There came a day, calm and gray-tinged, when the pressure of lessons eased slightly, just enough for a pause. No homework due until the next evening, no class scheduled for the last block of the day. The library would always be there, but Ethan, on a quiet impulse, chose not to retreat into its silence immediately. Instead, he stepped through the Ravenclaw common room archway and into the living castle.
The corridors were not truly empty. There were always students moving about, first-years chattering, older students gliding past with practiced ease, ghosts drifting with solemn grace. Yet for Ethan, the castle always felt as though it belonged only to him when he walked it alone. The muffled sounds of footsteps and laughter echoed as if from far away. The scent of warm stone and age clung to the walls. He wandered with no destination, letting his thoughts pace beside him.
There were many places of interest, but some, he hoped to encounter more than any other, the Room of Requirement.
He passed arched windows half-covered in ivy and paused to look through one, watching clouds crawl across the sky like beasts in slow motion. The Forbidden Forest loomed far beyond, dark and whispering, but it was not what drew his interest today. He turned away from the view and continued.
The castle changed constantly in small ways, a staircase that led somewhere different than the day before, a tapestry that occasionally giggled when passed, a suit of armor that tilted its helm when it thought no one was looking. Ethan took it all in with measured fascination. This was magic, too, he thought, not spells, not incantations, but the quiet strangeness of the world itself when allowed to exist without explanation.
He eventually found himself on the third floor, where the corridor felt a little more abandoned than the rest. The students tended to avoid this place unless they had reason. The shadows were longer here, the light from the torches oddly distant, as though the air absorbed it before it could truly reach the ground.
And then he remembered.
The third floor. A corridor that was supposed to be off-limits.
Of course.
Fluffy.
The name alone summoned a flicker of amusement. The three-headed dog that guarded something mysterious, something Dumbledore had hidden. In the books, it had been mentioned early, a brief but vivid threat meant to turn the children away. But Ethan had no plans to steal Philosopher's Stones or meddle in traps meant for someone else. He only wanted to see. He liked dogs, he was indeed a dog person. That hadn't changed, even after all this time, even after crossing the threshold into fiction. And part of him, small and quiet but undeniable, wanted to witness for himself how much of the story still held true.
How big was Fluffy? Truly. He could always imagine the way it was depicted in the books and the film did what it could. But seeing for himself was a curiosity he wanted to fulfill since he was already here.
He kept walking, steps measured, unsure of which exact door it was. He quietly opened some and peeked in, only to see empty classrooms, closets, until he reached a wide oak door, heavy. There was likely no spell locking it since the main trio would at some point accidently arrive, so he hadn't cared when opening the other doors to be cautious. Crouching slightly, Ethan pressed his ear to the door and listened.
Breathing.
Heavy, slow breathing. Like wind through caverns.
He pushed the door open by a crack. Just enough.
The room beyond was dim, lit only by a faint glow from an enchanted lantern near the ceiling. There, sprawled across the floor in an impossible tangle of limbs and muscle, was the dog. Fluffy.
All three heads were asleep. One drooled quietly onto the stone. Another gave a soft snore. The third twitched an ear now and then as if chasing something in a dream. Their chest,singular, rose and fell with slow, rhythmic force, like a bellows keeping time with the earth itself.
Ethan stared, silent.
He had expected something terrifying, monstrous. But instead…
"Adorable," he whispered, more to himself than anything.
And he meant it.
Not in the way one might describe a puppy. But in a strange, endearing way, there was a charm to the way the creature's paws splayed in different directions, how each head seemed to have a slightly different personality even in sleep. One was clearly the snorer. One was drooler. The last was the twitcher. Three dogs wrapped into one body, massive but, in this moment, harmless.
Ethan studied them carefully, taking in every detail, the glint of their collars, the enormous paws, the subtle twitch of nostrils at rest. He didn't open the door further, didn't step inside. Just watched. That was enough. Waking them up was not ideal.
He liked dogs, and he still did. Even this strange, hulking guardian had not changed that. Perhaps especially this one.
Eventually, he let the door ease shut, slowly, carefully. The latch gave a soft click. He turned and began walking back the way he came, not hurried, not afraid, only thoughtful.
Seeing Fluffy had done something to him, not something dramatic, just a subtle shift. It always happened when seeing a dog, as if his entire body was stress free and he found himself a little happier.
By the time he returned to the more crowded halls, the sun was dipping low in the sky, casting honey-gold light through the windows. The noise of the castle returned gradually, like water rising.
He passed students laughing near a staircase, arguing over the nearing first Quidditch match, chasing one another toward the Great Hall.
His feet turned toward the library again, but this time, with purpose.
Lately, Potions had begun to interest him more than he'd expected. At first it had felt too much like cooking, precise, rigid, overly methodical. But as he listened more closely during Snape's lectures, as he read the fine print beneath each ingredient, Ethan had begun to understand. Potions were by far more interesting than cooking. It was like structured magic. Silent, invisible spells woven through practice and discipline. There was an elegance to it, a logic that began to be appealing to him.
He stepped into the library's dim hush, greeted by the familiar scent of parchment and ink. Rows upon rows of books stretched out before him like battalions of sleeping giants.
He made his way to the Potions section, running his fingers along the spines. Some were old and battered, others sleek and new. He selected one at random, Advanced Principles of Magical Brewing, and sat at a corner table with it, letting the quiet settle around him like a second skin. This might be too advanced for him, but that's why he was here, to find out where he needed to begin, though he really should just ask Snape for suggestions, even if the man is as he is.