Chapter 1: The Hogwarts Express
A low, steady hum vibrated through the compartment as the Hogwarts Express pulled away from King's Cross. Solim Selwyn watched the platform, with its crowd of anxious parents and bustling students, shrink into the distance. A complex mix of relief and apprehension settled in his chest.
"I'm actually here," he murmured to himself. Outside, first-years scrambled past his door, their voices high with excitement. "It's already better than that other place." He knew the stories—that Hogwarts was no stranger to danger, that the next few years would be far from peaceful. But whatever chaos awaited him here was preferable to the scheduled, clinical horrors of Scuol. A monthly dose of the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses, no matter how "controlled," had a way of making the prospect of a rogue troll or a possessed teacher seem almost quaint.
His mind drifted back over the last eleven years. His grandfather had told him the story, his voice always grim, of how Solim had been cut from his mother's womb after she was struck by the Killing Curse. The event had caused a stir in certain dark, pure-blood circles. An infant surviving the Avada Kedavra was unheard of, a paradox that defied all known magical law. Solim knew the truth, a cold, private weight in his gut: the original Solim had died that day. He was a transplant, a consciousness that had taken root in a vacant body, inheriting not just a life, but a legacy of trouble.
Solim Ogelbashir Selwyn. He had the name, but never the right to it. He was the open secret of the Selwyn family—the illegitimate son of the current patriarch, a child from a witch whose name and memory had been systematically erased from everyone's mind. His place in the family, such as it was, existed only by the grim determination of his grandfather, an old man obsessed with the strength and continuation of the bloodline.
Did he feel a burning need for revenge for the woman who bore him? Not really. It was a distant tragedy, a crime against a stranger. But he felt a deep, abiding gratitude. Without her, and without that strange twist of fate, he would not exist at all. And while he didn't crave vengeance, he was cursed with a logical mind. A pregnant witch, carrying the child of a powerful family's head, is murdered. Even the worn velvet seat he was sitting on could probably deduce who had the most motive. He'd never imagined such a gothic, bloody drama would form the backdrop of his own life.
His "siblings"—the legitimate children of Lady Selwyn—were a testament to the family's dysfunction. His eldest brother, Dax, was a brute who solved every disagreement with his fists. The second, Sabian, was so withdrawn he seemed barely present, a ghost in his own home. His younger sister, Syrna, was a sweet, kind girl who, at nine years old with no sign of accidental magic, was almost certainly a Squib. He knew it wasn't their fault. They had all been sent to Scuol, the secretive and brutal school for children of certain pure-blood families.
There, from the age of seven, the "gifted" students were subjected to the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses once a month. The justification was always the same: it was a controlled environment, the curse's intensity was minimal, and it was essential preparation for their future roles in a dangerous world. It was meant to build mental fortitude, to teach them to resist coercion. All it had really built in Dax was a taste for inflicting pain, and in Sabian, a complete retreat from reality. Solim wanted no part of that future. His grandfather's influence had gotten him into Scuol, and that same influence, after much pleading, had secured his transfer to Hogwarts. He was trading a world of shadowy, advanced magical theory for sunlight and fresh air. It was a trade he'd make any day. Besides, he thought, glancing at the trunk overhead, no one could stop him from studying on his own.
The compartment door slid open with a rattle, breaking his reverie. A round-faced boy stood there, panting, one hand dragging a heavy trunk and the other clutching a plump, warty toad in a death grip.
"S-so, Solim, I, I…" the boy stammered.
"Come in, Neville," Solim said, his voice softening. "Sit down. And for Merlin's sake, put your trunk away before you dislocate a shoulder." He gestured to the luggage rack. "And relax. I don't bite, but you're going to suffocate that toad."
Neville blushed scarlet and shuffled in, heaving his trunk. It was then Solim saw the girl behind him, a bushy cloud of brown hair framing a face dotted with freckles and filled with an expression of keen curiosity.
"You're blocking the door, Neville," Solim said evenly. "There's someone else."
Neville jumped and scurried to a seat, looking utterly lost.
"S-so, Solim, can you—" Neville began, holding up the toad.
"No," Solim cut him off, a look of genuine distaste on his face. "I only handle things that look like that when they're potion ingredients. But I can help with the trunk." With a subtle flick of his fingers, Neville's heavy trunk lifted smoothly and slotted onto the rack.
