Chapter 2: The Undercroft and the Unspoken Pact
The lock on Solim's trunk clicked with a satisfying, solid sound. He pressed the heavy, silver ring on his right hand into a discreet indentation on the lid. There was a series of soft, internal whirrs, like the turning of a complex, miniature lock, and then the lid swung upward on silent hinges.
Hermione gasped, her book forgotten in her lap. "It's... stairs?" she whispered, her brow furrowed in utter confusion. She leaned forward, peering into the trunk's interior, where a polished wooden staircase descended into a softly lit space below. For a witch who had only just learned magic was real, the sight defied every logical law of space she had ever known.
"Come on, Neville," Solim said, swinging his legs over the edge of the trunk. "And you too, Hermione." He caught himself just before using the nickname, offering her a slight, almost imperceptible nod before leading the way down.
The space that unfolded beneath them was breathtaking. It was a room, easily the size of a generous study, hidden within the confines of a school trunk. To the left, four towering, mahogany bookshelves stood sentinel, packed with volumes of every size and colour. A comfortable-looking armchair and a reading lamp occupied a cozy nook in the corner. To the right, a four-poster bed with dark green hangings stood against the wall, and a single, closed door hinted at further secrets.
"Oh my God!" Hermione's voice was a hushed exclamation of awe. "How is this possible? Is it... bigger on the inside? And those books! There are hundreds!" She pointed a trembling finger at the shelves, her eyes wide as saucers.
"A permanent, and quite powerful, Undetectable Extension Charm," Solim explained, his tone matter-of-fact as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "And before you ask a dozen questions from Hogwarts: A History, which I assure you does not cover this, I have one request, Hermione. Please don't mention my trunk to anyone."
He led them to the reading area, where a low table and three comfortable chairs were arranged. "Make yourselves comfortable. I think we could all do with some tea."
As if summoned by his words, three porcelain cups of steaming, amber-black tea appeared on the table, the scent of bergamot and lemon filling the air. A good house-elf, Solim thought with private satisfaction, knew to anticipate needs without being seen.
"Neville," Solim began, cradling his cup. "I know your grandmother's heart is set on Gryffindor. But what do you want?"
Neville's hands twisted in his lap. He had reluctantly left his toad, Trevor, upstairs after Solim's firm assurance that the locked compartment was secure. "I... I want to be like my parents," he mumbled, not meeting Solim's gaze.
"I hope that's your choice, Neville, and not just a echo of the pressure you're under. You know that, right?"
"I know, but... I'm just... I'm scared I won't be good enough for Gryffindor. I know I'm cowardly. I'm worried I'll disappoint everyone." His voice was so small it was almost inaudible.
Hermione watched the exchange, her curiosity warring with her politeness.
"If you decide you want Gryffindor, you just tell the Sorting Hat," Solim said calmly, taking a sip of tea. "Don't worry, you'll get in. You meet the requirements."
"Excuse me," Hermione interjected, unable to stay silent any longer. "What's this about a Sorting Hat?"
Solim looked at her as if the answer were obvious. "The Sorting Hat. It's what sorts us into our houses. You wear it at the start-of-term feast, and it announces where you belong."
"But you said he could tell it?" Hermione was baffled. If the hat listened to their choices, what was the point of it having a say at all?
"Not exactly," Solim elaborated, turning his attention to both of them. "The Hat looks into your head and determines which house qualities are strongest in you. Neville here isn't the most confident, true, which might suggest Hufflepuff. But he has a hidden core of courage, which is pure Gryffindor. He's also a pure-blood, so Slytherin is a possibility, though I doubt he's ever considered it. When a wizard has traits that could fit multiple houses, their own choice becomes the deciding factor. That's why I told him to speak up."
"Oh!" Hermione's face lit up with understanding. "So it's a collaborative process when the choice isn't clear-cut."
"Precisely. A detail Hogwarts: A History conveniently glosses over," Solim said, noting the excited sparkle in her eyes.
"And what house will you be in?" Hermione asked. "Ravenclaw, I assume?" It seemed the logical place for someone with a secret library and a talent for wandless magic.
"No," Solim replied, his voice steady. "I'll be in Slytherin."
"Slytherin?" Hermione recoiled slightly, her expression shifting to one of alarm. "But I've read... everyone says... that's where dark wizards come from! Why would you want to go there?"
"Honestly, Hermione," Solim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I am genuinely curious where a Muggle-born, who has known about our world for barely a month, hears all this nonsense."
He knew the public perception. When people thought of Gryffindor, they saw Dumbledore—the great, benevolent wizard. When they thought of Slytherin, they saw the twisted spectre of Lord Voldemort. But as someone raised on the inside, privy to histories most wizards never learned, Solim knew the truth was far more nuanced. Voldemort was neither the most powerful nor the most terrifying dark wizard to have ever existed; he was merely the most recent and the loudest. There were other, older powers, and other, quieter organisations created to contain them—organisations that schools like Scuol existed to supply.
