Chapter Text
Leander hadn’t expected to be leaving for Hogwarts. Honestly, he hadn’t expected to see anything beyond the walls of his well-meaning family’s estate. He was a squib. Shameful for a pureblood family—even if his parents and siblings insisted otherwise. No amount of platitudes could make up for the fact that he was forced to stay at home, playing with the honking daffodils, while his siblings went to school and got careers and grew up without him. He stayed the same; the same baby face and too-big nose and freckled face, covered with dirt from spending too long with the plants. The estate’s expansive property had never been large enough to contain him, especially not for fifteen years. His only comfort was that his littlest brother William hadn’t gone off to Hogwarts yet and left him alone—all his older siblings had, one after another, coming back less and less until they stopped coming back almost altogether. His parents tried, they did, but there was only so much you could do for a magicless child, one with no playmates and no future. Leander would never get to make his own life, never get to learn spells or make friends or get a job or leave or get a butterbeer or go on a date or see a real greenhouse, one with all sorts of plants he’d only read about. He wasn’t quite sure what else life consisted of—his siblings only shared so much, and they were his only windows to life outside the estate.
He supposed he was about to find out, four years too late to be normal. He didn’t so much mind the missed time—he was thrilled to ever get the chance at all. Professor Fig had been a blessing, showing up at their doorstep one afternoon—well, he’d sent an owl first, but neither Leander nor his parents had expected the frail, elderly man to inform them that the quill had written Leander’s name in the book of Hogwarts. He was to be admitted that year, and the school had sent Professor Fig to teach him the basics. His parents had been unsure—Leander’s a squib, how could it have written his name?—Leander had been surprised—now, after fifteen years?—and Professor Fig had merely smiled, watching the honking daffodils that Leander had been talking to preen and perk up, their wilting leaves unfurling and filling with green.
Leander hadn’t been home since then. Too much to study—mostly spellwork, but Leander was woefully unknowledgeable about the history of the wizarding world, and just about everything else—but, if Leander was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what on earth he’d say to them. It’s why he ignored the letters they sent him until Professor Fig prompted him to send one back. His parents had gotten him an owl for that very purpose—a beautiful barn owl that he’d named Mallowsweet—but she spent more time perched on his shoulder than anything. She was great company; she never laughed when he messed up a spell, and her eyes were always approving and affectionate, unless he accidentally knocked her from her perch. He missed his family, he did, but… none of his sisters had sent him a letter, nor his older brother. The ones from his parents were bland and worried; he never quite knew what to say in response. He wondered if that’s how they’d felt about him—never quite sure what to do with him.
He shook his head. He wasn’t going to dwell on that now. They were off to Hogwarts, finally, and he had enough worries to ruin the moment already. He didn’t need one more. His stomach churned as he stood next to the horseless carriage (he at least knew enough to be sure that the carriage wasn’t actually horseless; but no matter how suspiciously he eyed the reins, the thestrals did not magically appear. he supposed he’d be a bit concerned if they did), but he still offered Professor Fig a nervous smile. Professor Fig returned the smile in kind, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Can’t Mallowsweet stay in the carriage?” Leander tried hopefully, turning his gaze to where the barn owl sat perched on the luggage. She tilted her head at him, cooing softly, before going back to pecking at the bags that held the seeds he’d needed to purchase for school.
Professor Fig shooed her back a few hops, and she shrilled at him, moving to perch haughtily on a different bag. He shook his head with amusement, his crow’s feet more prominent when he smiled. “No, she’ll get bored without space to spread her wings. Plus, she’ll probably leave us at some point to hunt—best to leave her outside.” Leander’s expression fell a bit, and he turned his attention back to the owl, who was still trying to sneak a few seeds, unaware of what was going on.
“You’re probably right,” Leander responded glumly. He wouldn’t want Mallowsweet to feel trapped, but her presence and weight on his shoulder was always comforting. He reached out to run his fingers through her feathers, taking a deep breath. Mallowsweet tilted her head at him, lightly pecking at his hand as if in inquiry. Leander stroked her cheek, blinking back a sudden rush of tears.
“Hey,” Professor Fig’s voice gentled, almost fatherly. “No need for tears, Leander. I know it’s hard, since this is your first year and you aren’t used to being around so many people, but I promise it’ll be alright. You’ll like it there—and I’m sure you’ll make friends; you have quite the sense of humor.” Professor Fig stooped down a bit (not much; the Professor was tall, but Leander wasn’t much shorter), placing a hand on Leander’s shoulder.
Leander’s eyes fluttered rapidly, but it did nothing but push the tears that had been forming out of his eyes. Leander felt silly—other students did this all the time, going off to school. Besides, he’d been preparing for this for months. He wasn’t a child; there was no reason for him to cry. It was just—stupid. Surely, no one would want to be friends with him if he cried at everything. “Mhm. Sorry.”
“Leander. Leander, look at me. You’re not doing anything wrong. This is all new for you; of course it’s stressful. You have every reason to feel this way—I just want you to know that
It won’t be as bad as you’re imagining. It’ll take some getting used to, but I’m sure it’ll be good for you. Alright?” Professor Fig met Leander’s eyes earnestly, shining with faith and a care that Leander wasn’t used to.