"Oh my god!" the girl exclaimed, her eyes wide. "How did you do that? That's the Levitation Charm, but the book says wandless magic is incredibly advanced!"
"Do you need your trunk stored, Miss…?" Solim asked, ignoring her outburst. "And Neville, stop gawking. You're in the way." He turned and efficiently levitated the girl's trunk as well.
"Alright, take a seat, Miss Excitement," Solim said, waving his hand to shut the door. "I'm Solim Selwyn. The boy trying to merge with the upholstery is Neville Longbottom." He nodded for the girl to introduce herself.
"I am not 'Miss Excitement'," she said, wrinkling her nose. "My name is Hermione Granger."
Hermione Granger. Of course. It wasn't hard to connect the name with the know-it-all reputation she'd surely cultivate.
"My apologies," Solim said, not sounding sorry at all.
"But how did you do it?" she pressed. "The book—"
"Magic," he said, pulling a heavy, leather-bound tome from his bag and laying it on the table. "And time. Now, Neville, we'll talk in a bit." He opened the book, a clear signal that the conversation was over.
"What?" Hermione looked confused.
"A significant magical core and a lot of practice. The required time varies from person to person," Solim elaborated without looking up. Then he sighed and closed the book again. "On second thought, our chat will have to wait. We're about to have a visitor."
"A visitor? Is there something I shouldn't hear?" Hermione asked, slightly offended. "I can leave."
"You're overthinking it, Miss Granger," Solim said, his eyes fixed on the corridor. "I just dislike being interrupted. And we are about to be interrupted by a young man who was raised to believe he owns this train."
As if on cue, the door slid open to reveal a boy with a pale, pointed face and platinum-blond hair. He was flanked by two larger boys who looked like bookends.
"Ah, Solim! Let me see, and—" the boy began, his drawl condescending.
"Draco," Solim interrupted, his voice flat, a clear warning in his eyes.
"Right, right," Draco Malfoy said, catching the look. "I'm off to find Potter. Are you coming?"
"I'm not. And you shouldn't, either." Solim gave him a level stare. "Potter's already with a Weasley. You'll just end up in a squabble, so it's better to—"
"A Weasley?!" Draco spat the name as if it were poison. With a final scowl, he turned on his heel, his two silent cronies following in his wake. The corridor felt brighter without them blocking the light.
"So that was…" Hermione moved to shut the door.
"Draco Malfoy. The spoiled young master I mentioned. The other two are… functionally part of the decor." Solim stopped her from closing it. "Leave it. We'll have to open it again in a minute."
He turned back to Neville. "He hasn't been bothering you, has he?"
"N-no," Neville mumbled, clutching his toad tighter.
"Didn't think so. And for the record, you still aiming for Gryffindor? Honestly, Hufflepuff might be a better fit for you."
"Gryffindor is the best house!" Hermione interjected, her eyes alight. "Dumbledore himself was in Gryffindor!"
"Ah, Miss 'I-Read-It-In-A-Book-So-It-Must-Be-True'," Solim said, a faint smile touching his lips. "There is no 'best' house, only the most suitable one. Every house has the same teachers for the core subjects. What you learn depends on you, not on the colors on your tie."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but found she had no counterpoint. She finally huffed, "My name is Hermione Granger. Stop making up names for me."
A commotion from the corridor announced Draco's return, fuming. "Can you believe it? That Potter, that Weasley! I'm going to tell my father!"
"Merlin's beard, Draco, I told you not to go," Solim said, cutting off the tirade before it could properly begin. "Go back to your compartment and cool off. If you have a problem with Weasley, you'll have plenty of opportunities at school."
Draco took a few deep, dramatic breaths. "You're right. It's not worth getting worked up over a Weasley. Come on, you two." He stalked off, his shoulders stiff with indignation.
"Finally, some peace." Solim stood, slid the door firmly shut, and with a tap of his wand, drew the curtain and muttered, "Colloportus." A soft click signaled the lock. He sat back down and fixed his gaze on Neville, who seemed to be trying to make himself smaller.
"Now, Neville," Solim said, his voice dropping to a more serious, confidential tone. "Let's talk."