September 1, 1993. The day he would leave for school and fully immerse himself in the world of wizards. If he still had any second thoughts about this dubious endeavor, today was his last chance to turn back.
But the truth was, everything had already been arranged. His belongings were packed, instructions had been given to his apprentice for the next six months, his laboratory was sealed, lined with traps and protections from within, and practically invisible from the outside. Even this room had a few simple wards, just in case some petty burglar stumbled in. There was nothing particularly valuable or dangerous among the books he'd left in his "official" apartment, but he had no desire to deal with accusations of violating the Statute of Secrecy.
Miss Stone would remain here, still receiving her usual salary. In his absence, she was free to take on other work as long as it didn't interfere with maintaining his public image. As for his arrangement with the organization, that had been settled as smoothly as possible—though it had required making a few new promises and offering some additional services in exchange for keeping things stable during his absence. Expected, but necessary.
No, there was no turning back now. Even if he still wasn’t completely convinced that this was the right decision. Too many restrictions would arise, and not all of them could be bypassed. But if he was going to back out, he should have done it at the very least a month ago.
At the end of July, a tall woman in her fifties had arrived at his door, dressed in a formal but slightly old-fashioned suit, the sort that called to mind the headmistress of some private boarding school. She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and handed him a letter addressed to James Victor Murphy.
The envelope didn’t just have the street name and house number—it specified the exact location of his room within the apartment.
That alone had left Kaybeth with many questions about the real extent of the school and the Ministry’s ability to monitor the population. If the letter had been addressed to Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi instead… the situation could have turned out very differently.
But that hadn't happened.
Perhaps, after a year and a half, the merging of two souls had reached the point where the difference between the original wizard and the intruder had blurred beyond recognition. In that case the school’s potential barriers against possession shouldn’t pose a problem either.
When McGonagall arrived, he had surprised her by openly explaining how he had run away from the orphanage, met Nymphadora, and discovered the wizarding world six months before his eleventh birthday. Then, in his room, he had shown her the wand he had purchased from Diagon Alley and the first-year textbooks neatly stacked on his desk—demonstrating both a clear eagerness to study magic and a complete lack of need for any introductory explanations.
He had considered different approaches to this meeting—one possibility was taking the scholarship exam that Tonks had mentioned to him before. Not because he needed the money, but because it would allow him to immediately establish his level of competence.
But he had ultimately abandoned that idea.
Demonstrating his talent and impressing the staff would have been easy, but he had no desire to start rumors about himself as some poor boy who couldn’t even afford textbooks and had to beg for them from the school.
In the end, he had simply assured Professor McGonagall that he was fully prepared and would board the train to Hogwarts at precisely eleven o’clock on September 1st. The ticket had already been included in his acceptance letter.
And now, that day had come.
Thinking back to the Deputy Headmistress and her sharp, calculating gaze, Kayneth grimaced. Yet another problem to deal with.
Up until now, he had only needed to maintain his act as an orphaned Muggle-born in front of shopkeepers and business owners in Diagon Alley—people whose interactions with him were limited to basic pleasantries and transactions.
Or before children.
Even Nymphadora, who was technically an adult, was still young, less than half his original age.
But even she had begun to grow suspicious.
Granger had already questioned him—had even tried to test him. Tonks, too, had attempted to pry into his past with vague, awkward inquiries. She hadn’t been very skilled at it, but that was just a matter of inexperience.
But at Hogwarts, there would be hundreds of students, all of varying ages and backgrounds.
And, more importantly, there would be teachers.
Some of whom had been working there for decades and had seen every kind of orphaned, Muggle-born, and troubled child the wizarding world had to offer.
His interactions with Fletcher and MacDuggal had already proven that just looking like a child wasn’t enough to fool everyone. Which meant he would need to be far more careful about maintaining a coherent, believable persona.
At the same time, he needed to stand out just enough to justify being at Hogwarts in the first place. If he blended too well into the crowd, this whole endeavor would be pointless. And he had to do this without contradicting anything he had already said or done in the magical community.
To make matters worse, the expectations for a "good" Muggle-born student were entirely different depending on who was judging him.
Old wizarding families expected one thing.
First-generation wizards expected another.
Professors had their own standards.
And it was impossible to satisfy all of them. He was a scholar, not a stage actor.
Realizing that he had spent thirty minutes brooding over this, Kayneth sighed, got up, and began dressing at a deliberate pace.
For his public persona, he had decided to model his behavior partially after Granger and Lovegood. From Granger, he would take an insatiable curiosity about magic. From Lovegood, he would take an interest in the old, possibly even ancient traditions of the wizarding world.
A child who had spent the past year reading through the history of magic to the point of memorization wouldn’t seem too odd if he adopted a slightly older style of conduct—one that included private tutelage, frequent dueling, and a highly formal manner of addressing others.
Besides, it was natural for first-year students to have their own ideas about what they wanted to study, what they hoped to achieve, or how they wanted to present themselves, or even change. Even if those ideas were naive.
Well—except for people like Potter.
Kayneth still couldn’t comprehend how the boy had spent over a year in the wizarding world without even attempting to look into his own family history—a history that was sitting right there, ready to be read, just waiting for him to reach out.
And nobody had even bothered to tell him.
Then again, Kayneth had no intention of playing that kind of character himself, choosing a different persona entirely.