“Alright,” Leander breathed, a couple of sniffles escaping him as he wiped at his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. When he was mostly calm again, he lifted his gaze to meet Professor Fig’s, his head lifted slightly to display a confidence he didn’t feel.
“Attaboy.” Professor Fig smiled at Leander, the expression making his whole face glow. Leander looked away, unable to continue to meet Professor Fig’s gaze. “Well,” Professor Fig began, straightening up. “I think we’re about ready to depart. It's a pity we didn't have a bit more time to spend on spell casting, but you’ve been doing well with the spells we’ve worked on. Getting a wand of your own will help quite a bit, I’m sure. While we’re en route, we could—”
Professor Fig’s sentence was cut off by a man that Leander had never met before apparating in front of them. Leander startled, hand instinctively reaching down to clutch at his wand. Leander’s eyes went wide with fear, and his heart beat like a baby bird, or more accurately, the hummingbirds that Leander’s mother always liked to feed when they came ‘round for the summer. Leander’s eyes darted to Professor Fig, expecting similar confusion or fear, but was met instead with a delighted surprise.
“Oh, hello! George! Glad my rather… cryptic description of our location did not thwart your finding us.” Professor Fig seemed to relax, a wide smile spreading over his face. Leander tried not to let his own expression twist into a scowl—Professor Fig had invited someone? Without telling Leander?
“Oh, not to worry, I’ve apparated to more vaguely defined destinations than this!” The man—George?—laughed heartily, and a bit too loudly for Leander’s frayed nerves. “Though I confess I may have miscalculated slightly on my first try. Gave quite the fright to some theater goers in the West End!” George winked at Leander, as if expecting him to find it amusing. Really, Leander was still preoccupied trying to understand the situation. Still, his heart rate had begun to slow enough to remind him to look less like a frightened rabbit. Thankfully, George had returned his attention to Professor Fig quite quickly, giving Leander a moment to breathe.
Now that Leander took a moment to observe the man, it was true he didn’t seem much of a threat. Evidently, he knew Professor Fig, and was on good terms with him, but the man also had a cheerful smile and friendly demeanor that put Leander at ease. The man was a bit portly and swayed a bit as he walked. His appearance was made even odder by the wide, circular glasses that crookedly framed his face and dark brown hair that was combed over to hide the fact that it was beginning to bald. He had a short mustache, more of a fur above his upper lip, similar to Leander’s own father. Unlike Leander’s father, however, the man’s beard was little more than stubble, as if he either couldn’t grow it or had forgotten to shave it. His worn brown jacket, not too different from Leander’s own, was open over an almost identically colored vest with a white dress shirt underneath. The whole assemble was tied together by a small bowtie cinched right below his collar. If the man hadn’t startled Leander so much, Leander might’ve called the man endearing. As it was, Leander still wasn’t much inclined to like the man. It was only a small consolation that he hadn’t apparated to them while Leander was crying—Merlin, Leander would’ve made to jump out of the carriage if that happened.
The man glanced at Leander with a wide, easy smile that Leander tried to return, but the unease he felt made it a poor effort. This didn’t seem to affect Mr. Osric’s enthusiasm at all.
“It's been much too long. When I received your owl, I must say—” Professor Fig began, a fond look in his eyes as Professor Fig spoke to Osric. Old friends, then. Leander couldn’t help but feel a stab of annoyance that he’d be shoved to the back while they caught up—and then he immediately felt bad for feeling that way: Professor Fig was going out of his way and inconveniencing himself to teach Leander, Leander didn’t need to be a bigger problem.
“Er—best not to speak here, Eleazar.” Osric cut Professor Fig off, with a nervous glance around that did not make Leander feel any better. Was there something going on that he didn’t know about? Or, better question, was there something going on that he should know about?
“Of course,” Professor Fig agreed, a flicker of a frown appearing on his face before his face cleared. “Why don’t we speak en route to Hogwarts? We have a start-of-term-feast and a sorting ceremony to get to
‘Wonderful idea—as long as your young charge here doesn't mind me tagging along,” Osric added, turning his big, beaming grin back to Leander, bright enough that Leander squinted his eyes. Honestly, it was a waste of words to Leander—it wasn’t as if Leander would actually be given a choice.
“Not at all, sir,” Leander lied through his teeth. As much as he didn’t want to be traveling for hours in a small carriage with someone he didn’t know, it was impolite to say anything else. And, again, Leander would hate to cause more problems for Professor Fig. Leander was already enough of a problem in himself.
“Ages since I've been to the castle. Would be good to see the old pile of rocks,” Osric mused, speaking mostly to himself. Leander had stopped listening, though, instead glancing back at the carriage warily. Right. Hogwarts. Was it too late to back out now? He could just go next year…
It was worth it when Professor Fig turned his gentler smile to Leander, dispelling Leander’s increasingly anxious thoughts. “After you,” Professor Fig gestured to the carriage—he must’ve cast a spell or something, because the door opened all on its own, a gaping maw that Leander wasn’t particularly keen on being swallowed by. Still, he plodded to the carriage, resignedly choosing a seat closest to the door as possible after looking one last time to see Mallowsweet perched firmly on the luggage. No going back now.
