Chapter Text
Temptation — A descent into moral conflict, where desire clouds judgment and opens the soul to corruption.
The turning point where power seduces, and the cost is forgotten.
July 15th, Matt.
The past month and a half had been boring. Uneventful. Flat.
After years of near-constant training with Stick, then the chaos of his first term at Hogwarts, the stillness didn’t feel like rest. It felt wrong. Every day at Saint Agnes was the same—same footsteps echoing down the corridors, same rustle of habits, same tired rhythm to the prayers and meal bells. No classes. No fighting. No magic. Just quiet repetition.
He didn’t like it.
The letters helped. He and Foggy wrote almost every week. Foggy always had something to ramble about—half of it nonsense, the other half filled with updates Matt actually cared about. Dumb jokes, weird Hogwarts rumors, spells gone wrong. Still, it wasn’t the same. They hadn’t seen each other since term ended, and Matt didn’t expect that to change. The nuns weren’t exactly thrilled about the idea of him wandering off across London. Foggy’s family seemed busy too.
Still. Just over a month to go. Then he’d be back at Hogwarts. Back where everything actually meant something. Hopefully this time, he’d make it through the year without nearly dying.
He told himself it’d be better. That he’d be more prepared. That this time he’d see it coming. He tried to believe it. Tried to hold onto that.
Faith was easy.
Hope was harder.
Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about those three marks—burned into his skin months ago. Ash. Blood. Soul. He could trace them perfectly now, fingertip to scar, over and over again. He knew every edge, every curve. They were still warm sometimes, like they remembered what they meant even if he didn’t.
He was almost sure they were connected to the Transference Pencatti. The name had shown up in two books—vague mentions, both of them useless. He’d found a few scraps of theory and one overly dramatic reference to “soul weaving,” but nothing solid. Nothing that told him what it meant for him.
The library at Saint Agnes was useless. The kind of place where “magic” didn’t exist, except maybe in fairy tales—and even those were filtered through centuries of someone else’s approval.
So he was stuck.
No answers. No progress.
He already knew the truth: whatever mattered, whatever came next, it wasn’t here. It wasn’t in Lamberth. It was at Hogwarts. That was where the questions had started—and probably where the answers were, too.
Matt shifted his weight carefully, adjusting his stance along the narrow rooftop beside the chapel. His cane rested across the back of his shoulders, balancing him as he moved step by step. Slow. Controlled.
The wind brushed past him, tugging at his sleeves. He listened for the shift of air, the slight creak of the building beneath his feet, the buzz of distant traffic. It kept him grounded. Kept him sharp.
He hated how limited he felt without his wand. He wasn’t supposed to use magic outside of school, not officially. But wandless, wordless magic? That was different. That wasn’t tracked the same way. As far as he could tell, anyway. He hadn’t tested it. Not properly. He thought about it sometimes—just a small charm, something subtle—but the risk wasn’t worth it. The last thing he needed was the Ministry showing up at a Catholic orphanage.
That would be hard to explain.
So for now, it was just this.
Training.
Repetition.
Balance drills on the rooftop when the nuns weren’t watching.
Trying to stay ready.
Waiting.
He paused, head tilted slightly, catching something faint—a quiet scrape of boots against metal. Ladder. Someone was climbing up.
He turned toward the sound. Light steps, but confident. Not hesitant. The rhythm was steady—someone used to climbing, not afraid of heights.
Her presence reached him before her voice did. Magic. Subtle, controlled. Clean edges. It didn’t flare or spike like others he’d sensed. It was precise. Cold, but not cruel. Focused. The kind of magic that didn’t waste energy.
“Hey.” Her voice cut through the quiet, clipped by an American accent. She was already close, boots meeting the rooftop edge. “You're not planning on jumping, are you?”
Matt dropped from the ledge without a word. The landing was light. Clean. Just enough weight to be heard but not draw attention. “Can’t say I was.”
She let out a breath, not loud, but easy to catch. Relief. “Good. I wasn’t planning on starting my holiday watching some idiot splatter across the pavement.”
Matt tilted his head a little, trying to angle toward her voice. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, but he hoped his eyes were at least vaguely pointed her way. “New around here?”
“Moved from the States. Few days ago,” she said, casually. But there was something underneath it—like she was daring him to react. “I’m across the street. Been watching you, church mouse.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Church mouse?”
“You’re an orphan, right? Saint Agnes?”
Her voice wasn’t mean. Just direct. Like she was confirming something she already knew. No pity in it. No edge either.
Matt gave a half-smile. “Should I be flattered? Most people don’t notice me.”
She didn’t laugh, but there was a flicker of amusement in her voice. “I noticed you roof-hopping. A lot.”
Heat rose in his face. He didn’t say anything right away. Being seen wasn’t part of the plan.
“Funny thing,” she went on. “Yesterday, you slipped. Thought you were going to crash headfirst into the ground. But then—just before you hit—you stopped. Froze. Like… mid-air.”
Matt winced. He’d hoped no one had seen that.
“Like magic,” she said, like she was testing him.
Matt smirked, almost despite himself. “I could say the same to you, witch.”
There was a pause. Not long.
“How did you know?” she asked. Her voice shifted—less sharp now, more curious.
Matt gave a small shrug. “That’s my secret, now, isn’t it?”
She made a sound—half huff, half laugh. Then he heard her move slightly, the soft shift of fabric and the air moving around her hand.
“Karen Page,” she said.
“Matt Murdock,” he replied. He didn’t reach out.
There was a pause. She pulled her hand back. “What, got a thing with germs?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Matt said, tone light.
“I held out my hand.”
He could hear how she leaned in a little when she said it. Curious, not offended.
“You’re not very perceptive, are you?” he said, pulling his glasses from his pocket and slipping them on. “I’m blind.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Huh. You don’t look blind.”
Matt put a hand to his chest, deadpan. “Miss Page, how am I supposed to look blind?”
“I mean…” She trailed off, searching for the right words. “You don’t seem blind. You’re running around on rooftops.”
Matt shrugged. He didn’t explain. He didn’t lie, either. Just let the question sit.
Karen didn’t push. He could hear her voice curl upward with a small grin. “I’ll get an answer out of you one day, Church Mouse.”
Matt turned his head toward her. “May I ask what you need from me?”
“You think I need something?” she asked, like the idea amused her.
“You tracked me down,” he said. “Not many people do that without a reason.”
“You’re kind of intense for a twelve-year-old,” she muttered. Then added, “Okay, fine. I’m going to Hogwarts now that we’ve moved to London. I need supplies. You wouldn’t happen to know where to get them, would you?”
“Diagon Alley,” Matt said. “I've got the list. Planning to go in August. I’ll drag you along if you ask nicely.”
She snorted. “I never ask nicely.”
“Fair enough, Bloodhound.”
“Oh god.” She groaned. “That’s not going to stick, is it?”
“I’ll stop the day you stop calling me Church Mouse.”