In the worst case, kids grow up fast, and their interests change just as quickly—if the cover didn’t work, he could always come up with a new one, using a different approach.
This time, his status among the other students wouldn’t be determined by his family name but solely by his own merits. But it was a challenge he was prepared to take on.
Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, Kayneth gave himself a nod, solidifying his thoughts, and stepped out of the room.
"Please present any storage containers or other items with space-expanding enchantments for inspection," a young auror-in-training at the station entrance requested politely.
"Of course, sir," Kayneth responded smoothly. He switched his suitcase (the one he hastily purchased a year ago, though it had undergone significant modifications) from "Muggle" mode to "Wizard" mode and opened it compliantly.
"Gomenum Revelio," the Auror muttered, flicking his wand. Then, casting Lumos, he peered inside, examining the neatly stacked textbooks and alchemical supplies. As expected, Sirius Black was nowhere to be found. "No issues, you may proceed to the train. And who is this with you?"
"My friend, Llewellyn—he's a Squib," Kayneth introduced. Then he added, "My mother couldn’t make it to the station because of work, so he agreed to see me off."
"A commendable gesture," the Auror acknowledged, giving Llewellyn a quick once-over with a couple of wand movements before gesturing toward the platform.
"Bloody hell, I feel naked without a weapon," Llewellyn muttered once they were far enough from the checkpoint.
"I never promised you an easy life," Kayneth replied in the same quiet tone. "And you've clearly gotten too comfortable strolling around London with that arquebus hidden under your coat." He deliberately kept his voice low—this kind of conversation could sound very strange to outsiders. "It’s easy to get complacent in the wizarding world."
"I get it," Llewellyn admitted, sweeping his gaze over the bustling station. "But if something goes wrong here, I won’t even be able to cover you."
"I appreciate your concern, apprentice," Kayneth said with a slight smirk. "But the last time something big happened here was fifteen years ago. Right now, even one fugitive wizard is a huge event. If Black does decide to attack this place to get to that boy, keep in mind—he's spent over a decade in prison. It’s unlikely he had any opportunities to regularly practice magic. And besides, he’s alone. There are hundreds of people here, each carrying a wand."
"Yeah… I suppose that’s reassuring," Llewellyn agreed, though he still seemed uneasy. He was probably still struggling to wrap his head around the sheer scale of the magical world. Diagon Alley didn’t quite compare—here, there were already well over a thousand wizards gathered, and by the time the train departed, there would be even more. "Still, be careful in there, boss."
"I have a radiotelephone with me, just in case. It won’t work inside the school, but if something happens on the way and I need backup, I’ll call you."
"Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can."
"Not that I expect it to be necessary. Anyway, you already have the training schedule and theory study plan—that should last you until winter. I left you the bracelet for identifying Squibs, and you’ve seen the ritual. While I’m gone, your job is to find potential candidates for training. You won’t need personal magical energy for that—borrowed magic will do. Instructions for the potions and supplies are all there."
"It’ll be fine," Llewellyn assured him. Kayneth suspected his apprentice was secretly afraid he’d change his mind about school at the last moment, delay his departure, or—worse—cancel the whole thing entirely. After all, that would mean that certain someone would lose the chance to slack off from those grueling training sessions for a couple of weeks… or even more, before things returned to their usual intensity. "Boss, I’ll handle everything."
"I expect nothing less. I hope you understand I’ll be checking when I get back," Kayneth reminded him as they neared the train.
"Good luck, boss. I’ll be waiting for your return."
Before boarding, Kayneth took one last glance around the station and noticed a large group approaching the platform—a whole squad of Weasleys, burdened with suitcases and bags, and alongside them, Potter (still alive, so perhaps the Black threat had been exaggerated) and Granger.
He considered walking over to say hello, but there were too many of them. It would take too long to get through all the greetings. That could wait until later. Giving a brief nod to his teacher, he turned and stepped onto the train.
The carriages were compartment-style, and most seats were already taken. Walking down the corridor, he passed several doors before spotting familiar faces.
"Oh, hey, Jim! Come join us—there’s still a seat," Charles McAvoy (Changed from McEvoy) called out with a broad grin, motioning for him to take the open spot.
The second occupant was a tall, fair-haired boy whom Kayneth recognized from the June meeting at Morris’s—the one who had been discussing the legal complexities of magical creatures.
Pointing at him with a rolled-up parchment scroll, Charles introduced him. "I don’t think I introduced you two last time we met. This is Keenan Rivers, my friend."
"James Murphy, Muggle-born," Kayneth introduced himself.
"Yeah, I know. I’m from a pureblood family, but we’re a young house, and we don’t really care about all that nonsense."
"Good to hear," Kayneth replied neutrally, setting his suitcase overhead before pulling out a couple of books.
The conversation naturally drifted into casual chatter. Everyone shared a bit about themselves, and in the process, Kayneth learned that Keenan’s father was a wizarding lawyer—which explained his knowledge of legal matters concerning magical beings and creatures.
Five minutes before departure, the door to their compartment slid open, and a black boy, around eleven years old and clearly new to this entire experience, peered inside.
Looking around and counting the occupants, he asked, "Got any spare seats? Everywhere else is packed. There’s only one compartment left with room, but there’s some weird blonde girl in there talking mad nonsense about a vampire-reptilian conspiracy, so I figured I’d try my luck here instead."