Leander just barely caught Osric’s apprehensive look around before the man climbed into the carriage and the door shut behind with an ominous thud.
Leander couldn’t quite say he liked flying. Maybe it was just because it was his first time, but the shaking and swaying of the carriage as it rose into the sky and the rumbling of the carriage once it evened out above the clouds made Leander squeeze his eyes shut—and then immediately open them, because having them closed was worse. A headache began to tug at his temples, and he wished he’d brought some feverfew. It might’ve helped his stomach as well. Leander brought his wrist up to his lips, then lowered it quickly. As much as he ached for the stress relief of biting, he wasn’t about to do that in front of Mr. Osric. His elder brother had always said it was weird. Still, the lack of stimulation made Leander’s body throb with energy, and it was only helped so much by the twisting and fidgeting of his hands.
Thankfully, it didn’t seem he’d be required to speak or engage at the moment, so he was free to space out and disassociate as much as he’d like. He let his eyes gaze out the window, not focusing on anything in particular as Osric began to speak.
“Glad I caught you before you left for Scotland,” Osric commented, whatever had been bothering him gone from his face. He seemed happy to joke and catch up with Professor Fig, but Leander got the idea that there was more to it than that. After all, Osric could’ve done that on a different day—and yet, he had to meet today. At least, that’s what Leander assumed—he would like to think that Professor Fig would’ve let Leander know earlier (or at all) if he’d invited someone over.
“Just barely!” Professor Fig chuckled. It was true; a few minutes later and they’d have already been gone. Leander kind of wished they had missed him—then bit his tongue to quiet the thought. That was rude of him.
“And who is your traveling companion?” Osric asked, looking to Professor Fig to answer that question. It bothered Leander a bit—he was sitting here too, he could’ve answered the question—though, he wouldn’t have wanted to. He didn’t need to look for a problem in everything Osric did. He sucked in a breath to his teeth, firmly staring out the window at nothing. He was just stressed; he didn’t need to spiral. Merlin, that was the last thing he needed right now.
“A new student—Leander Prewett.” Professor Fig introduced Leander with a warm smile that Leander missed. He glanced back at Osric, offering his best smile under the circumstances, hoping the conversation would move on and that Leander would be left alone.
“New?” Leander wasn’t sure if Osric’s eyes widened at his family name. It wasn’t as if the Prewett’s were as powerful as the Gaunts, or as unorthodox as the Weasleys, but they were still a prominent pureblood family. Or at least that’s what he heard. If anything, though, Osric seemed more surprised at the first part of Professor Fig’s statement, his eyes moving to appraise Leander as if he were some sort of curiosity.
“…yes, sir, I'm starting school as a fifth year.” Leander spoke reluctantly, his voice low. He glanced at Professor Fig’s feet, unable to meet his eyes to ask for a change of subject. He wished he could disappear. Was it really that odd? He’d been hoping no one would notice… maybe this really was a bad idea. Leander hadn’t grown up with any other kids; how on earth was he to fit in with the other kids?
“How extraordinary!” Osric breathed, his eyes not leaving Leander. The carriage dropped briefly, but that wasn’t what caused Leander’s stomach to flip flop. Osric almost looked as if he wanted Leander to continue, to explain, but Leander’s throat had constricted and he couldn’t say more if he wanted to.
“Indeed! None of the faculty has ever heard of anyone being admitted to Hogwarts this late.” Professor Fig agreed politely, and somewhat evasively. Leander hunched in slightly, his gaze flickering to the ground. It was a nice way of avoiding mentioning that Leander had been thought to be a squib, and was never expected to be able to cast a lick of magic at all.
If Osric noticed or was disappointed by the lack of an explanation, he didn’t show it. “Nor have I,” the man simply agreed, his eyes shining with unsatisfied curiosity. The man glanced at Leander, as if he could find his answer by scrutinizing him long enough. Leander had never been more thankful that his parents had hidden him away—the thought of being stared at like a curiosity bothered him far more than he had expected.
“Of course,” Professor Fig tactfully changed the subject, “As the other fifth years will have been honing their magical skills for four years now, the Deputy Headmistress asked if I could get her new student up to speed a bit before the term begins.” Professor glanced over at Leander as he spoke, his eyes alight with warm pride. Something odd bubbled in Leander’s chest when he met Professor Fig’s eyes, and he glanced away quickly. He had a feeling he’d cry or say something stupid if he didn’t.
Well, you couldn’t have asked for a better mentor! Professor Fig is not only an exceptional teacher, he's also a remarkably intuitive and gifted wizard,” Osric assured Leander, his eyes sparkling with a sort of fond familiarity that Leander did not share. Leander was sure that the man meant well, but… Leander had never been the kind of person to grow attached so easily, and Leander could not say he felt any sort of comradery with the man who’d already thrown him off balance merely by showing up. Leander bared his teeth in what could loosely be called a smile, his posture still tense and wary.