"I won't deny that the Dark Lord's influence stained Slytherin's reputation," Solim said, holding Hermione's gaze. "But don't tar everyone with the same brush. Slytherin has produced its share of Aurors, many of whom died fighting him during the worst of the wars." He glanced at Neville, whose head had snapped up at the word 'Auror.' "And Gryffindor is not without its own dark stains. Judging an entire house on hearsay is... well, it's not very logical, is it?"
He stood and walked to the cabinet by the bed, ignoring the stunned silence that had fallen over the two of them. He returned with a long, slender box of polished rosewood and placed it gently in front of Neville.
"Open it," Solim instructed. "You'll be using this from now on. Cherry wood, unicorn hair core. It should suit you well."
"I... I can't," Neville stammered, looking from the box to Solim with wide eyes. "My grandmother... I'm supposed to use my father's old wand."
"That wand isn't serving you, it's hindering you," Solim said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He tapped the box with his finger. "I understand what your grandmother is trying to do—forcing you to overcome an obstacle. But what you need right now isn't a test of ability. It's a foundation of confidence. This," he nodded at the box, "will provide that."
With trembling hands, Neville lifted the lid. Nestled on a bed of dark velvet was a elegant, light-coloured wand. A shudder ran through him. He wasn't used to receiving gifts, and never one so thoughtful or expensive. He could feel the care behind it, a stark contrast to the constant, anxious pressure from his family.
"Thank you," Neville whispered, his eyes glistening. "I'll use it well. I promise."
"See that you do," Solim said, his voice softer now. "And you'll meet me every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday after classes begin. I'll make sure you don't fall behind. If you can keep up with your coursework, I'll even show you a few... extras."
Seeing the submissive gratitude on Neville's face, Solim felt a pang of complicated emotion. He wasn't doing this purely out of kindness. Neville's grandmother, in a rare moment of pragmatic concern, had pressed a heavy pouch of Galleons into his hand, a silent plea to look after her grandson. Solim, an illegitimate son with no family allowance, couldn't afford to refuse. But he also felt a genuine desire to see this nervous boy stand on his own two feet. Sometimes, he reasoned, the right thing and the necessary thing could align.
"Don't forget, Neville," Solim said, his voice dropping, the words deliberate and sharp. "The people who tortured your parents, the ones who shattered your family, are still sitting in Azkaban. And the man who commanded them is still out there. Your enemy will return one day. Don't you want to be ready? Don't you want to face them with your own power?"
Neville looked up, the redness in his eyes now burning with a raw, painful fire. The move from gratitude to anger was complete. Solim knew hatred was a dangerous motivator, but for someone who had none, it was a place to start.
"That's settled then," Solim said, his tone returning to its usual calm. "Remember the schedule. Now, we should go back up. Hermione, if you'd like, you may borrow a book from the first shelf on the left to read on the journey. Just see that it's returned." He gestured to the section he'd indicated, the only one containing non-curricular texts and free of protective enchantments.
"Really? Oh, that's wonderful!" Hermione was on her feet in an instant, darting towards the shelves with uncontainable excitement.
A short while later, they were all back in the train compartment, the trunk securely closed and the locking charm lifted. Hermione was already buried in a thick tome titled Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling, a look of rapturous concentration on her face.
A moment later, Neville let out a panicked groan. "Trevor! He's gone!"
Solim glanced around. The door hadn't been opened, and the window was sealed shut. "He can't have gone far. He was here when we went down. Check under the seats."
"He's really not here!" Neville wailed, after a frantic search on his hands and knees. "I've looked everywhere! Solim, please, can you help?"
"Honestly, Neville," Solim sighed, marking his page in his own book. "I locked the door, the window was closed... where could a toad possibly go?" Unless, he thought with a flicker of private curiosity, it's not just a toad. He made a mental note to examine the creature more closely if it ever turned up. Perhaps it had a special bloodline. Or perhaps, like a certain rat he'd heard stories of, it was something else entirely.
"Alright, Neville, I'll help you look," Hermione said, closing her book with clear reluctance but a firm sense of duty. She couldn't very well let her new friend search the entire train alone.
"Thank you, Hermione," Neville said, his face flushed with embarrassment and worry.
Solim watched them leave the compartment, the door sliding shut behind them. He shook his head and reopened his own heavy tome. A small, wry smile touched his lips. "And so," he murmured to the empty compartment, "the legendary trio has its first meeting." And he, Solim Selwyn, would be watching from the shadows, preparing for the storms to come.