The train moved forward with a hypnotic rhythm, and Duncan's stomach discomfort was subsiding, replaced by a feeling of reflective curiosity. He watched Effie, who was now looking at the landscape with a pensive expression, the evening light gilding her profile.
'Interesting,' Duncan thought, leaning back in his seat. 'Very interesting.'
In his mind, he automatically compared the Effie Potter sitting before him with the Harry Potter he remembered from the books. The contrast was striking, and not just for the obvious reasons.
The Harry from the books was brave, yes, with a good heart, but often impulsive. He chased after clues like a blind Snitch, guided more by intuition and urgency than by cold strategy. He was reactive. He was carried away by anger, immediate loyalty, and pain.
Effie… was different.
She was perceptive. She had noticed his gastric discomfort even before he admitted it, and she knew exactly how to deliver that verbal jab with her perfectly measured, sinister smile.
She had a sharper, less clumsy sense of humor, more aware of her own effect on others. And that judgment of people… In the book, Harry often distrusted the wrong people (like Snape) and blindly trusted others (like Dumbledore) until it was too late.
Effie, on the other hand, seemed to analyze. She had been analyzing him since she sat down, weighing his words, his lack of interest in her mark. Not with paranoia, but with an intelligent caution.
'Could it be because of the Dursleys?' Duncan wondered. The Harry from the book grew up in an environment of neglect and emotional abuse, which forged his resilience, but also a certain social awkwardness and a desperate need for belonging.
Effie, facing perhaps the same situation (or worse, being a girl in that environment), must have developed other tools. She would have had to read Vernon and Petunia's moods with pinpoint accuracy to avoid conflict. She would have had to control her own emotions—rage, sadness—hiding them behind a layer of silent observation so as not to give them more ammunition.
She would have learned to judge people quickly, to detect threats and kindness with equal sharpness, because at Privet Drive there was no room for error.
That would explain her control, her finer emotional intelligence. She wasn't cold; she had laughed with genuine amusement.
But there was a layer of analysis underneath, a mind constantly processing information. She was, in a way, more dangerous. And undoubtedly, more interesting.
His gaze then lingered on Effie's physical details. The setting sun's light caressed her reddish-brown hair, giving it coppery glints. Her fair skin seemed soft, and her green eyes, now serious as she looked at the horizon, were a deep, vivid color. The childish features of her round face promised, in time, a delicate harmony.
'Without a doubt,' Duncan thought with a touch of purely aesthetic admiration, 'this girl doesn't just have an interesting mind.
She's already pretty, and in a few years, when those features sharpen and she loses a bit of that baby fat… she'll be a beauty. A beauty with brains and, it seems, a taste for sweet, sinister revenge. A formidable combination.'
The thought wasn't romantic; Duncan, with the mind of an adult in an eleven-year-old body, was looking at the pieces on the board. Effie Potter was a variable his prior knowledge hadn't anticipated.
A powerful, intelligent variable with enormous potential. Aligning with her, or at least maintaining a cordial, mutually beneficial relationship, seemed a much smarter move than trying to manipulate an impulsive Harry.
Effie noticed his persistent gaze and turned her head, raising an eyebrow in question. The lightning-shaped mark moved slightly.
"What? Does your stomach still hurt, or are you already planning your next assault on the sweet trolley?" she asked, but her tone was more playful than sharp.
Duncan gave a half-smile, his introspective moment ending.
"Neither. I was just thinking that, for someone who grew up with Muggles… you're adapting to all this very quickly." He made a vague gesture encompassing the compartment, the sweets, the latent magic in the air.
Effie shrugged, but a shadow passed fleetingly through her eyes. "When you live in a cupboard, you learn to observe. To listen. To know what to expect. This…" she gestured around, "is loud and colorful. But people… their intentions, their tones of voice… that's the same anywhere."
'Confirmed,' Duncan thought. She had honed her skills out of necessity. Survival.
"Well, observe this," he said, changing the subject. He pulled his wand from the inventory, it appearing in his hand with a slight shimmer. He spun it skillfully between his fingers. "My new toy. What do you think?"
Effie tilted her head, observing the milky white wand with its intricate carvings. She didn't ask where he'd gotten it—another sign of her discretion.
"It looks… ancient. And powerful. Not like the ones I saw in Diagon Alley."
"It has character," Duncan affirmed, putting it away again. "Like us. And speaking of character… ready for an old talking hat to tell us who we are?"
The train was beginning to slow down. The mountains gave way to a dark forest, and in the distance, the lights of a village could be glimpsed.
Effie took a breath, and for a second, the analytical, controlled girl vanished, revealing an eleven-year-old girl nervous about taking her first step into the unknown.
"As ready as I've ever been," she said, with a sincerity that disarmed Duncan for a moment.
He nodded, his plan already recalibrated, his observations filed away.
The game was starting now, and having an intelligent, perceptive Effie Potter as a potential ally… was an unexpected change. And, without a doubt, a change for the better.