“Mr. Osric is prone to flattery,” Professor Fig waved off the compliment, letting out an awkward chuckle. It set Leander at ease to hear the professor speak, his familiar voice and obvious embarrassment making Leander feel less out of place. “I dare say it's one of the reasons he's risen so far at the Ministry,” Professor Fig added in a conspiratorial tone, winking at Leander. His returning smile was far more genuine this time, and Leander moved to sit a bit straighter. He’d been hunched over slightly, shrinking back like a scared animal.
The word “Ministry” seemed to affect Osric oddly—the man went silent and glanced out the window again, checking to see if the driver was listening in. The conversation reached a lull, but the quiet was too tense to be the hushed tranquility Leander had been hoping for. After a moment, he pulled put a newspaper article from the side pocket of his overcoat. Leander tilted his head towards the paper, interested. Leander had been allowed to read the paper sometimes, and it was always fascinating, even if he didn’t understand much of it or the terms.
“Have you seen this?” Osric began without prelude, flipping the newspaper out so they could read it. The paper was dominated by a picture of what Leander assumed was a goblin—Leander had seen pictures in books, and he had vague memories of visiting Gringotts with his family. Even if he hadn’t remembered, the heading was a dead giveaway—Ranrok’s Goblin Rebellion. Leander hadn’t heard of that—though, his parents usually didn’t talk to him about politics, and his older siblings weren’t home to tell him about it anymore.
“I have.” Professor Fig only spoke the two words, his expression hardening into thin lines. Leander couldn’t read his expression, but he knew enough to assume it wasn’t good. Professor Fig seemed to be waiting for Osric to elaborate, though it was clear he already knew at least some of what Osric was about to say.
“Opinions differ as to how great a threat Ranrok really is.” Osric began, pausing after the sentence. He stared firmly at the floor, as if trying to decide if he wanted to continue.
Leander’s attention was drawn back to the window he’d been so determinedly staring out earlier, a flash of red and an awful, twisting feeling in his gut catching his attention. The red was swallowed quickly by the cloud layer, so quickly that Leander would’ve thought he’d imagined it if not for the large shadow and the almost painful unease in his stomach. The conversation went on around him, oblivious to his turmoil.
“Although I've yet to convince my colleagues at the Ministry, I believe he is a significant threat.” Osric finally added, his voice guarded and his usually cheery features pinched. “And it was your wife, Eleazar, who alerted me to his activities months ago.” And there was the reason Osric hadn’t wanted to continue. The words sucked the air out of the carriage, drawing Leander’s attention away from the window and making him squirm in his seat. Clearly, something had happened—something to do with Miriam. Leander didn’t know much about her, or how she’d died—he only knew her from those vulnerable moments when Professor Fig would speak of her, before shutting down again.
Perhaps the thing of most substance that Leander knew about Miriam Fig was that she was dead. It had taken a while to even learn that.
“Miriam? How?” Professor Fig gasped, the words sounding almost painful as they dredged up memories Leander only ever saw the shadow of. Leander didn’t like the way it twisted Professor Fig’s face into something anguished and grieving.
Osric sighed heavily, as if this was the very response he’d feared. “She… she wrote to me about Ranrok before she died, wondering what the Ministry knew about his activities.” Osric lifted his head to the ceiling of the carriage, as if he could look up to Miriam. It was clear that this memory, like the ones Professor Fig held, pained him.
“Before I could respond I received this. It was the last thing she sent me.” Osric pulled a cylindrical container out of his seemingly never-ending coat pocket—it was a beautiful dappled green-blue, dusty with age and earth but still finely made. It was inlaid with a metal Leander had never seen before, with an odd twisting symbol on the side. It buzzed softly, a friendly energy, much different than the feeling he’d had before. Leander leaned closer, fascinated by it. “It came to me via her owl, but with no correspondence—I can only assume that she had to get rid of it quickly, to keep it safe. Presumably, from Ranrok,” Osric finished, his expression somber. It was clear that this had been weighing on him—and Leander now understood why Osric could not wait to see Professor Fig.
“I cannot open it. Whatever magic protects this is powerful indeed.” Osric handed the cylinder ever so carefully to Professor Fig, his eyes full of a steel that Leander would not have expected from him.
“It looks like Goblin metal,” Professor Fig mused, turning the cylinder in his hands. “That symbol—” Professor Fig began, but Leander had already begun to speak, having assumed Professor Fig had finished.
“What’s that glow?” The tips of Leander’s ears turned red, and his mouth moved to apologize for interrupting, but he snapped it shut when Professor Fig spoke again.
“I don't see a glow.” Professor Fig’s gaze was curious, tilting his head in a similar way to Leander, observing the cylinder one more time before fixing his gaze on Leander and passing the cylinder into Leander’s hands.
“Nor do I.” Osric agreed, his attention fully drawn to Leander for the first time since they’d met, studying Leander as if he’d never seen him before. Leander felt almost uncomfortable being so closely scrutinized.
The metal was cool to the touch, an oddly smooth texture that made the ridges and designs of the cylinder stick out even more. It was odd—holding the cylinder intensified the twisting feeling from earlier, making Leander’s face scrunch up in distaste. The feeling vanished all at once with a click, and it took Leander a moment to realize the sound wasn’t just in his head—the capsule had opened, revealing an elegant golden key with an odd pattern for a handle nestled in the capsule’s velvet interior.
