There was still some time before the holidays arrived.
Over the next two days, the atmosphere in the castle grew increasingly strange.
In previous years, Hogwarts would already have been buzzing with excitement by now.
Exams over, report cards handed out, luggage packed; everyone just waiting for the holidays to start, moods running high. Chasing and playing echoed through the corridors, the banks of the Black Lake filled with sunbathers, the Quidditch Pitch busy from morning till night.
But now, nothing.
On ordinary days, hardly any students could be seen out playing on the grass.
The occasional one might glance toward Harry from a distance, then quickly lower their head, quicken their pace, and hurry away.
The reason wasn't hard to guess—warned off by their parents.
Because lately, a steady stream of owls had been flying into the Headmaster's Office atop the castle's tower.
Quite a sight—flocks of owls sweeping across the Black Lake, wings flapping, jostling to squeeze through that circular window.
Some carried letters in their beaks, some had parcels dangling from their claws, some just crashed straight through, feathers flying everywhere.
And then—
a series of muffled scoldings would immediately follow from inside the office, audible even through the thick stone walls.
Clearly, Dumbledore's public announcement of You-Know-Who's return hadn't sat well with parents.
Some flatly refused to believe the Dark Lord had really returned. They'd rather believe it was some misunderstanding, the ramblings of a senile old headmaster.
Among the loudest reactions, without question—
was the current British Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge.
The morning after Dumbledore's public announcement, copies of The Daily Prophet arrived at Hogwarts.
Not a single mention of Voldemort in it, though.
Instead, all about Harry.
Whether at Fudge's request or not, the paper painted Harry as being just as mentally unstable as Dumbledore.
Claimed the two had cooked up some outrageous story for attention, using his scar and Voldemort as props.
"Harry Potter, the boy who lived, now appears to have fallen into some form of paranoid delusion..."
In the Great Hall, a Slytherin held the paper up, reading it aloud in a raised voice.
"According to reliable sources, Mr. Potter claims to have personally witnessed You-Know-Who's resurrection and insists the Dark Lord has returned.
The Ministry of Magic, however, officially denies this, with Minister Cornelius Fudge stating there is no evidence to support such an absurd accusation..."
At the Gryffindor table, Harry kept his head down, fork practically stabbing through his plate.
Ron sat beside him, face flushed red, fists clenched tight.
"That's enough!" he barked at the Slytherin.
"What's wrong, Weasley? Your family too poor to afford a newspaper? I'm being generous, reading it out loud for you, and you're not even grateful?"
Ron shot up out of his seat—
Hermione grabbed his arm. "Don't. You might not win."
The Slytherin spread his hands and kept reading.
"The scar on Mr. Potter's forehead seems to have become the basis for his delusions, though experts at St. Mungo's note that occasional pain in old scars is entirely normal and unrelated to the Dark Lord..."
Lynn sat at the Hufflepuff table, watching quietly from a distance.
He looked down at his own copy of The Daily Prophet.
Harry's photo took up most of the front page, standing at the Triwizard Tournament podium holding the cup, caught mid-grin in an odd expression.
Below it, a bold headline: "Harry Potter—Hero or Liar?"
Lynn studied the photo for a few seconds.
Then flipped to page two.
That page covered Dumbledore.
An even more exaggerated headline: "Dumbledore: From Great Wizard to Panic-Monger?"
The article painted him as an old fool willing to spread fear just to prove himself right.
Lynn clicked his tongue and kept flipping.
A tiny, tofu-block-sized section caught his eye: "Order of Merlin, First Class Recipient Lynn—The Silent Warrior."
Short piece, mostly saying he'd been swarmed by reporters after the ceremony, stayed silent the entire time, then walked off.
Reporters were still buzzing over it; some called him arrogant, some called him low-key, others wondered if he was sitting on inside information.
Lynn shook his head and set the paper aside.
...
The day after the end-of-term feast, Hogwarts officially went on holiday.
The castle buzzed early that morning. Students dragging trunks filled the corridors, owls flew overhead, house-elves scrambled to tidy beds and put away scattered wizard chess sets in the common rooms.
Farewells rose and fell everywhere—"See you next term!" "Remember to call!" "Give my book back!"—blending into one continuous noise.
Lynn and his roommates headed to the platform together, ready to board the train home.
By the time they finally got there, the train was nearly ready to leave.
They wandered the length of it, front to back; every compartment they passed sat packed.
"Nothing left, all full."
"There's another section down there." William pushed up his glasses, pointing toward the very end.
They dragged their trunks along and found empty seats at last, in the very last carriage.
Opening the door revealed a dozing Hufflepuff girl inside, clearly a younger student; hearing the door, she blinked awake groggily, froze at the sight of Lynn, then flushed and bolted out clutching her bag.
"Hey—" Edgar reached out, trying to call her back.
Too late, she was already gone.