"Miss Lovegood has a rather unique perspective on the world, but not everyone is ready to share her point of view right away," Kayneth said with a smirk. He then glanced at the others and gestured for the newcomer to enter. "Come in, make yourself comfortable. I'm James, this is Charlie, and by the window—that’s Keenan."
"Nice to meet you. I’m Dale, Dale Nort."
"Muggle-born?" Kayneth asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question. Jeans and a windbreaker instead of robes, a couple of ordinary-looking sports bags slung over his shoulder, and a cassette player clipped to his belt—there weren’t many other possibilities.
"Well, yeah. Why?" Dale asked, looking puzzled.
"Only a Muggle-born would think to bring some kind of electronic gadget to Hogwarts," McAvoy pointed out. "They don’t work there. At all."
"We'll see about that," Dale said, tossing his bags onto the luggage rack. "I’ve heard those rumors too, which is why I brought an old Walkman instead of a CD player. If it doesn’t work, we’ll make it work—even if I have to chant over it all night at a graveyard during a full moon. There’s no way I’m surviving until Christmas without music. Or do wizards have something that plays music on its own?"
"There are gramophones," Keenan answered, since everyone had instinctively turned to him as the most knowledgeable about wizarding culture. "Or you could enchant a flute to play by itself, I suppose."
"The Stone Age… But that’s fixable."
The train started moving, gradually picking up speed. Kayneth opened a third-year Potions textbook and left the two other wizards to handle the onslaught of questions from the talkative Muggle-born. He only interjected a couple of times—mainly when the conversation turned to the ban on underage magic and its limitations.
About an hour into the journey, Kayneth closed his book and stepped into the corridor, saying, "I'll be back soon. Don’t give my seat away if someone shows up."
"Going to find that bookworm?" McAvoy asked, pausing his explanation of Quidditch rules to Nort.
"Her personality may not be the most pleasant, but she’s already taught me Accio and Protego—and those are fourth- and fifth-year spells. I’d say it’s worth it."
"The sacrifices you make for the sake of education, Jim… So noble."
He found the familiar group one carriage down, near the back of the train. The children looked unexpectedly somber and downcast, but Kayneth chose to pretend he didn’t notice. Instead, he knocked politely before sliding open the compartment door.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Greetings, Potter, Weasley."
"Hey, James, just a sec," Hermione was the first to respond. She turned to the large ginger cat curled beside her and gave it a firm instruction before stepping into the corridor: "Stay. And don’t eat anyone while I’m gone."
They walked a few steps away from the compartment before she said, "I saw you at the station. And I get why you didn’t come over. But, you know, Ron got a serious scolding from his parents for what he did. So…"
"It doesn’t matter," Kayneth said simply. "It’s in the past—you’ve already settled that conflict."
"Really?" Hermione asked, visibly relieved. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she tried to explain, "I was just… you know, worried. He was just concerned about me and did something really stupid, but, well…"
"It doesn’t matter," he repeated. Her reaction and concern were oddly endearing in a way. Kids—what else could you expect? "More importantly, am I interrupting anything? You all looked rather troubled."
"It’s Harry again," she corrected him. "He’s the one with problems."
"Black?" Kayneth guessed.
"How do you know that?" she asked, surprised. "He just told us."
"Rumors are flying everywhere," he said with a shrug. Given how small the wizarding world was, and how many students had parents working at the Ministry—including in the Auror Office—it was obvious the entire school would know within a week. "They say the Aurors’ leading theory is that he’s hunting Potter."
"I’m worried about him. Every year it’s the same thing," Hermione muttered, clearly recalling something unpleasant. "Someone is always trying to kill or seriously injure him."
"Then maybe it’s time to get it through his head that studying magic doesn’t begin and end with flying on broomsticks?" Kayneth suggested, his words carefully phrased but blunt in meaning. He also noted that when Hermione had told him about her first year, she hadn’t mentioned anything like this. Maybe the real center of that accident involving the Defense professor hadn’t been her but her friend instead? "And that next time, you might not be there to fight a criminal in his place?"
"I don’t want to put even more pressure on him," she protested, shaking her head.
"So you’d rather let him die?" Kayneth asked matter-of-factly. "At least he’ll go happy and unburdened by unnecessary intellectual strain."
"You know…" she started, then exhaled and held up a hand in surrender. "Let’s table this conversation for now. I’m just glad to see you’re doing well, James."
"Likewise," he said, deciding that was enough politeness before getting to the real reason he had sought her out. "And on that note—did you get a chance to start translating that book over the summer? I think it could be useful for our studies, but I haven’t found anything like it in English."
"Oh, I already have a rough draft," Hermione brightened up at the shift to a more academic topic. "It still needs a lot of work, though—I did what I could, and even asked my mum for help, but there are too many old-fashioned words and specific terms unique to French wizards. And I don’t know anyone from their magical community to ask about it. We lived far from Paris, and if their system is anything like ours, then finding wizards in the provinces is tricky. I couldn’t even ask any of my mum’s relatives for help—none of them know I’m a witch. But I’m sure the Hogwarts library has the right dictionaries and reference books on magical terminology from other countries—I’m certain I’ve seen something like that there before."
"Judging by your enthusiasm, it was really worth it?" Kayneth asked, masking his surprise. "I wasn’t mistaken?"