“Merlin's beard!” Osric exclaimed in reverent awe, leaning closer to the cylinder, his eyes alight with interest.
“How did you—?” Professor Fig exclaimed, his eyes widening in something that, again, Leander could not read (he was getting quite sick of that). Professor Fig’s hands came up, fluttering nervously, as if he was trying sure whether or not to stop Leander.
The metal was cool to the touch, an oddly smooth texture that made the ridges and designs of the cylinder stick out even more. It was odd—holding the cylinder intensified the twisting feeling from earlier, making Leander’s face scrunch up in distaste. The feeling vanished all at once with a click, and it took Leander a moment to realize the sound wasn’t just in his head—the capsule had opened, revealing an elegant golden key with an odd pattern for a handle nestled in the capsule’s velvet interior.
Leander reached out to grab it, startling when Professor Fig’s hands appeared, pushing his back with a warning— “Careful, we don’t know—” and then everything shattered. Panic and fear and a hundred other emotions, all equally negative, exploded in his chest, much like the carriage around him.
Where Leander had been looking across the carriage at Mr. Osric there was now only a gaping hole where he had been, leaving an opening for the wind to try to drag Leander out of the carriage—and a dragon. Definitely a dragon. The behemoth was a crimson red color, like blood, her eyes angry and pained. But what really caught Leander’s eye was the cruel-looking collar around her neck and the hostile glow emitted. Just a glimpse of it made a rage that wasn’t Leander’s own bubble up.
White-hot fear exploded in Leander’s chest, and he shoved himself back against the remaining shell of the carriage to put even just another inch between him and the dragon (and also to avoid being blown out of the carriage). Leander couldn’t help but stare at the part of the carriage held in the dragon’s mouth, and the hand desperately sticking out of the ruined carriage. Leander had just enough time to think Professor Fig will fix it before the dragon snapped its jaws shut, cutting off Mr. Osric’s scream.
The scream seemed to echo, and then Leander realized it was him screaming. Leander turned to Professor Fig for reassurance, or some other meaningless platitudes, only to blanch upon seeing Professor Fig’s sickened expression. Leander turned away before the fresh jolt of terror could make him vomit.
Looking out the front window of the carriage, Leander could see the driver, the man’s oversized goggles failing to hide the horror in the man’s expression. Worse, though, was the sudden and violent appearance of the thestrals, stealing Leander’s breath.
Leander wished he could’ve seen the thestrals in a different circumstance, one where he could appreciate them better. They were pretty, in a grim sort of way, similar to how his seasonal plants looked before they withered and died, decomposing to fertilize the ground. They drew attention, in the way you realize how beautiful and important something is to you right before you lose it—a feeling Leander was familiar with. There was only one thing that Leander’s newfound ability to see the thestrals could have meant—Leander jerked his head to face the dragon again, watching with an odd sense of detachment as bits of the carriage rained down from the dragon’s mouth. Mr. Osric was dead.
The stage coach yanked the reins, but the thestrals wouldn’t be able to pull them away fast enough. They needed to be released so they could escape Mr. Osric’s fate. Leander’s chest constructed as he realized that Mallowsweet had been perched on the missing side of the carriage. Leander turned his head back toward the dragon, praying to whoever could hear him that Mallowsweet had gone off to hunt like Professor Fig had suggested she might.
A hand caught Leander by the overcoat, pulling him back against a firm body and sticking him there by the force of their velocity—Professor Fig. “Hold on!” The professor cried, reaching out his hand towards the key that was too far out of reach, flipping and spinning in the air, glinting almost mockingly. Leander’s eyes widened in shock as the key stopped, suddenly flying towards Professor Fig’s hand. The weird, twisting feeling returned when Professor Fig’s fingers curled around the key, and Leander squeezed his eyes shut with a whimper as he felt the wind whistle through the dragon’s approaching teeth. And then they were gone, leaving the dragon’s jaw to slam shut on empty air.
When Leander came to, he sucked in a breath, his lungs aching. He felt like he’d been punched in the stomach—or like he’d fallen from who-knows-how-high, which was, unfortunately, the more likely cause. Leander tried to sit up, but nearly bit off his tongue as he immediately had to stifle a cry of pain. His hand came to rest on his side—he didn’t feel any blood, but the mere brush of his fingers on the tender flesh had a whimper slipping past his lips. He didn’t want to be dramatic, but he was almost certain he’d broken at least a couple of ribs, and likely would develop some nasty bruises in the next hour, if he didn’t already have them.
Wait. His head jolted, and he swiveled his head, looking for Professor Fig. White hot fear flared in his chest, making his chest tighten like he was about to vomit until he spotted the professor stumbling a bit as he rose to his feet. Professor Fig glanced around for a moment, looking as disoriented as Leander felt, before his eyes locked on Leander’s prone form and hurried over.