"...Do we really look that scary?" Edgar scratched his head.
"Maybe she's just shy." Lynn shoved his trunk onto the rack and sat by the window.
The train jolted into motion. Hogwarts Castle receded outside the window, the Black Lake shrinking into a silver ribbon, the Forbidden Forest's treetops shimmering green in the sunlight.
The compartment sat quiet a while.
Naturally, conversation drifted to Voldemort.
"Lynn," Edgar leaned back against his seat, staring out the window, "you think the Headmaster expected it to go like this?"
His voice dropped lower than usual. "Doesn't seem like many people are buying it."
Lynn thought it over.
"I don't think he necessarily needs everyone to believe him."
He paused.
"He just wants everyone ready, just in case."
Edgar was quiet a moment, then nodded thoughtfully.
"Maybe." William pushed his glasses up, noncommittal.
"Speaking of being ready—"
With a gentle flick of Lynn's wand, his trunk's lid popped open on its own.
Several long gift boxes floated out, hovering neatly in a row.
The three of them froze in unison.
The boxes were slim and long, dark wood shells with brass-bound corners, glowing softly under the carriage lights.
"This..." Edgar leaned in. "Why does this look exactly like a wand box?"
Lynn snapped his fingers.
"Congratulations, you've got a brain after all. There are wands inside."
Edgar: "..."
The lids popped open in unison.
Three wands sat on deep red velvet linings. The walnut shafts were polished smooth and warm, grain clearly visible. A small silver fitting was inlaid at the handle, engraved with intricate runes.
"Walnut, Fawkes's feather, thirteen and a half inches." Lynn casually picked one up and gave it a twirl.
He aimed it at the thick Advanced Transfiguration Theory William had set on the table.
A soft flash.
That headache-inducing academic tome instantly became a toad.
The toad squatted on the table, puffed its cheeks, and croaked twice.
William: "..."
He looked at the toad, expressionless, then at Lynn.
"You prepared these wands just to turn my book into a toad?"
Lynn waved his wand, and the toad reverted to a book.
"Of course not."
He handed a wand to each of them.
"Consider this some added security."
The three examined theirs. Good feel, moderate weight, comfortable grip.
"Although I think Vol—"
"Cough, cough!"
"Fine, You-Know-Who shouldn't figure out it was me who gave him a beating." Lynn said this in the flattest possible tone.
Edgar nearly choked on his own spit beside him.
Beating Voldemort—was this guy even speaking normal human language?
Lynn ignored his expression and continued.
"These wands' cores, like Voldemort's own wand, all come from Fawkes's feathers—twin cores."
The three of them went still simultaneously.
"Twin cores?" William pushed his glasses up. "You mean—"
"Yes." Lynn nodded. "When wands sharing twin cores clash directly, they trigger a special Priori Incantatem."
He paused, gathering his words.
"Basically, if your wand and Voldemort's ever cross directly, his wand will 'recognize' the phoenix feather in yours, and then—"
He looked at all three of them.
"It'll regurgitate every spell it's ever cast."
The compartment fell so quiet only the wheels clacking against the track remained.
"So," William said slowly, "if we ever run into him for real, this wand could—"
"Buy you a little time to call for help." Lynn finished. "Not much. But enough."
"Assuming you survive his first move, of course."
Edgar looked down at the wand in his hand, quiet for a moment. Then he carefully tucked it into his pocket, looked up, and grinned.
"Then I definitely won't survive."
Lynn: "..."
"So it's better if you handle him," Edgar said, biting into a meat pie, mouth full. "You're better at fighting anyway."
Lynn looked at William and Ollie.
William had already stowed his wand, pushing his glasses up, expression flat. "Just in case."
Ollie said nothing, simply turning his wand over gently in his hand.
Lynn nodded, satisfied. "Come on, don't be shy, grab a few more."
He pulled out several more boxes from his trunk, stacking them on the small table with a clatter.
"When I run out of material, I'll go pluck a few more from Fawkes."
The three of them: "..."
Edgar eyed the pile of boxes, mouth twitching. "How many feathers did you pluck off that poor bird?"
Lynn thought it over. "Not many. Just enough."
If Fawkes ever heard that, he'd probably curse a blue streak.
Though Lynn doubted the three of them would ever run into Voldemort directly, having them practice spells with these wands wasn't a bad use either way. And spares never hurt when it came to wands.
The train rattled on.
Fields outside the window rushed past, distant hills rolling on. Sunlight spilled through the carriage, glinting warmly off the pile of wand boxes.
Edgar stuffed the last bite of pie in his mouth, brushed the crumbs off his hands, and pointed a wand at William's book.
"Avifors"
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
William, expressionless, slid the book further away. "Can you stop experimenting on my book?"
Edgar sheepishly withdrew, starting a fresh round of attempts on his own backpack instead.
Lynn yawned and closed his eyes.
---
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