“Never,” she said, proud of it. “Church Mouse.”
He heard her shift again, weight moving, foot scuffing lightly against tile. She was turning.
“I should head back,” she said. “See you around, Church Mouse.”
She was already climbing down. The ladder creaked faintly under her weight. Then came the dull thud of her shoes landing below.
Matt stood still, listening. The street was quiet. Night air cool against his skin.
He let out a breath.
Did he just make another friend?
Maybe he did.
Matt sat cross-legged on the rooftop, the tiles sun-warmed beneath him. The heat soaked through his jeans and into his skin. He liked the way it felt—solid, grounded. Real. Karen was next to him. He could tell by the faint rustle of her clothes, the small shifts of air when she leaned back on her hands. Her presence was quiet, but never hard to track. They’d been spending almost every day like this lately—just sitting, sometimes talking, sometimes not. He didn’t mind the silence.
The orphanage was still his home, technically. But he didn’t stay inside much anymore. The kids there didn’t mess with him like they used to. Not since they figured out he could fight back. But they didn’t try to talk to him, either. They kept their distance. Ignoring him like he was furniture in the corner of the room. That kind of quiet hurt in a different way. Being punched was simple. Being treated like you didn’t exist stuck with you longer.
Classes weren’t part of his life anymore either. Hogwarts was on break, and even when it wasn’t, nothing they taught him here really applied. His world had shifted. Magic wasn’t just a word anymore—it was his reality. And once that changed, it was hard to care about regular subjects.
Father Lantom had noticed. Matt hadn’t told him everything—he definitely didn’t mention the fight, or how close it had come. But the priest wasn’t clueless. He didn’t need details to know something had happened. Matt could tell by how careful he was. Every movement measured, every step soft. His voice had taken on a gentler tone, quieter than usual, like he didn’t want to push. And when Matt thought he wasn’t paying attention, Father Lantom would pray under his breath. Not the kind of prayer you did out of duty. The kind that came out of worry. Habit mixed with fear.
But lately, the tension had eased a little. Since Matt had started spending time with Karen, Father Lantom had relaxed. Not completely. There was still an edge to him, a wariness in how he hovered just outside the room sometimes. But the tightness in his voice had loosened. It felt like he was waiting less. Like he didn’t think Matt was going to break anymore. Maybe it was because Karen was around. Maybe it was because she was magical too—someone who understood, even if they didn’t say it out loud.
They didn’t talk about that kind of stuff much. Most of what they learned about each other came in small, scattered pieces. A slow process. Guesswork.
Matt turned his head slightly as Karen adjusted her position beside him. He spoke quietly, voice even: “Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves, so be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”
Karen let out a quiet laugh. “Where’s that from?”
“Matthew 10:16,” he said.
“You’re an odd one, church mouse.”
He closed the Bible in his lap and stretched out, letting his back rest against the rooftop. The surface was rough and a little gritty under his shirt. But it didn’t bother him. It gave him something to focus on.
Karen’s voice cut through the calm. “Something wrong?”
He paused before answering, then hummed low in his throat. “Worried about someone.”
“A friend?”
“Kinda. We promised to write. I haven’t gotten anything back.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, casually: “Maybe they’re just busy. Or ignoring you.”
Matt shook his head. “He wouldn’t do that.” His voice dropped slightly. “I don’t think things are okay where he is.”
“Then go see him,” Karen said like it was obvious. “Find out for sure.”
“He lives in Little Whinging. It’s far. Like, an hour and a half.”
“So?” she said, like the distance didn’t matter. “We can commute.”
Matt turned his head toward her, surprised. “We?”
Karen didn’t hesitate. “Come on, church mouse. I’m not letting you do that alone. When do you want to go?”
Matt sat up a bit. “How are we even supposed to get there?”
“There’s this thing called public transportation,” Karen said, standing. “ I’ll figure it out.”
He hesitated. “I’d need permission from Father Lantom.”
“Then ask him.”
Matt’s voice dropped, quieter now. “Not today. I’m avoiding the church.”
Karen paused. “Why?”
He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “People show up there sometimes. Couples. Looking to adopt.”
There was a silence, just long enough for him to hear the way her breathing changed.
“Then why aren’t you…?” she started to ask.
“No one wants the blind kid,” Matt said flatly. “And I’m a wizard. I don’t think the Catholic muggles would really go for that.”
He tried to sound like he was joking. But the words came out empty.
Karen didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then he heard the shift of her weight as she sat back down beside him. The scrape of her jeans. The slow exhale from her nose.
“Sorry, Matt,” she said quietly.
He shrugged again. “I don’t need a family. The only person that mattered is... gone.”
There was another pause. She didn’t ask who he meant. She didn’t press. Just sat with him in the quiet, the way she always did.
Sometimes that was enough.
31st July.
It took longer than Matt expected to get Father Lantom to agree to a day trip. The priest wasn’t exactly thrilled at the idea of letting Matt wander around the city unsupervised. Matt ended up having to lie—said Karen’s dad was taking him. He didn’t say where. Not a word.
Lying was a sin. Matt knew that. God would have to forgive him for this one. Not that he was proud of it. Truth was, lying wasn’t new to him. It was something he did more often than he liked to admit. Maybe one of his biggest sins.
The afternoon air smelled faintly of rain and something like wet pavement. Matt stood just outside the orphanage, waiting. His fingers brushed over the rough brick of the building, grounding him.
Then, footsteps—quick and light—came closer. Karen’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and bright. “Got us a bus ticket!”
Matt smiled without needing to see her. The way her voice carried that excitement—that was all the proof he needed.
He followed Karen to the bus stop, feeling the shift in the air as they waited. When the bus arrived, it groaned under the weight of too many passengers. The smell hit him right away—stale sweat, something sour, and that underlying funk of worn-out upholstery. It was awful, but it was theirs for the ride.
They managed to find a seat near the back. Matt eased down, catching the vibrations of the bus as it started moving.
“So,” Karen said, voice curious, “what are you gonna do when you find your kinda-friend?”
Matt shrugged, his fingers brushing over the worn edge of the seat beside him. “Just check on him, I guess.”
Karen laughed, shaking her head. “Terrible planner, you are. I arranged this ticket and a ticket back. I’ve got everything planned to a T.”
Matt smirked at the nickname. “You plan too much, bloodhound.”
He leaned his head back against the hard, grimy headrest, then jerked away quickly. Ugh. Everything here felt so dirty. The griminess seemed to stick to his skin, the smell thick in his nose.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on something cleaner, quieter, somewhere better.
They sat in silence for most of the ride. The bus rattled along uneven roads, the low drone of the engine steady beneath their feet. Matt could hear the soft hum of tired conversation around them, the occasional cough, someone chewing gum too loudly two rows back. Karen didn’t say much, and he didn’t feel like pushing for small talk. It was a comfortable kind of quiet.
When the bus hissed to a stop, they stood and stepped off together.
“How far is Privet Drive from here?” Matt asked, adjusting his grip on his cane.