“Are you all right?” Professor Fig asked, kneeling on the ground next to Leander. His face was pinched with worry, and his hands hovered between them, unsure of what to do. “You’re hurt,” Professor Fig realized, spotting the grimace of pain that Leander was currently sporting and the way he was holding his side. He turned, rummaging through his bag for something. Through the haze of pain, Leander saw Professor Fig pull out a shimmering green bottle. A potion, maybe?
“Just a bit,” Leander assured Professor Fig through gritted teeth, trying to sit upright. He stopped moving as soon as the shift sent stabbing needles through his side, panting heavily. Now that the terror buzzing beneath his skin was fading away, the pain was hitting at full force, making Leander want to vomit. He’d always been an awful liar.
“Take this,” Professor Fig spoke softly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. He offered the little bottle to Leander, its green contents swirling in a way that only made Leander dizzier. “It’s Wiggenweld potion. That stuff will right you in a second.” Professor Fig looked so sure, but it made Leander wonder why the professor had packed the potion—but maybe it was just something wizards carried around. Leander’s parents had never seemed to carry it, but he only ever saw that at home. Maybe he’d ask… Leander shook his head as his thoughts began to get cloudy. He accepted the potion from Professor Fig, adjusting himself with a wince so that he could uncork the vial and chug it. It tasted like plants—perhaps that was a blunt description, but Leander had taste-tested enough random plants in his family’s estate that he thought he had the right to make that comparison. Thankfully the taste was mostly overwritten by a mint flavor, or Leander would’ve spit the thing out, no matter how much pain he was in. Leander was surprised to feel better almost instantaneously, the ache in his ribs disappearing and the headache he hadn’t even noticed he had fading away. Leander tilted the bottle to observe the remaining traces of the potion, eyes wide. What was in that thing? He was jostled out of his thoughts when he heard Professor Fig mumbling, and looked up to see him pacing around the clearing.
“What happened? Poor George…” Professor Fig murmured to himself, pacing the clearing. His face was twisted in such obvious stress that not even Leander could mistake it. “What the hell got into that damn thing?! Attacking a carriage in mid-air! A typical dragon would never—!” Professor Fig cut himself off, a low sound of grief escaping him. Professor Fig trembled slightly—understandable, after he’d just watched a close friend perish in front of him. Leander wished he could comfort the professor, but he found himself at a loss, shaken and dizzy and confused and starting to feel nauseated the more upset Professor Fig became. Leander wasn’t sure what to say, how to help, so he just sat there helplessly and tried to even out his breathing, the lingering ache fading with every inhale.
It was several minutes of this before Leander braced himself to speak, taking in the clearing as he asked, “Professor, sir… where are we?” The clearing was sheltered, surrounded by high walls of rock on all sides, the only exits being the circle of sky above them and a curved arch that led out of the clearing.
“I'm… not sure,” Professor Fig began, turning back to Leander, as if he’d just remembered that he was there. “but that key you discovered was clearly a portkey.” Professor Fig mused, the distress fading into thin lines on his face as his jaw tightened. He moved over to Leander, extending an arm to help him up.
Leander tilted his head, the word meaning nothing to him. Professor Fig seemed to notice Leander’s quizzical expression, startling as he rushed to explain. Of course Leander wouldn’t know—he didn’t know much at all about the wizarding world.
“A portkey is an item enchanted to bring whoever touches it to a specific place. Why it brought us here, I’m not sure.” Professor Fig explained, easing Leander to his feet with gentle words. Leander still felt a bit shaky, but he didn’t want to look like a child to Professor Fig, so he ignored it, letting go of the professor hastily and averting his eyes.
“Er—we can look around, if you’d like to… sir.” Leander’s voice was quieter than normal, an indicator of the stress he was experiencing, and though Professor Fig didn’t comment, his brow furrowed. Leander would rather just leave, but he wasn’t sure that was possible, and he knew this situation meant something to the professor (other than just causing the death of his friend), even if Leander wasn’t sure what it was.
“I would—thank you, Leander. I’m sorry that this is the way your trip is going.” Professor Fig’s voice was gentle, clearly trying to soothe Leander. It only made him feel worse. Couldn’t he hide anything? Leander hated feeling perceived like this, feeling vulnerable in a way he hadn’t for years. He fixed his eyes firmly on the ground, not sure he’d be able to meet Professor Fig’s eyes. “Stay close. We have no idea who created this portkey or why.” Professor Fig added, a hand coming up to loosely rest on Leander’s elbow before he dropped it, realizing that Leander didn’t want to be touched at the moment. Leander was grateful for it, even if it only worsened the feeling of being exposed. “That portkey took us farther from London than the carriage traveled. We're somewhere in the Scottish Islands.” Professor Fig seemed distracted as they moved towards the exit to the clearing, glancing around as if their surroundings would magically give Professor Fig the answer he was looking for. He seemed so distracted that he almost missed the obvious structure that was presented to them as soon as they left the clearing.
“Sir, those ruins—" Leander began hesitantly, gesturing to the tall, column of rock standing in the ocean, separated from the cliffs they were currently on. After a moment of staring at the oddly tall rock, the details began to stick out, showing the remnants of a castle from long ago. The wind whipped at Leander, blowing his hair out of its carefully styled look and tugging at his overcoat.