"Without a doubt, it was worth it," Hermione confirmed immediately. "First, there's the wand-selection process, which no one has ever properly explained to us. Second, the concept of five elements—I’ve seen mentions of it in books and even illustrations of the pentagram, but again, no one has ever taught us the details. If we can align this theory with the spells we’re learning, it could simplify or even enhance them. And I’m sure there are more benefits I’ll find once I complete a clean version of the translation with all the terminology and explanations."
"I’d like to help with that," he said without hesitation. From what Kayneth had gleaned with his limited grasp of French, the book was decent but full of gaps. For instance, it completely ignored the question of non-mage Origins, and even its understanding of wizards' magical principles was significantly oversimplified. By working together, they might be able to fill in those gaps. "Of course, I don’t know French, but I can help look through dictionaries and reference books. You've already done most of the work, which means I would merely be repaying the favor."
"If I weren’t interested in the book, I wouldn’t have managed to finish a rough draft in just a month and a half," Hermione replied. Then, with mild indignation, she added, "And if you hadn’t sent it to me, I probably would have never come across it at all—nothing like it has ever been listed in our additional reading for three years! But if you want to help, I’ll gladly accept."
"Then we’ll sort out the details after the Sorting and once classes begin."
"Speaking of the Sorting. Do you have any guesses where you'll end up? The Hat might hesitate or even let you choose."
"I doubt we’ll be in the same House," he replied honestly. It wasn’t that Kayneth didn’t consider himself brave—after all, voluntarily participating in a battle among seven of his generation’s strongest magi and their Heroic Spirits was not something just anyone would do. But he didn’t think courage was his defining trait. Besides, how did that artifact even conduct a psychological assessment? "And I don’t really see the point of this division, considering we all have the same curriculum. Why should we have to compete against each other? It makes little sense to me."
"Just another tradition, like so many others. You just accept it and move on, I suppose. And besides, earning points is fun—especially when no one else can keep up with you."
"I suppose I’ll have to experience it myself to understand. Anyway, we’ve been talking for too long—you’ve hardly seen your friends all summer," he said, nodding towards Weasley and Potter, who were not so discreetly peeking at them through the compartment door. "So I won’t keep you any longer. See you around."
"We take different routes to the castle, so I guess I’ll see you at school, James."
With a nod, he turned and made his way back to his own compartment. The journey took longer than it should have—he had to constantly step aside for students darting back and forth in the narrow corridor. Still, he took it in stride, considering it a sort of preparation for the inevitable chaos at Hogwarts. Kids were kids, whether they were wizards or not.
By the time he returned, Dale had pulled out a deck of cards and, judging by the game in progress, had already taught the others how to play whist.
Seeing a fourth potential player, the Muggle-born immediately extended an offer. "Jim, join us. I am sure you already know the rules, and playing bridge with just three people doesn’t really work."
"Sorry, I actually don’t. In my orphanage, cards were strictly forbidden."
"They were banned at my school too. ‘Gambling leads straight to gang life,’ and all that," Dale scoffed. "But at Hogwarts, they allow them. Another major plus."
"They even teach divination with cards," Charles added. "My sister told me."
"Nah, divination’s not my thing. I don’t buy into horoscopes or Nostradamus’ predictions."
"And this is coming from a future wizard?" Keenan said dramatically, shaking his head in mock despair. "Magical Britain is truly doomed."
Declining the offer to play cards, Kayneth settled back into his seat with a book, simultaneously drafting a plan for the near future. Granger’s excessive enthusiasm had, in this case, worked to his advantage. To be frank, he had not expected such efficiency from her, yet now there was a chance of obtaining a more or less complete English-language reference book by October.
At that point, he could distribute copies or share select chapters with others for note-taking. That was a solid step forward. While working on the translation, they could also investigate what literature on elemental theory was actually available to Hogwarts students.
Hermione clearly had high hopes for it—too high, in fact. Standard wizarding spells, constrained by the properties of their mystic codes, wouldn’t be enhanced by elemental principles. But other forms of mystic codes? Those were already within his reach.
The train made a brief stop at a station near Birmingham, where additional carriages were attached to pick up students from Wales and northern England, those for whom it was more convenient than traveling to London. Then, it continued its journey toward Scotland.
By lunchtime, Charles and Dale had launched into a debate over whether the Express would pass through Manchester or bypass it via Preston, continuing north along the coast. Dale argued that routing a secret magical train through one of the country’s largest railway hubs didn’t exactly align with the supposed need to "hide from Muggles." Charles, on the other hand, countered that since they had already departed from a station practically in the heart of London, discreetly laying tracks around Manchester should be a trivial task.
Unfortunately, they never found out who was right. Rain had started falling outside—not just a drizzle, but a full-blown downpour with strong gusts of wind. Soon, visibility was reduced to just a few feet beyond the tracks, and by four in the afternoon, the train’s interior lamps were switched on to combat the sudden darkness.
At that moment, Dale was passionately trying to convince the two wizards that Nirvana was the best band of the decade and that the fact they hadn’t released their new album two weeks earlier was a monumental tragedy.
Then, suddenly, the train began to slow.
Glancing at the rain-streaked window in confusion, Dale asked, "Wait… Are we already there? By my count, we should have only just passed Carlisle."