“Like a twenty-minute walk,” Karen replied. “Don’t tell me your precious legs can’t take it?”
Matt snorted. “Please. I could outrun and outwalk you.”
He swung his cane ahead of him, tapping it lightly against the pavement as they fell into step. The evening air smelled like cut grass and cheap petrol. Somewhere nearby, a sprinkler ticked.
“Hey, you kids!” called a voice—male, mid-thirties maybe. Firm tone. Not angry, but sharp.
Matt and Karen froze for a split second.
“Where are your parents?”
Karen jumped in before Matt could speak. “Oh, we live just in the houses up ahead,” she said quickly, her voice smooth and bright. “Going to meet up with them.”
There was a pause. Matt could hear the man’s breathing, the way his weight shifted on the sidewalk. A hint of suspicion, but no real tension.
The man grunted. “Be careful,” he said, then kept walking.
Matt waited until the footsteps faded. Then he and Karen started moving again, quieter this time.
“Think he bought it?” Matt asked under his breath.
“Probably not,” Karen said. “But he didn’t push it, so whatever.”
Matt nodded silently, and they kept walking. Their footsteps echoed softly against the quiet pavement, the night around them still and open. The wind was light, brushing against Matt’s face as they moved. He could hear the low hum of a streetlamp a few yards back, the faint rattle of a loose drainpipe somewhere nearby. Everything else was calm.
“Number four, number four… Privet Drive,” Karen muttered under her breath as they walked past a line of nearly identical houses.
Then she stopped. “Ah hah! There it is.”
Before Matt could react, she grabbed his arm and pulled him forward.
They halted just outside the house, near a trimmed set of bushes. Matt tilted his head slightly. Inside, he could feel it—not in the way others did, but in the way his senses layered together, letting him map the space through warmth, energy, and breath.
There were four people inside.
Only one of them gave off a magical signature. The aura was faint, but steady. That one was upstairs, toward the back of the house, likely in a bedroom.
Matt reached out and caught Karen’s sleeve. “C’mon. Follow me,” he said, guiding them quietly around the side of the house.
When they reached the backyard, he paused and pointed upward. “He’s on the second floor.”
Karen gave him a look—he could tell from the shift in the air, the tiny huff of breath through her nose. Amused. “You are one freaky guy, church mouse,” she said.
She didn’t wait for a reply. Matt heard her crouch, fingers brushing over the ground. A moment later, the weight of a small stone shifted in her palm. Then the throw—fast and clean. It hit the window with a solid thud .
They waited.
A few seconds passed before the window creaked open. Matt picked up the sound of a head poking out, followed by a voice trying—and failing—to whisper.
“Matt?!”
“Hi Harry,” Matt called back, keeping his voice even. “You never replied to my letters!”
There was a pause. Then Harry said, “I never got any letters. From anyone.”
Matt frowned. That didn’t make sense. He’d written three times. Maybe four. “Huh. That’s weird,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “Can you get down?”
“My aunt and uncle will be really mad at me,” Harry whispered. “I can’t go out from downstairs.”
Matt opened his mouth to respond, but Karen beat him to it.
“Just jump out of the window!” she said. “I’ll use magic to catch you.”
There was a beat of silence. Then Harry, more wary now, said, “Who are you—?” He stopped himself. “But we can’t use magic outside school,” he added quickly, still whispering.
“I don’t have a trace on my wand yet,” Karen said casually, like jumping out a second-story window was no big deal. “Just jump.”
Matt could hear Harry hesitate. The shift of his feet on the wooden floor. The slow, careful creak of the window opening all the way. A faint rustle of sleeves as Harry probably wiped his palms on his robes. Then—
“Okay,” Harry said. His voice shook, but he meant it. “Okay.”
There was the quick whoosh of movement. Matt tensed. For a second, it was quiet—then Karen’s voice rang out, steady and clear.
“Arresto Momentum.”
The sound of air slowing, magic doing its thing. A soft thud of shoes hitting the ground—not a crash. Matt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Matt!” Harry called. “You came all this way just because I didn’t write back?”
“You said you would.”
Harry jogged up and reached for a hug, then seemed to second-guess it and awkwardly pulled back. Matt didn’t mind. He could hear the tension in Harry’s breath, the tightness in his shoulders.
“Yeah, I haven’t gotten any letters from anyone…” Harry said quietly. “Kind of feels like everyone just forgot I existed.”
Matt scratched at his chin. The skin there was dry from the summer heat. “Doesn’t make sense. I wrote to you a lot. Way more than I wanted to, actually. Writing sucks.”
Harry let out a short laugh. Not a big one, but real.
“That is strange,” Karen said, stepping forward. Matt heard the shift of her coat, the confident way she carried herself, boots solid on the grass. Harry’s attention turned to her immediately.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Karen Page,” she replied. “I’m transferring from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts this year.”
“Ilvermorny?”
“America’s wizarding school.”
“Oh.” There was a short pause. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Potter.”
Karen didn’t sound impressed. “Yeah. I figured.”
Matt stood quietly beside them, listening. He could hear the slight shift in their weight on the grass, the breeze brushing against their clothes, the nervous energy in Harry’s breath—light, uneven.
Then something changed. A pop in the air. Sharp and fast, followed by a weird tingle that danced against Matt’s skin, like static. Magic.
A voice followed—high and squeaky, hard to place. “Harry Potter! Such an honor it is!”
Matt tilted his head, tracking where the voice came from.
“Who are you?” Harry asked.
“Dobby, sir. Dobby the house elf.”
The voice was small, but full of emotion—like it was barely holding together.
Harry was polite. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Dobby, but… why are you here?”
Matt tilted his head again, catching the strain in Dobby’s breathing.
“It’s just that… Dobby has come to tell you— it is difficult, sir—Dobby wonders where to begin?”
Karen cut in, sounding calm but firm. “How about we get a bit further away from the house, hmm?”
Harry agreed. “Yeah. Let’s just move a bit. Don’t want my aunt and uncle to hear.”
They started walking. Matt followed the sound of their footsteps, the slight shift in air as they moved. Dobby was light—barely a sound at all—but his voice stayed close.
Then Dobby paused. “Ah… D-Dobby sees that Harry Potter is with company. Dobby should go—”
“But you wanted to tell me something important,” Harry said.
There was a sudden thump. Something hitting something soft—flesh against cloth, again and again.
Matt turned toward the sound. “What is that?”
“Dobby is punishing himself!” the voice wailed.
Matt reached out instinctively and caught hold of two thin wrists. The skin under his fingers was warm and rough—like worn fabric or scraped knuckles. The wrists trembled in his grip.
“Hey,” Matt said, voice low but steady. “What are you doing?”
The elf was small, but there was tension in his arms—coiled strength beneath the shaking. He was trying to hit himself. Matt tightened his hold just enough to keep him still without hurting him.
“Stop,” Matt said. “Just talk. That’s better than this.”