“This must be where the portkey was meant to lead us.” Professor Fig’s voice was filled with excitement, and he took several steps toward the ruins, stopping just short of an edge to the cliff face they were on. “This has not been the day either of us expected—but Miriam sent that portkey to George for a reason, and I believe that she—and now George—died in pursuit of whatever it was meant to lead to. If you're sure you're all right—and wouldn't mind indulging me—I'd like to have a look around.” Professor Fig turned to Leander with imploring eyes, and, well… what was postponing leaving for Hogwarts just a bit longer? Besides, Leander wasn’t sure how they’d even get there now.
“Absolutely, sir.” Leander agreed, forcing more cheer into his voice to come across as more convincing than the last time. Leander took it as a personal victory when it worked—though, really, it was just because Professor Fig was distracted.
“Good. Let's see if we can find a path, however faded it may be.” Professor Fig began, turning to follow the faded stone path. Leander trudged after him, almost immediately tripping on a loose cobblestone. “Mind your step!” Professor Fig warned, stopping to steady Leander. “I wouldn’t want you falling. You’ve had enough dangerous situations for today, I think.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Leander asked, “Where do you suppose Miriam got the portkey?” The question had been nagging at Leander, and, as much as he didn’t think Professor Fig would know either, he was curious.
“A good question. Miriam spent years searching for evidence of a long-forgotten form of Ancient Magic—a powerful magic wielded by a rare few that seems to have been lost to time.” Professor Fig’s voice was fond and melancholic all at once. His eyes went unfocused, the way they always did when he talked about Miriam. Leander hung on his every word, interested in learning more about Professor Fig’s late wife. “Hogwarts Castle was built by, and is itself a stronghold of, that Ancient Magic. I don't know where she came into possession of the portkey, but I am certain it had something to do with that search.” Professor Fig hesitated, glancing around to see where the path continued. It was rocky and unlevel, likely having been shaken up by earthquakes at some point, making the path split and shift, or fall into the ocean all together.
“Ah! There's the path down below this way,” Professor Fig found it, carefully watching his footing as he navigated the thinning path.
“But, sir—why was your wife searching for evidence of Lost Magic?” Leander continued to probe, even as he had to jump down a ledge, nearly losing his balance. He swears he wasn’t usually this clumsy.
“Miriam wanted to understand why such powerful magic disappeared from The Wizarding World. Spoke of the good it could do.” Professor Fig’s voice was always affectionate when he spoke of Miriam. It was quite cute, even if it made Leander’s chest ache when he remembered that Miriam was no longer. “But magic is no different than any other power—what really matters is the one who wields it.” Professor Fig continued firmly, his face pinched. Leander wondered if he was thinking of what happened to his late wife. Had someone hurt her—?
Conversation stopped when they turned a corner to find themselves facing a wall. “Is that ice?” Leander frowned at the wall blocking their path. It was a completely different texture than the rest of the stone, its color a dark navy blue with veins of lighter shades running through it. Its texture was somehow both smooth and full of ridges, the way water warped when it froze, but it had the gleam of glass to it. Leander’s eyes flickered to Professor Fig, waiting for him to answer the question, giving him a glimpse of the confusion and curiosity in the professor’s eyes.
“It's not cold enough here. It appears to be a sort of enchantment—someone wanted to block this path.” Professor Fig’s voice turned suspicious, his volume raising with a mix of excitement and dread. “Let's see some of that spell work you’ve been practicing—focus on the center,” Professor Fig encouraged, looking to Leander to break the spell. Leander… wasn’t sure if he could do that. He’d try, though.
Leander pointed his wand at the barrier, feeling the molten magic in his core throb and center in his wand. He narrowed his eyes, aiming and giving his wand a flick. The cast sliced into the barrier, shattering it in a spiderweb of cracks, much like glass. It took Leander two more casts to shatter it completely, and when he did, it dissolved upon contact with the ground, blowing away like smoke. “Your wandwork’s improving with every cast!” Professor Fig praised. Leander straightened his shoulders, his cheeks flushing pink with delight at the praise. It wasn’t often that he got any.
“Thank you, sir.” Leander beamed, a pep in his step as he followed behind Professor Fig. So pleased he was, he had just enough time to glace forward before he was stumbling over the loose stones of the gravel walkway and tumbling down the slope, gravel bits scraping his skin and getting dust all over his overcoat. Leander flushed again, this time out of embarrassment. He supposed it was true that pride comes before a fall…
“That was a bit—rougher than I'd expected.” Professor Fig commented, rubbing his back with a wince as he rose to his feet. “Ah, well. A small tumble won’t hurt these old bones too much.”
“We're close now; it's just ahead.” Professor Fig added, and he was right—it was just a couple more turns before the were facing the ruins head-on—and the gaping chasm where a bridge would have gone.
Professor Fig frowned, pulling out his wand. He looked back to ensure that Leander was safely planted on the rocks behind him. “Steady yourself—reparo!” That was all the warning Leander got before the wind was picking up and huge chunks of rock were rising from the ocean, whirling around in a circular motion around the gap with loud, heavy thuds until there was a fully formed bridge in front of them. Leander’s jaw dropped, and he looked up at Professor Fig in shock, but the man in question just nodded with satisfaction and began to cross. Leander followed Professor Fig over the bridge, his eyes staring down at it in awe. Could he do that magic one day?