"Sis said the train arrives at school around seven, but it's only five," Charles objected. "There's another stop in Glasgow, but we shouldn’t be anywhere near it yet."
"Maybe wizards still consider Scotland a separate country, and we're about to hit customs?"
"Nort, one more joke like that, and I’ll personally dig through the library to find a way to summon Wallace’s ghost and have him haunt your dorm," Keenan remarked, and not entirely in jest.
The train came to a stop. Outside, the rain suddenly ceased, replaced by a thick, swirling fog. Then, all at once, the lights went out—throughout the entire train, judging by the immediate darkness and the panicked voices erupting from the neighboring compartments.
"Damn, did we lose power?"
"There never was any. The lights are magical."
"So... uh, did we just lose magic?"
"I doubt it... Lumos," Charles said, raising his wand. A glow flickered to life but was weak, unsteady, barely a quarter of its usual brightness. And it was unlikely that simple inexperience was the cause.
"Stay away from the windows. There’s something out there," Kayneth ordered. He had already felt the crushing presence outside for a while. Unseen by the others, he discreetly placed a weak barrier over the glass—enough to stop or at least delay a phantom or spirit. When Charles cast his dim light, Kayneth stood up and set his suitcase beside him. Just in case.
"What could possibly be out there?" Keenan asked, but still pointed his wand toward the window. "Cu Sith? The Sluagh?"
"…Dementors," Charles whispered hoarsely, pressing himself into the farthest corner of the compartment, eyes wide as the door suddenly slid open. The light on his wand flickered, on the verge of going out completely.
"Bloody hell, what is that?!"
Kayneth said nothing, his gaze fixed on the hooded, tattered figure hovering just beyond the threshold. He was too preoccupied holding up his mental defenses, but they were barely working. This creature’s influence operated on an entirely different level.
"Kayneth, all your magic circuits have been completely destroyed. You will never be able to use magic again."
"And if you refuse me, despite everything… Then I will have no choice but to cut off your right hand. How does that sound?"
Sola’s voice echoed in his mind—gentle, almost affectionate, despite the cruelty of her words. Pain flared in the fingers of his right hand, the ones that had once been broken. It was just a mental attack, just an emotional manipulation… Yet, he couldn't push away the flood of memories, each more unbearable than the last.
"My Lord, I offer my sincerest apologies, but I must inform you… During the battle, your fiancee was taken."
"If you don’t want your beloved to die, turn around slowly."
Somewhere beside him, Dale was muttering what sounded like a prayer, stumbling over the words. Keenan was silently crying, while Charles barely seemed to be breathing. From the other compartments, screams, curses, and sobs filled the air. The aura of these creatures smothered everyone, but those closest to them suffered the worst.
"Cowards, so willing to defile chivalric honor for their own gain… Then let my blood drown your dreams!"
“I can no longer kill you… but…”
How much time had passed? Hours? Seconds? Kayneth felt that if this continued much longer, his sanity might not hold. He wasn’t even sure anymore if this was real or just another nightmare. There was only one way to find out.
With trembling hands, he opened the "ordinary" section of his suitcase, hesitated for a moment, then swiftly pulled on a pair of gloves and retrieved a dagger hilt—one without a blade. Rising to his feet, he positioned himself directly in front of the hovering Dementor and said quietly:
"Stay inside. I’ll be right back."
Gripping the Dementor’s tattered cloak with his left hand, he shoved the creature back with all his strength. The oppressive aura, which drained the warmth, light, and even hope from the air, wavered slightly as if the creature was momentarily confused by such direct contact. Stepping into the corridor after it, Kayneth slammed the compartment door shut behind him and used a simple spell to condense the moisture in the air against the window, obscuring the view from inside. The droplets instantly froze from the Dementor’s chilling presence.
Without giving the creature a chance to recover, he raised his right hand.
"Clavem."
A long, nearly three-foot blade of pure magical energy extended from the hilt. Of course, it wasn’t a true Black Key, one of the Holy Church’s sacraments, designed to annihilate the undead entirely. It was merely an imitation, lacking the sacred enchantments that made real ones devastating against the resurrected and summoned spirits. However, the semi-material nature of the blade was still well-suited for harming ghosts and beings that existed beyond the normal laws of reality. It could even pierce through concrete or steel simply due to the fundamental nature of its mystery.
Kayneth had never trained with this weapon. He couldn’t slice an entire ghoul into seventeen pieces in under a second, the way a true Executor could.
So instead, he drove the blade straight through the Dementor’s head, almost to the hilt, the tip stabbing through the back of its hood and puncturing the train’s wall behind it. Then, he jumped back and pulled his wand from his sleeve.
"Lumos."
The light flared, but just like Charles’ earlier attempt, it was feeble, flickering—dimmed by the sheer presence of the Dementor. And worse, just beyond the open compartment across the corridor, he spotted another one of the creatures. More silhouettes loomed outside the train, their forms barely visible through the thick fog.
There had to be more of them in the other carriages.
For now, the priority was dealing with the one that was trying to pull out the dagger with one hand while reaching for the boy who had struck it with the other. It didn’t seem as though the creature had sustained any serious injuries or felt any pain from the blade that had pierced straight through its head, pinning it to the wall of the carriage.