“N-No—I shouldn’t…” the elf stammered. “S-shouldn’t tell…”
Matt didn’t let go. He focused on the tiny movements under his fingers: twitching muscles, the way Dobby’s hands kept trying to move even as he held them down.
“Why shouldn’t you tell, Dobby?” Harry asked from beside him.
“Dobby is bound to serve one family forever,” the elf whispered. “If they knew Dobby was here…”
Matt felt the tremor run all the way through Dobby’s arms. His voice was shaking too, barely holding together.
“But Dobby had to come. Dobby has to protect Harry Potter. To warn him.”
He took a breath, like what he was about to say hurt more than hitting himself.
“Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year. There is a plot. A plot to make most terrible things happen.”
Matt could hear Harry’s heartbeat pick up. His own fingers twitched slightly around Dobby’s wrists.
“What terrible things? Who’s plotting them?” Harry asked.
Matt wanted to know that, too. Every part of him was listening.
But Dobby only cried out, “Oh, he—he can’t say!”
Matt didn’t press harder, but he didn’t let go either.
“Okay,” Harry said, his voice softer now. “I understand. You can’t say.”
“Don’t make me talk,” Dobby said. His voice cracked. “L–”
Suddenly, the elf thrashed hard, trying to yank his arms free. “Bad Dobby!”
“Dobby, stop punishing yourself,” Karen said firmly. “I demand it.”
Something in her voice—solid, no room to argue—cut through the chaos. It struck the elf like a blow. He froze mid-motion, sharp breaths still shaking his chest, but the tension in his small frame eased. His limbs stopped flinching, like he didn’t know what to do now that no one was stopping him.
Matt didn’t move right away. He kept his arms around Dobby, but softened his grip—just enough to let the elf feel it. He wasn’t being restrained anymore. He was being held.
“Okay,” Matt said quietly. “You don’t have to hurt yourself to be heard.”
He meant it. And he hoped Dobby could tell.
There was a pause. Then Harry spoke up. “Look, Dobby, I have to go back to Hogwarts. It’s my home. All my friends are there.”
Matt picked up the change in Dobby before anything was said—the sudden jolt in his heartbeat, quick and uneven. Fear? Anger? Both?
“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby said, voice trembling.
Matt could practically feel Harry stiffen beside him. “Well, I mean he's here—hang on. How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”
Dobby’s voice went small, barely more than a whisper. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby hoped… if Harry Potter thought his friends had forgotten him, Harry Potter might not want to go back to school, sir…”
Matt stiffened. He didn’t need to see to know what that meant. “So you intercepted the letters.”
Karen let out a slow breath. “Well… that solves that mystery.”
“Give me my letters back,” Harry said firmly.
“N-No! Harry Potter mustn’t go back to Hogwarts!” Dobby cried.
Matt could hear something inside the house—heavy footsteps. A shift of weight on wooden flooring. The door latch clicking. Someone was about to come out.
“Harry,” he said low, “your aunt and uncle are about to come outside.”
Harry froze for a second, then took a step toward Dobby. “Give me my letters, Dobby.”
But Dobby’s voice turned desperate. “No! Bad things will happen if Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts!” There was a sharp snap, and then—gone. Just the faint pop of displaced air and silence.
The front door slammed open.
“BOY! What are you doing out of your room?” a man barked. His voice was thick, heavy, and furious.
Matt angled his head toward him instinctively. The man’s footsteps were loud and uneven, stomping rather than walking. A woman followed—lighter steps, but clipped, sharp. He could smell perfume and something overcooked on her.
Matt tightened his grip on his cane.
Karen stepped forward smoothly. “Ah, hi there—ma’am, sir. This young man here was just helping my brother out. He got a bit turned around…”
She gestured toward Matt.
He kept his tone calm, neutral. “Yes, I appeared to have wandered into your yard by mistake. My apologies.”
Harry jumped in quickly. “I, uh—I stopped him from tripping into the hole in our backyard.”
There was a long silence.
The man standing in the doorway didn’t speak, but Matt could hear his breath through his nose—sharp and uneven, like he was working hard to stay calm. Tension thickened in the air. Matt could feel it—the stiffness in the man’s posture, the subtle shift in his stance. Not movement exactly. More like pressure building under the surface.
Then came a sniff—quick, sharp—from the woman behind him.
“What are you doing wandering around anyway?” she snapped.
Matt adjusted his glasses. He stood up a little straighter, trying to sound steady. “Just out for a walk. I didn’t realize this was private property.”
“The yard door was open…” Harry said, pointing toward the fence.
“Well…” the man finally said, clearing his throat, voice clipped and forced polite, “My nephew’s a real... saint. Let’s get you on your way.”
“I’ll do it,” Harry said quickly, stepping in before either adult could object.
Without waiting, he started guiding Matt and Karen toward the fence gate.
Matt leaned toward him and whispered, “Will you be okay?”
“Y-yeah,” Harry whispered back. “Just another month.”
He hesitated, then added, voice quieter, “Could you… y’know, write to Ron and Hermione? Tell them I haven’t been getting letters. And... mine was taken.”
Matt gave a small nod. “I will.”
“Bye Harry,” Karen said softly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too. Bye, Matt.”
Matt didn’t say anything—just gave a quiet wave in Harry’s direction as they stepped through the gate and out onto the street.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. The sun was starting to lower, and Matt felt its warmth shift across his face. The city noise was dull in the distance, but everything behind them felt heavy.
“You okay, church mouse?” Karen asked eventually.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Glad Harry’s…”
He trailed off. There wasn’t really a good way to finish the sentence.
Karen didn’t push. She nodded, just once, and they kept walking.
They made it back to Saint Agnes without incident. The night was cold, and the wind had picked up—Matt could feel it brushing against his face, carrying the smell of the river and distant smoke from a chimney. The sound of traffic was muffled here, but footsteps scraped against the stone steps ahead of them, and Matt could already tell they weren’t alone.
Outside the orphanage doors stood Father Lantom… and someone else. A man Matt didn’t recognize by sound—but Karen tensed beside him as soon as she heard him. That was all Matt needed to know.
“Oh no,” Karen whispered under her breath.
“Matthew…” Father Lantom began, his voice heavy.
“Father Lantom,” Matt said quietly. He knew what was coming. The guilt was already there in his voice, low and steady.
“What were the two of you thinking?” Father Lantom asked, stepping down toward them. “Going off alone into the city? You’re twelve. It’s dangerous.”
“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I was just checking—”
“It’s my fault,” Karen cut in, stepping forward without hesitation. “It was my idea. I got the tickets. I told Matt to lie about being with my dad...”
Matt heard the shift in the other man’s stance—the short, sharp inhale before he spoke.
“Of course it was you, Karen,” the man said. His voice was clipped, controlled, but the bite in it wasn’t hard to miss.
Karen flinched next to him. Matt turned his head slightly toward her, but she was already shrinking back.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“We’re going home, Karen. Now,” the man—Paxton Page, Matt assumed—said firmly.