“Almost there…” Professor Fig huffed as they climbed more stairs to the ruins. Leander was used to running and playing on his family’s expansive grounds, but there were a lot less stairs there. Leander didn’t want to see the disgruntled pout he was sure was spreading across his face. His family would’ve had quite the collection of patronizing thoughts to say about that.
But they weren’t here, and Leander was, and he didn’t want to think about them right now. “Why would someone have built this here?” Leander grumbled, panting a bit when they finally reached the top.
“I suspect they valued their privacy.” Professor Fig seemed to have magically recovered from being winded now that they’d reached the ruins, a fact Leander couldn’t help but envy. As Leander glanced around, he was inclined to agree with Professor Fig—other than the small, cliff-like island they were on, there didn’t seem to be anything around for miles. Plus, it had been quite a journey to even get here in the first place.
The portkey led us here for a reason. Let's have a look around for anything that seems out of place.” Professor Fig’s words interrupted Leander’s thoughts, and he dragged his attention back to the ruins.
There were barely any walls left of the castle, and it was clear that part of the cliff face it rested on must have fallen into the ocean at some point. There were several raised daises, but some of them were caved in. The ground had intricate carvings, and the crumbled walls were covered in ivy. It was quite pretty—if Leander had to comment, he’d say age made the castle prettier.
“Huh. There’s a statue.” Leander commented, stepping closer to observe it. It was made of grey marble, and featured a man with a beard and an oddly shaped hat in floor-length robes that held a book tucked to his side in one hand and an outstretched orb in the other.
“That may be the owner of the ruins. He could’ve lived here.” Professor Fig answered readily, already moving to observe an image on one of the walls. Leander couldn’t help but think it a little egotistical to have a statue of oneself in one’s own home, but to each their own. “A mural of some kind! Perhaps our host was a noted seer…” The professor continued to speak, but Leander had caught sight of a path to the right of the statue, behind the walls of the ruins. Leander made his way towards it, curious to see where it would lead.
“Leander? Don’t stray too far!” Professor Fig called after Leander, but Leander had already rounded the curve of the crumbled wall and way making his way across the loose and uneven stones. The warning he heard was muffled, and Leander paid it no mind. He’d be back in a minute.
Leander came to a short set of stairs and a banister, looking up to spot a crack in the wall that was a deep navy blue, with the symbol he’d seen on the capsule glowing brightly behind it. “That enchantment again… and the symbol from the capsule. But what could it be blocking this time?” Leander wondered aloud, stepping closer to the wall, nearly tripping over the stairs that he’d somehow missed. He gasped when the crack in the wall expanded, turning the whole wall the same color as the enchantment from earlier—followed by a cry of wonder when the wall shifted into a… room. Behind the shimmer of the spell lay a room that looked… vaguely familiar, but Leander couldn’t place it at all.
“What's in Merlin’s name…?” Leander squinted at the room, fascinated. It was as opulent as anything Leander had ever seen, a tiled floor with meaningless circular patterns. The center of the room was a wooden frame that Leander thought was a piano at first, before realizing it was a desk. Behind it stood great columns of marbled rock with gates in between them reaching to the ceiling of a dome, with a gloriously bright glass dome for a light. The light quickly faded into the surroundings, swallowed up by the never-ending darkness of the room. Curiously, the ceiling seemed to be… stalactites, of various thicknesses and lengths, extending low from the ceiling, as if the room had been built in a cave. “Professor Fig!” Leander called, turning to look the way he had come. The professor would want to see this—and Leander could almost guarantee that this was what they were looking for.
Professor Fig came running, his expression panicked before he realized Leander was unharmed and not in danger. Leander felt bad for worrying him. “Oh—you found something,” Professor Fig breathed, catching his breath after his unexpected cardio. He stepped up to stand beside Leander, gently running his fingers over the wall. “How odd. Why would someone have conjured that enchanted stone here?” Professor Fig muttered, not expecting an answer.
“And how is there a room behind it?” Leander added, the edges of his lip curving downward as his eyes flickered back to study the room. It shouldn’t be possible… should it? Leander didn’t know enough about magic to be sure.
“What room? I don't see anything.” Professor Fig questioned, swiveling to face Leander. Leander really did frown now—it was so obvious; couldn’t Professor Fig see it? Leander held his hand out in front of the wall, not quite touching. Now that he was closer, he could sense that the wall was alive with magic, the same kind of magic he’d felt on the capsule earlier. Leander didn’t answer the professor, the magic slowing his thoughts and fixing his eyes on the symbol.
“There's that glow again—like the glow on the portkey container,” Leander murmured, more to himself than anything. He instinctively lifted a hand to press against the wall, the buzzing feeling spreading to his hand and then throughout the whole body, until he was thrumming with energy. Leander’s vision went black for the second time that day, but this time was Leander felt far more peaceful—both because of the lack of the dragon and the presence of the cool, comforting hum of Ancient Magic.