Kayneth activated his circuits, stretched out his free hand, and began chanting a spell in Latin. Eight lines, one of the standard mysteries of spiritualism—Restraint of Action. As he spoke, a gray circle appeared on the floor beneath the hovering Dementor, then stretched upward into a nearly transparent column. The column contracted, tightened, wrapping the creature in a shimmering gray cocoon of a closed barrier as the magus uttered the final incantation:
"Restrictus Actum."
The mystery temporarily severed the spirit—since Dementors, by all known criteria, fell squarely into that category—from the surrounding world, restricting all of its actions. The stronger the entity and the longer the spell’s duration, the greater the energy expenditure. For now, Kayneth had "removed" the creature from reality for about five minutes.
As the oppressive aura of the nearest Dementor vanished, he let out a slow breath, as if he had been inhaling a mixture of old dust and crushed ice until now. The pressure on his mind eased but didn’t disappear completely—the memories dimmed, and the voices in his head receded to a whisper.
With ease, he wrenched free the dagger the creature had managed to pull halfway out and turned to face the next one. Now, no longer reliving the sensation of bullets shattering his bones or his nerves burning under the surge of uncontrollable magic, he could think more clearly. And so, a question formed in his mind—where had they even come from?
In Britain, there was only one place where Dementors resided: Azkaban, the Ministry of Magic’s prison. Outside of the territories specifically designated for them, these creatures only appeared naturally in places of extreme violence—battlefields strewn with unburied corpses, sites of mass executions, prolonged wars filled with torture and slaughter. In that sense, they resembled lesser undead, spontaneously manifesting from the echoes of death. But Britain wasn’t Afghanistan or Sudan—there hadn’t been bloodshed on that scale for nearly fifty years, despite the best efforts of the IRA.
There was no way for "wild" Dementors to appear here.
Which meant they had been sent.
Had Fudge decided to cull his country’s wizarding population a little? Or was he looking to spice up his life with some fresh enemies and unforeseen disasters? Perhaps Dumbledore or the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had planned an exceptionally bold first lesson? If it was the latter, Kayneth might have actually respected the man’s sheer confidence in his own invulnerability, but—
"Exaphanistei!"
A sharp, desperate cry rang out.
A wave of white light blasted the second Dementor away from an open compartment door, slamming it into the opposite wall hard enough to dent the metal. A nearby window cracked under the impact. But the creature didn’t vanish.
Kayneth tilted his head in surprise. He recognized that spell.
An exorcism mystery dating back to the Inquisition, when even the Church had resorted to magic to hunt down rogue magi, mutants of their own creation, and the various unholy creatures that had flourished amid decades of war and plague.
Too bad the power behind it wasn’t enough.
From the few uncensored records Kayneth had managed to find on that era, in the hands of a professional Executor, this mystery could erase a Dementor from existence or render it harmless for years. Not to mention its devastating effect on lesser revenants and banshees.
And yet, despite all his research, he had never found a full description of the spell—let alone a guide to learning it.
Only a handful of people on this train could possibly know it.
And he had a pretty good idea of who it was.
Kayneth quickly gauged the distance to the still-hovering creature—fifteen feet. The corridor was nearly pitch black, save for the weak glimmers from a few open compartments. His imitation of a Black Key, given his current stature, looked less like a dagger and more like a full-sized sword—possibly even a two-hander.
An Executor would have handled this with a simple throw.
But Kayneth had to be more creative.
Tossing his weapon into the air, he used a sharp gust of wind to propel the blade toward the Dementor. The shimmering edge speared straight through its head, doing no real damage but forcing it to flinch, scanning for threats.
That moment’s hesitation was enough.
Without urgency, Kayneth finished the incantation that conjured a barrier—a spectral gray chain that coiled around the Dementor’s arms and torso, locking it in place.
Then, he simply utilized the one mystical code he had at hand.
"Finita."
A brief red flash struck the blade’s surface. The solid handle clattered to the floor.
"Stupefy Duo."
The twin stunning spells hurled the Dementor down the corridor, slamming it against the door to the next carriage. The binding chains prevented it from rising again.
Kayneth strode toward the open compartment where it had loomed moments before and peered inside.
Three children sat inside, shivering, on the verge of fainting. Someone had managed to cast a weak Lumos and attach it to the ceiling, casting a flickering, uncertain glow over their faces.
All unfamiliar.
It took him a few seconds to recognize the deathly pale girl clutching her wand with both hands, gripping it so tightly that her nails had pierced her palms, drawing blood. She had conjured some kind of protective shield—a soft violet shimmer barely visible in the dim light.
Luna Lovegood.
"Mama, mama, mama…"
Her quiet whisper was the only sound in the silence.
Kayneth didn’t get a chance to say anything.
A sudden chill prickled down his spine. The voices in his mind grew louder. The images of war, of loss, of failure—every regret and nightmare surged back with a vengeance.
He turned.
Another Dementor was gliding into the carriage from the far side.
But before it could reach him, a compartment door burst open.
A senior student—probably fifth or sixth year—stumbled out, swearing viciously under his breath. Without even noticing Kayneth standing there, he barked in a single breath:
"To hell with it all! Expel me if you want! Expecto Patronum!"
A burst of silver light shot forward, blasting the Dementor out of the train and shattering the window behind it.
The older student tracked its trajectory, then cursed again and shouted:
"Chris! Flavian! You two were nearby, right?!"
"Here!" a voice called from another compartment.
"Yeah, what’s up?!" another answered, hoarse and strained.