He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and started walking. Karen followed without a word. Her footsteps were tight and fast, like she was trying not to run but wanted to.
Matt stood there in the cold, listening to the two of them cross the street. He didn’t move, didn’t say anything else.
Father Lantom let out a slow breath beside him, then put a hand on Matt’s shoulder.
“Come inside,” he said quietly. “We’ll talk.”
Matt nodded and followed.
Matt followed Father Lantom into his office, the familiar creak of the wooden door and the faint scent of old paper and incense greeting him as always. He could hear the slight drag in the priest’s steps, the weight in them that meant he wasn’t just tired—he was disappointed.
Father Lantom closed the door behind them with a quiet click. The silence stretched for a moment.
“Matthew,” he began again, his tone calm but firm.
“I was checking on a friend, okay?” Matt cut in before he could say more. “I was worried about him.”
“You were gone all day. Traveling who knows how far by yourself is dangerous.”
“I can take care of myself,” Matt said, moving across the room and sitting down in one of the chairs. The cushion was slightly uneven—he remembered that from the last time he was here. “I can fight. And I have magic. No one can hurt me.”
He said it like a fact, not a boast. He believed it, mostly.
Father Lantom didn’t raise his voice. He rarely did. “Be that as it may, you’re still a ward of the state. And of this place. That means you don’t just answer to yourself.”
Matt didn’t reply right away. He tilted his head, listening. Somewhere downstairs, the bells from the chapel rang softly—faint, muffled through stone walls. His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said eventually. “I was trying to help.”
Lantom sat down across from him, the chair creaking under his weight. “Intentions matter, Matthew. But so do rules. We’re responsible for you. If something had happened...”
“But it didn’t.”
“No. It didn’t.” Father Lantom’s voice was calm but firm. He let the words hang between them for a moment, giving Matt time to feel their weight.
“Still,” Lantom continued, “disappearing—lying about it—without asking for help? It puts everyone in a difficult position. Including you.”
Matt leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him knew the priest was right. The truth sat heavy in his chest, but that didn’t make it any easier to say out loud.
“I wasn’t going to wait around while someone I care about might be in trouble,” Matt said quietly, the edge in his voice almost a whisper.
Lantom exhaled slowly, the sound soft but deliberate. “And that, I understand. But we do things together, Matthew. Not alone.”
Matt didn’t respond. Instead, he felt his fingers tighten slightly against the armrest—small, stubborn movements that said more than words could. After a moment, he let out a breath, the air whooshing quietly past his lips.
“But that’s a lie, isn’t it?” he said, voice low, almost bitter. “There is no ‘together.’”
Without waiting for a reply, Matt pushed himself up and walked toward the door. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his steps. He left before Father Lantom could say another word.
Matt sat cross-legged on the roof, parchment balanced on his knee, pen clutched awkwardly in his hand. Writing by touch wasn’t easy. He wasn’t sure if the letter would be readable or look like it had been attacked by a drunk spider, but it was done. A short note to Hermione and Ron. Hopefully enough.
Now all he needed was an owl.
A soft hoot cut through the quiet, and Matt turned his head toward the sound automatically.
Well. That was convenient.
Karen climbed up the last rung of the ladder and pulled herself onto the roof beside him. “Need an owl?”
Matt grinned. “Some scary deduction there, Bloodhound.”
“This is Mercy,” Karen said, stepping aside so the owl could hop forward on the tiles. “She’s mine.”
Matt reached out slowly. The owl—Mercy—didn’t flinch or pull back. Her head bumped lightly into his palm, feathers smooth, movement careful. Matt let his fingers brush her cheek.
“Why ‘Mercy’?” he asked.
Karen shrugged, the sound of her jacket rustling faint in the breeze. “She’s the nice one of the two of us.”
“You don’t give off a ‘mean’ vibe,” Matt said, quiet but certain.
“Oh, I’m ruthless,” Karen replied, not missing a beat.
Matt gave a short laugh under his breath as he finished tying the letters to Mercy’s leg. The owl shifted a little, talons gripping the perch as if impatient. He waited until she launched off, the soft beat of her wings fading quickly.
“Hope you didn’t get in too much trouble,” he said.
Karen shrugged. He heard it more than saw it—the rustle of fabric, the subtle shift of weight on the bench beside him. There was something in her voice when she spoke next. Not quite steady.
“Nah. Didn’t even get grounded. I think he was more mad that I dragged you into it…”
Matt opened his mouth, but she kept going.
“You?”
He paused a moment, then answered. “Father Lantom was more disappointed than anything. Worried, too. I kind of walked out halfway through the conversation. I should probably apologize before we leave. We’re going to Diagon Alley in a few days. Don’t want to start it off on a sour note.”
Karen let out a short laugh. “A priest in the wizarding world. Now that’s something I’d pay to see. Why’s he coming with you? Not just dropping you off?”
Matt shifted back against the cold stone of the roof, fingers tracing the rough mortar between the slabs. He let the air settle around him before he spoke. “I think he still sees me as his responsibility,” he said quietly. “If I had to guess… There are things he feels guilty about. Stuff from before. Maybe he thinks it’s his job to keep me safe.”
Karen’s voice was soft, a careful balance of reassurance and teasing. “Well, from what I can tell, you’re pretty good at keeping yourself safe.”
He offered a small smile. “Yeah… hey, you coming with me, right? To Diagon?”
“Yep,” she replied. “Dad doesn’t have time to go.”
“Okay.” The word felt steady on his tongue.
He paused, sensing the rhythm of her breathing beside him. The distant clatter of city life was muted up here, but he could hear the steady hum of carriage wheels on cobblestones far below.
“Thanks” he said after a moment, his fingers curling around the edge of the roof stone. “For… you know, helping me.”
“Always, church mouse,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice.
August
The drive to the Leaky Cauldron was mostly quiet. The hum of the engine, the occasional turn signal, Karen shifting in her seat. The city passed by in waves of sound—conversations through rolled-down windows, street vendors yelling, the thrum of footsteps and tires on uneven roads.
Father Lantom finally broke the silence. “So, what’s it like? This... Diagon Alley?”
Matt gave a half-shrug. “Noisy,” he said. “But I’m probably not the best person to ask, huh?”
“Sorry, Father,” Karen said quickly. “I haven’t actually been either. But if you mean the magical world in general... well, you’ll see. It’s kind of... hard to explain.”
“It’s beyond words,” she added after a pause.
“I’m sure it is,” Lantom replied, his voice calm, but with that edge Matt had learned to pick up on—part nerves, part quiet awe.
When they parked, Matt felt Father Lantom’s hand rest gently on his shoulder. Another pressed against Karen’s. The contact was reassuring. It also meant they were about to enter unfamiliar territory.
Matt had never come through the Leaky Cauldron entrance before. Last year, Professor Snape had taken him through a different way—straight into the alley without the awkward pub part. This was new. The air inside smelled of smoke and spilled ale, old wood and something earthy—like rain that had dried into stone. A chair scraped against the floor. Cutlery clinked on plates. Matt could feel people’s heads turning.
He hoped Father Lantom wasn’t wearing his cassock. People were already staring. A priest walking into a wizard pub probably wasn’t something they saw every day.
Matt could feel the tension in Father Lantom’s arm, just barely—the small flex and release of muscle under the sleeve. He didn’t say anything about it.
They made it to the back wall without incident. Matt heard Karen tap her wand against the bricks, and the stones shifted with a grinding noise that he could feel in his chest.
Then the smell hit him—magic had a scent, sort of. Or maybe it was just everything in the alley. Ink and parchment. Roasting nuts. Metal and polish. Spells, half-spoken and humming under the surface. It was too much all at once. Loud. Alive. A thousand details to sort through.
Father Lantom let out a short gasp. Karen laughed under her breath.
Matt wrinkled his nose. “It’s weird being around this much magic again,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “After months of just... regular noise.”
“Uh… well, where to?” Father Lantom asked, sounding slightly out of place. “I’ve got these—galleon things? The wizarding currency?”
“Let’s go to Flourish and Burkes first,” Matt said. “Karen, you’ll have to lead. I’ve got no idea where that is. But we can get books there.”
As they started moving, there was a shift in the air—sharp, like a pop of heat and something faintly metallic.
“That man’s spouting fire out of his stick,” Father Lantom said, startled.
“It’s a wand,” Matt said flatly. “It’s called a wand.”
They continued walking, the sounds around them growing more chaotic—layers of conversations, footsteps scraping over stone, the occasional magical whoosh or crack. Then something familiar tugged at Matt’s senses—a scent, a tone, the way the air moved around someone.
“Matt?” a voice called out.
“Ron,” Matt said, nodding toward the voice.
There were more people with him. Matt could pick out the rhythm of Percy’s speech as he greeted someone nearby. He recognized the twins too—louder, slightly out of sync with each other as usual. Then there were three others Matt didn’t know—two adults, based on their voices and the steadiness of their movements, and a younger girl, probably Ron’s sister. She stayed quiet.
“I got your letter, mate,” Ron said, coming closer. “Thanks for the heads-up on Harry. We jailbroke him.”
There was a pause.
“You what ?” an older woman’s voice cut in, sharp and unimpressed. “By ‘jailbreaking,’ you mean stealing your father’s car?”
Ron ducked, probably literally.
The woman stepped forward. “But… I do thank you, dears. Poor Harry,” she added, her tone softening. “I’m Molly Weasley. This is my husband, Arthur.”
Matt didn’t have time to respond before Father Lantom stepped up awkwardly beside him.
“You must be Matt’s father,” Molly said kindly.
Matt felt his whole body freeze. His stomach twisted. If he could disappear, he would’ve.
“Oh—uh, no,” Father Lantom said, clearly caught off guard. “I’m, well…” He cleared his throat. “Joseph Lantom. I’m a priest at the—uh…”
Matt stepped in quickly. “Father Lantom’s one of my guardians at the orphanage,” he said, voice even. “I’m an orphan.”
Silence followed. Not long, but just long enough to make Matt’s shoulders stiffen.
“You never said,” Ron said quietly.
Matt winced, barely. “Yeah. Didn’t come up.”
He kept his face neutral, like it didn’t matter, but he could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck. Not embarrassment, really—just that uncomfortable pressure that came when people looked at him like he was something breakable. He didn’t want the pity, didn’t want the shift in tone or the soft voices. He just wanted to move on, get the books, and leave this part behind.
Thankfully, Arthur Weasley stepped in like he’d sensed it. “Well, as my wife Molly said—Arthur Weasley. Always excited to meet a Muggle!”
Matt relaxed just a little as the focus slid away from him.
Father Lantom shook Mr. Weasley’s hand. “I suppose I should say it's nice to meet a wizard who doesn't look at me like I crawled out of a well,” he said. “I keep getting stared at.”
Mr. Weasley laughed warmly. “Oh, I study your world, actually! Electricity fascinates me. Imagine—light from wires!”
“Well, you seem to be able to move brooms with your minds. I’d say we’re even.”
Matt wasn’t entirely sure what was happening between them, but he was grateful the conversation had shifted. He let out a small breath, one no one but maybe Lantom would notice, and listened to the low hum of voices and footsteps around the crowded street. The air smelled like ink, old parchment, roasted nuts from a nearby cart, and the faint tang of something metallic from the wand shop next door.
“Where are you headed, dears?” Molly asked, her tone much lighter.
“Oh, uh—Flourish and Blotts,” Karen said.
That seemed to take the attention off both him and Father Lantom. Karen’s voice was steady but clipped. Not uncomfortable—just focused. Matt could tell when people didn’t want to explain themselves either. He respected that.
Mr. Weasley and Lantom were still talking in the background. Something about mass and rituals. Weird overlap.
“Who are you?” Ron asked, turning toward Karen.
“Karen,” she said. “Friend of Matt’s. My owl delivered the letters.”
“Oh. Well—I’m Ron.” Ron said it like he wasn’t sure if they were friends yet, but maybe they could be.
Karen gave a polite enough “hi,” and Matt figured that was probably as friendly as she got with strangers.
“Anyway—on the topic,” Matt said, turning a little more toward Ron, “you said you broke Harry free? Where is he?”
Ron cleared his throat, sounding a little guilty. “Ah, yeah, there was an issue with the Floo… Hopefully he’ll pop up soon.”
Matt frowned, but let it go.
“C’mon,” Ron added quickly, “let’s get to the bookstore.”
Matt didn’t need convincing. The sooner they got through the shopping, the better.
They finally made it to the bookstore. Mr. Weasley and Father Lantom were still deep in conversation, their voices low but constant, trading stories as they walked. The scent of ink and old paper drifted from the shop, familiar and comforting even from outside.
Just as they reached the door, the Weasleys and Matt’s little group ran into Hermione. She stood just a few feet away, accompanied by two adults. No magical signatures. Probably her parents.
Hermione stopped when she saw—or rather, sensed—him.
“Hey, Hermione,” Ron called, cheerful and unaware. “Look who we bummed into—Matt!”
The rest of the Weasley kids hung back, but Ron strode forward like this was the best coincidence ever. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley paused to greet the adults with Hermione, and Father Lantom joined in with a polite nod, immediately folding into conversation with the Grangers like he’d known them for years.
Karen stayed close behind Matt. He could hear the soft rustle of her shifting weight, the way she exhaled through her nose—quiet, but tense. Matt didn’t hesitate. There was something he needed to know.
He stepped forward. “Hermione.”
Her heart skipped. Then sped up. Fast, too fast. Maybe it was nerves. Matt didn’t comment.
“Hermione,” he said again, flat and steady, “tell me. What was your mark in History of Magic?”