"This is a bloody disaster! There are dozens of them outside! If they all decide to come in, we’re dead meat! So get your asses in gear, grab anyone still conscious, wands at the ready, and get out here! We hold the line as long as we can!"
"Confringo!" came a shout from the next carriage.
"Expulso!" another voice called from the opposite side, accompanied by a bright blue flash.
"Expecto Patronum!"
"So I’m not the only fool here," muttered the same older student under his breath. "Just as long as no one panics and sets off Fiendfyre…"
Only then did he notice the unfamiliar younger student standing there.
"Oi, kid, what the hell are you doing out here?"
"Trying not to lose my mind," Kayneth answered honestly, retrieving the hilt of his dagger and shutting the compartment door where Lovegood remained. If a battle broke out, she’d at least be a little safer in there.
"Admirable, but you’re a bit too young for this game. Give it another couple of years. Just stay in your compartment, lock the door, and throw up every shield spell you know. The lads will hold them off for now."
"Listen to this tough guy. Hope you get a Boggart for a permanent roommate in the loo" a female voice called from the compartment the older student had stumbled out of earlier.
"Eva—you’re ‘one of the lads,’ so you were included in the count," the boy retorted. "What do you take me for?"
"There are two more of them," Kayneth interjected, striding back toward his own compartment. Raising his wand, he flicked it toward the ceiling. "Lumos Maxima."
A pale, flickering sphere of light hung from the carriage roof, illuminating the corridor enough for him to point toward the Dementors.
"One here, and another at the far end."
"Bloody hell, was that you who took them down, kid?"
"Stunned the one in the back, but someone else got the first one before I got here. Not sure what spell they used."
"Yeah, I’ve never seen something hold a Dementor like that before. Petrificus doesn’t work that way, and Immobulus doesn’t last this long. But whatever, we’ll chuck them out the window. One less to deal with—cheers for that."
"Anytime."
Kayneth swung open the door to his compartment just in time to sidestep a Diffindo from Keenan, which instead struck the still-immobilized Dementor. Only then did he step inside, completely unfazed.
"The older students are dealing with it now," he said. "If you haven’t heard from in here, we just need to hold our ground." He raised his wand toward the door. "Protego."
The shield was mostly for show—completely useless against Dementors and their aura. However, as he stood near the entrance, he silently established a personal barrier against dark spirits. If any of them managed to get inside, it would at least slow them down long enough for him to react.
Dale and Charles, looking somewhat steadier now that the crushing aura of the nearest Dementor had disappeared, raised their wands and pointed them at the door.
But they never had to use them.
Instead of an all-out assault, the train began moving again a few minutes later, picking up speed and leaving the dark creatures behind in the fog at the Scottish border. Either the Dementors had accomplished whatever they came for, or they’d encountered more resistance than expected and decided not to push their luck.
The second theory seemed far less likely.
Not much was known about how Dementors thought—or if they even had thoughts beyond consuming emotions and souls. A glaring oversight from the spiritualists of this world, or at least from the British magical community.
Half an hour later, the shouts of triumph and the lingering panic had died down. The students raided the train’s snack trolley and personal stashes for all the magical and Muggle chocolate they could find—recommended by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor as the best remedy for underage students after encountering Dementors. Things were slowly returning to normal.
Well, apart from the fact that everyone was speaking far too loudly and cheerfully, the corridors were lit up with more illumination spells than a Christmas festival, and nearly every compartment had at least one or two magical flames burning for warmth.
All of it, however, was just a way of masking the fear still lingering underneath.
When the general noise began to subside, Kayneth shut his eyes and said to his companions:
"Wake me when we get there. I’m feeling a bit tired."
"No problem, Jim," Dale responded. "If I’d gone up against something like that on my own, I wouldn’t just be ‘a bit tired’—I’d be sleeping with my eyes open for the next month. Honestly, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep at all tonight."
Kayneth merely smirked to himself.
There was something strangely endearing about a child’s naivety.
He wondered what kind of traumatic experience an eleven-year-old boy—who clearly wasn’t from the slums or some war-torn wasteland—could have relived in those few minutes that scared him so much. A broken leg from falling out of a tree? School bullies? The death of a pet cat? A teacher scolding him in front of the whole class?
By contrast, Kayneth knew for certain that after reliving, in agonizing clarity, every single "wonderful" memory he had spent over a year carefully suppressing in the depths of his mind, there was no chance he’d be able to sleep again without potions, meditation, or entering a trance.
Even drinking himself into a stupor wasn’t an option.
If he let his guard down even for a second, he knew exactly how that would end.
Because if he let his control slip even for a second, he would undoubtedly kill himself.
Even half-asleep, Kayneth felt the train passing through multiple magical barriers—one after another.
They were almost there.
So when Charles nudged him awake, he simply opened his eyes, nodded, and reached for his suitcase.
"They announced we’re supposed to leave our luggage here. It’ll be taken to the castle for us," MacAvoy informed him.
"I heard," Kayneth replied, pulling his case toward him. "But I need to grab my robe."
"I could really use a raincoat," Keenan muttered as they walked toward the carriage exit. "It’s coming down hard outside."
"What about magic?" Kayneth asked, surprised.
He had gotten used to the idea that these people relied on spells for everything—even for lighting a room or swatting a fly.
Especially from a pureblood.