There was a beat of silence.
“W-what?” she said, confused.
“Your mark,” Matt repeated. “For History of Magic. Your exact mark.”
“Oh, uh… ninety-five percent? W-why?”
Matt nodded, absorbing the answer. Ninety-five. Huh. Foggy had beaten her by three points. He was going to be annoyingly smug about that for days.
“Thanks, Hermione. Good to ‘see’ you.”
He turned slightly, about to step back —until Hermione’s voice stopped him.
“Wait… you’re not angry at me?”
Matt paused, frowning. “What for?”
Hermione shifted. He could hear the movement of her shoes against the floor, quick and uncertain. “F-for everything that happened…?” she said, her voice small.
Oh. Right. That.
Matt gave a small shrug. “Eh. It worked out in the end, didn’t it? Besides, I’m pretty sure that spell I cast on you was payback enough.”
He didn’t say it with any bite. If anything, it was more of a peace offering. Take the out, Hermione. Please.
She let out a breath—one of those tight ones people don’t realize they’ve been holding. “How did you even do that, anyway? That spell doesn’t exist.”
Ron jumped in before Matt could answer. “Yeah, seriously. My eyes burned for minutes. Thought I’d gone blind.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Welcome to my world.”
Ron made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan.
Matt crossed his arms. “I just tweaked Lumos , that’s all. Took months, though. Adjusted the intensity and how it reacts to eye sensitivity. I had to guess a lot of it, since I couldn’t, you know, test it myself.”
Hermione was quiet for a second. “You made that spell?”
Matt nodded. “Yeah. Needed something non-lethal that could buy me a few seconds in a fight. Figured light’s annoying enough if it’s strong and sudden. Guess it worked.”
“You didn’t tell me you were so clever, church mouse,” came Karen’s voice from behind him.
Next to him, he felt Hermione shift her weight, just a little. There was a cautious edge to it—her breath drew in and stayed there a beat too long.
“Who are you?” Hermione asked, guarded but polite.
“Karen Page,” Karen said. “I’m transferring to Hogwarts from Ilvermorny this year.”
There was a short pause. Not awkward, exactly—just long enough for everyone to measure each other. No one moved, but Matt could feel the tension stretch in the air. The sounds around them—people talking, owls hooting, trunks being dragged across stone—seemed to dull as the group focused in.
Then the silence broke.
“Hi guys!” said Harry, suddenly appearing like it was nothing. His voice was upbeat, open. Matt could tell right away that Harry had no idea he'd just stepped into a tense moment.
“Harry, mate!” Ron called out, footsteps quick as he ran over. “There you are, where did you end up?”
“Knocturn Alley,” Harry said casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Don’t worry though, Hagrid got me out. Hi Hermione, Karen, Matt.”
Matt gave a small nod. “Hey.”
“You guys coming inside or what?” Harry asked.
“Sure,” Matt said, stepping forward.
Draco
Draco followed his father into the bookstore, glancing around with mild interest until his eyes landed on a gaudy display near the front. There, surrounded by floating banners and a stack of his own books, stood none other than Gilderoy Lockhart—signing autographs with a blinding smile like he was doing everyone a personal favor.
Draco was about to ask his father if he could go get a signed copy when the whole atmosphere shifted. Familiar, unwanted voices drifted in from the entrance. Of course. The Weasleys. All of them crammed into one group like they couldn’t afford to stand separately. Draco made a face. As if their robes didn’t already make it obvious they shopped second-hand.
And right in the middle of it all—Potter.
Naturally, the second Lockhart spotted him, he forgot about everyone else. Before Draco could even roll his eyes, Lockhart had already pulled Potter up to the front like they were old friends. The crowd leaned in, the flashes went off. Now he was getting a photo with the greatest hero of the age.
Draco clenched his jaw. Of course. Potter didn’t even try , and yet everything always seemed to revolve around him. Must be nice.
Then, as if things couldn’t get more irritating, the Murdock boy came in. Quiet, as usual. Draco had picked on him once or twice out of boredom, but it hadn’t been very satisfying. Murdock barely reacted to anything. And he wasn’t even fun to hex—just stood there like he was used to it.
Still, what stuck with Draco more than the boy himself was the odd warning Flint had given him. “Stay away from that one,” he’d said. No explanation. Just a firm tone and a look that said not to ask questions. Which only made Draco more curious.
But then his attention shifted again.
The girl walking beside Murdock didn’t belong with the rest of this mess. She was tall,about the same age, with sleek blonde hair and eyes so blue they almost looked unnatural. The way she moved, the way she held herself—Draco could tell immediately. Pureblood.
He watched her for a moment, eyebrows raising just slightly.
Confident. Polished. The kind of girl who looked like she belonged at some formal gala, not loitering near the likes of Murdock.
Draco narrowed his eyes.
What was someone like her doing with him ?
He was just about to say something—something cutting, maybe just curious enough to sound harmless—when he noticed his father beginning to descend the stairs. Draco straightened instinctively and hurried to catch up.
By the time he reached Potter, his mouth was already moving. “Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter? Famous Harry Potter, can’t even walk into a bookshop without making the front page.”
He turned his head slightly, catching sight of the blonde girl again. She stood beside Murdock now, the two of them just watching. Murdock’s expression was unreadable, as usual. The girl, though—there was something pointed about the way she looked at Draco. Like she was measuring him.
He barely registered the Weasley girl piping up—something about leaving Potter alone, as if that ever worked. He was about to reply, something sharp on his tongue, when—
His father stepped forward and blocked him, guiding him back with the edge of his cane like he was furniture in the way. Draco bit the inside of his cheek and fell silent. Watching. His father started speaking to Potter, calm and deliberate as always, like he was discussing the weather. Ugh. It was irritating how he did that. Like everyone else was just a pawn in some long game only he understood.
Draco shifted his attention instead. Toward the blonde girl. Now that was something worth looking into.
He had only taken a few steps in her direction when he paused.
His father’s voice again. But not to Potter this time.
“Well, well, well, Weasley senior.” A short pause. “And who’s this with you? A Muggle. And a priest, no less. How… quaint. I wonder what sort of magic your world offers.”
Draco turned at the sound of a new voice, curiosity finally catching up with him.
Standing beside Mr. Weasley was a man he didn’t recognize. Older. Balding, slightly stooped. He wore something that looked vaguely like wizarding robes, but the fabric and cut were all wrong—cheap and stiff, like it came from some Muggle shop. Definitely not wizard-made.
Draco frowned. Who brought him?
The answer came before he could ask.
“A different sort of magic,” the man said calmly. His voice was low but carried easily. “One that doesn’t need wands to test character.” Then he added, “I’m Matthew’s guardian.”
Matthew.
So that was Murdock’s Muggle.
Draco’s gaze flicked to Matt automatically. The other boy stood still, hands in his pockets, his face unreadable. Draco knew better than to assume he wasn’t paying attention.