"I don’t know a spell for that yet," Keenan admitted.
"It’s not too difficult—you just have to figure out the shield’s positioning and angle," Kayneth replied as they stepped onto the platform. He reached into his sleeve for his wand, then raised it above his head, twirling it slightly in his palm to gather external mana. Aiming at the collar of his robe, he murmured, "Impervius."
An Auror trainee had taught him this one last year.
"Waterproofing, fire resistance, wind protection—a useful charm. You should learn it."
"Hey, Jim, mind doing the same for us?" Nort whistled, patting himself on the neck expectantly.
"No problem."
"First-years!" The voice of the half-giant boomed over the gathered crowd on the platform. Kayneth recognized him—he had seen the man with Potter a year ago in Diagon Alley. Granger had mentioned that he was the one who escorted new students to the castle.
Meanwhile, the older students made their way elsewhere, heading toward the barely visible, rain-soaked road beyond the veil of falling water.
"Let’s go!" Dale answered on behalf of the four stragglers, and they hurried toward the dock. Their mood had lifted considerably—rain now fell around them rather than on their heads or down their collars.
However, as they walked, rain was the least of Kayneth’s concerns. What occupied his mind far more were the barriers surrounding the castle, extending well beyond its ancient walls, even reaching as far as the train station. Some of these he could clearly see, others he could sense nearby, and some lay at the very edge of magical perception—ones a less experienced person might not even notice.
It was likely that he hadn’t detected all of them, but he was confident he had identified most. Concealment barriers, alarm spells, protective wards, scanning fields, and containment measures designed to keep threats both in and out—the entire area surrounding the castle was steeped in magic. Some structures were clearly ancient, while others had been put in place only days or weeks ago.
Kayneth would have loved to attempt infiltrating the grounds from the very edge of the barrier field, just to assess this multilayered security system firsthand. But that opportunity wouldn’t come for at least a couple of years.
At the dock, the four of them were among the last to board one of the few remaining empty boats. Once all twenty-four vessels were filled, the half-giant gave the signal, and the boats—lacking both sails and oars—began to move forward under the influence of magic, heading toward the castle perched atop the cliffs.
Kayneth was certain that this entire spectacle served no real purpose beyond impressing the children, especially the Muggle-borns, and showcasing the grandeur of the magical world. For instance, despite the relentless rain, the lake’s surface remained perfectly smooth, reflecting the school’s glowing lights. Judging by the awed exclamations from various boats, the display was having its intended effect.
Last summer, Granger had already described the entire first-year arrival ritual to him in detail. So, upon reaching the dock, the magus simply followed at the back of the group, mimicking expressions of surprise and admiration at the appropriate moments.
First, the half-giant led them to the gates and handed them over to Professor McGonagall. Then came the walk through the castle corridors, followed by the waiting room, where ghosts soon made an appearance. However, after their recent encounter with Dementors, these harmless spirits hardly impressed anyone, even the Muggle-born students.
Perhaps realizing this—or having been informed of the incident—the deputy headmistress returned swiftly, arranged the first-years into a single line, and led them into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony.
Not that Kayneth saw much purpose in this division—this whole "spirit of competition" seemed hardly worth the fuss. But if that was the way things were done, he would simply have to accept the rules.
When just under a hundred first-years had assembled before the four long house tables, Professor McGonagall unrolled a long scroll and began reading out names:
"Abingdon, Martin."
The entire process took a long time, especially given how arbitrary the division seemed. Some students were placed instantly, while others had to wait several minutes as the artifact deliberated.
Finally, McGonagall reached the middle of the list.
"McAvoy, Charles."
"Ravenclaw!"
"Murphy, James."
When his turn came, Kayneth stepped forward, sat down, and waited as the ancient hat was lowered onto his head. Immediately, the world around him faded into darkness.
"Interesting, quite interesting…" a foreign thought echoed in his mind, clear and precise, as if his mental barriers weren’t even there. "No need to worry—I can read nearly any soul, but I cannot share what I see with anyone else. That’s how I was made. How curious… It’s been quite a while since I’ve encountered someone like you. I was beginning to wonder…"
"Someone like me? In what way?"
"A peculiar student. Every ten years or so, one or two appear, but lately, it seems there’s been a drought. My, what genuine surprise… Really, there’s hardly anything in this world larger than a single person’s ego. Every student who has sat on this stool, at some level, deep inside, believed themselves to be extraordinarily unique, as if the world revolved around them. You are no exception."
"There are others like me?"
"Reincarnation, time travel, curses spoken backward with doubled vowels leading to unpredictable effects, magical oaths and contracts with non-human entities, souls lost in time or between worlds… The magical world is vast, and no one knows all its secrets. Believe me, your story is far from the most unique I’ve encountered."
"If that’s the case… perhaps you’ve met someone I know? My students, my teachers… maybe even my enemies?"
"Oh, such a thirst for vengeance. With those feelings, you belong in Slytherin. Student, hero, killer… You would spill blood in these corridors if it meant reaching any of them. Tell me, if I were to point to a random child and say, ‘That one is among those you seek,’ what would you do?
Fortunately, I cannot share others’ secrets, even if I wanted to. If you still wish to know—search for them yourself. But, if I set aside your desire for revenge, your thirst for knowledge outweighs it, so…"
"Ravenclaw!"