His father’s voice cut in, sharp and cold. “I thought that was one of yours , Weasley. And a blind one, no less. But I suppose only a Muggle could produce something—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Mr. Weasley launched himself at him.
“ Father! ” Draco shouted, completely frozen.
“ Arthur!? ” Molly Weasley called out, horrified.
“Gentlemen, please,” the priest said firmly, but no one was listening.
To Draco’s complete humiliation, his father—Lucius Malfoy—was fistfighting Arthur Weasley in the middle of a public bookstore.
No wands. No control. Just fists. Like common thugs.
Draco stood frozen, mortified, as fists flew and shouts bounced off the shelves. Robes were tangled, someone knocked over a display of cauldrons-for-kids, and the entire store had descended into chaos.
Then something flew.
Not a fist—this time a book. Thick, hardback, and spinning fast. It was coming straight at his face.
Draco flinched, eyes shutting on instinct, bracing for the impact.
But nothing hit him.
He opened his eyes, heart racing, and turned sharply. Someone had caught the book inches from his nose.
“Murdock?” Draco hissed.
Matt Murdock was standing next to him, one hand still raised from where he'd intercepted the book, the other gripping Draco’s arm.
“You wanna get hit?” the girl next to Matt said sharply. “Then keep standing there like a statue.”
She tugged at Matt’s sleeve, and Matt pulled Draco without waiting for a response. More books—and now, a broken wand box—sailed through the air as they ducked behind a toppled stand of spell scrolls.
Draco scrambled into the narrow space beside them, ducking low and swiping dust off his sleeves like that would fix anything. His robes were wrinkled. His hair was out of place. He looked like a mess. Fantastic.
“Merlin’s beard,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re barbarians. Actual barbarians.”
He leaned just enough to peek out from behind the shelf, watching in horror as Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley slammed into each other and knocked over an entire stack of broomcare manuals. A second later, three volumes hit the floor with loud thuds .
This was officially the worst day of his life.
He yanked his attention away and looked at the two kids crouched next to him. His nose wrinkled.
“Murdock,” he said, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his voice, “why did you help me? How did you even catch that book?! You’re blind .”
The question came out sharper than he meant, but still—he was confused, and annoyed, and kind of embarrassed. Saved by him , of all people. A blind Mudblood. It made his stomach twist.
Murdock didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to something Draco couldn’t hear. Creepy.
Draco turned to the girl. “Draco Malfoy. And you are?”
She raised one eyebrow like she didn’t care in the slightest. “Karen Page.”
“Page?” Draco repeated, frowning. “You seem like a pureblood, not some common—”
“I’m American,” she cut in smoothly. “But my mother was a Pucey, and the Pages are a pureblood family in the States.”
She held up one finger, pointing it directly at him. “And if you were about to finish that sentence with the word I think you were, I suggest you shut your mouth. Or I’ll cut out your tongue. Got it?”
Draco blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He swallowed. “Got it.”
“You’re a pureblood, Bloodhound?” Matt asked. His tone was casual, almost curious. “Huh.”
Karen smirked. “Still have a few secrets, church mouse.”
Draco didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He straightened up slightly, dusting himself off again even though it was pointless. He wasn’t supposed to be hiding in a corner with some American girl and a blind kid who moved like he wasn’t. He was a Malfoy.
He was done with this.
He started to slip out of their little hiding spot, fully prepared to walk away and pretend none of this had happened. Just act like it was all a weird dream.
But when he peeked around the edge of the shelf again, reality had only gotten worse.
Books and random objects were still flying. Loud voices echoed off the walls. And now—now his father and Mr. Weasley were on the floor.
Actually wrestling.
Not dueling. Not shouting across a table like civilized adults.
Wrestling. On the floor. Like children.
Mrs. Weasley was pulling on Arthur’s arm, trying to yank him back. The priest—what was his name again?—was trying to restrain Lucius. Neither effort was working.
Draco just stood there and stared.
What was wrong with these people?
He let out a groan, rubbing a hand down his face.
Finally, it looked like some kind of truce had been reached. The two men had separated—sort of. Lucius was muttering under his breath, and Mr. Weasley was being scolded like a first-year.
“Seems to be safe now,” Murdock said calmly.
Draco glanced sideways at him. “Seriously, how do you do that?”
Karen nodded toward the open aisle. “Well, go on, Draco. Out first.”
Draco sniffed, mildly offended at being volunteered, but stepped out anyway. His father was a mess—hair out of place, coat wrinkled, the usual mask of composure cracked right down the middle. Mr. Weasley wasn’t much better, now standing awkwardly while Mrs. Weasley lectured him in sharp, quiet tones.
Potter, Granger, and the Weasley swarm had all vanished. Typical. Avoid the fallout and let everyone else clean it up. Honestly, not a bad strategy.
Draco sighed and walked over to his father’s side.
Lucius immediately began straightening his vest and smoothing his hair back, trying to salvage some dignity. “Let’s get away from these... savages,” he muttered.
Draco didn’t respond. He was too busy imagining the look on his mother’s face when she heard about this.
Oh, he was absolutely telling her. Every detail. He just… probably wouldn’t mention the part where a Muggleborn had saved him.
Yeah. That part could stay quiet.
Matt
“So… Matthew,” Father Lantom said, tugging his sleeves back into place. “The wizarding world. Good to know it’s so very much like the normal one.”
His voice was dry, clipped around the edges, but Matt could catch the strain underneath. That faint hitch in his breathing. The way his footsteps had dragged more than usual on the walk over. Lantom was tired. Beyond tired. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon stopping a fight in the library—of all places—then trailed after them through what felt like every shop in Diagon Alley. One of those shops had a jar full of something slimy that exploded when Karen sneezed.
Karen let out a sudden snort, trying to hold it in. Matt didn’t even bother. He barked out a laugh, short and loud. Then they were both laughing, and neither could really stop.
It wasn’t the kind of laugh that came from a joke. It was from everything piling up until it just had to spill out. The absurdity of the day. How weird everything was. How loud. How stupid. Matt hunched forward a little, elbows on his knees, his shoulders shaking. Karen was practically choking beside him.
Lantom didn’t laugh, but Matt heard him exhale slowly through his nose. That quiet, worn-out kind of sigh that said he was putting up with them because he had no choice. It made Matt laugh harder.
“What a disaster,” Matt said, still grinning.
“Understatement,” Karen wheezed.
Matt tilted his head toward the alley beyond the shop’s open door. A woman arguing over cauldron prices, someone dropping what sounded like a tin bucket, broomsticks clattering into a rack, a pair of owls fluttering past overhead. All of it messy and loud and strange.
But here, on the shop steps, with Karen’s shoulder still bumping his every so often, and Lantom hovering nearby like he always did when he thought Matt needed steadying—even if he didn’t—it felt all right. Safe. Like things made sense for once, even if the world outside didn’t.
It wasn’t a perfect moment. But it was a good one. And that didn’t happen often.
So he let himself have it.