The sound of the key turning in the lock didn't feel like coming home. It felt more like a first breath after surfacing from deep water—tentative, cold, and cautious. The wards rippled faintly as I stepped over the threshold, responding to the signature of my magical core. One by one, like invisible gears shifting into place, the layers of protection I'd etched into the foundation of the house recognized me and began to stir. Defensive perimeter. Alarm trip lines. Perception fog for Muggles, even though there weren't likely to be any in Hogsmeade. Lockdown mode had kept the place sealed during my school term, and now the enchantments fluttered awake under my command, like stretching arms after a long sleep.
"Home," I said aloud, just to hear it.
It felt strange saying it. I'd never really had a home—not one that was just *mine*. Not since before everything changed. Not since the war took my parents. But here it was, four walls and a roof provided to me under the Ministry's Orphan Protection Mandate. The location—a modest plot at the edge of Hogsmeade—had been chosen with some leniency, given I was allowed to practice magic here. That was the one advantage to living in an all-magical settlement: no need for Ministry concealment laws every time I summoned a pan or lit a fire.
The house itself was simple, as promised in the parchment-heavy documentation I'd received near the end of term. One floor, functional charmwork, modest space. The front door opened into a small main hall, which bled naturally into a modest sitting area and an open kitchen-dining space. The wooden floor had a lived-in creak to it, the kind that promised good boots and better memories. Sunlight streamed in through wide windows that framed the neatly trimmed garden outside—a patch of green I intended to fill with something useful. Maybe potion herbs. Maybe just somewhere to read under the sun.
On the right was my bedroom, separated by a narrow archway. It was better than I expected. A simple bed, a sturdy desk, a bookshelf waiting to be filled, and a wide window directly above the desk that gave a view of the winding path back into Hogsmeade proper. The attached bathroom held polished stone, gleaming fixtures, and a subtle warming charm already embedded in the pipes. Someone had gone to the trouble of making this place comfortable, or at least respectable. I appreciated that.
Setting my trunk down with a quiet thump, I flexed my fingers and turned toward the front door again. It was time to unlock the final layer of warding—my own contribution to this house's protection. I drew my wand, murmured the sequence of passphrases in a blend of Runescript and Parseltongue that no one but me could replicate, and felt the thrum of deep magic as the ward-core pulsed open to me. It was a feeling not unlike slipping into an old coat—familiar, snug, secure.
Once I was certain the enchantments were stable, I walked into the kitchen, unpacked a small sack of groceries—bread, cheese, eggs, a tin of powdered chocolate—and prepared my first meal here. Nothing fancy. Toasted bread, butter, and two fried eggs done over a controlled flame I conjured into the pan. It wasn't Hogwarts fare, but it was mine. I ate in silence, the only sound the occasional chirp from outside, the wind brushing across the garden.
By the time I finished washing up, the owl had arrived. A sleek brown thing with eyes like amber, sharp and intelligent. It dropped a thick, Ministry-stamped envelope onto the table and hooted impatiently before accepting a piece of bacon I'd saved from breakfast. Then it was gone, wings slicing the air clean.
I opened the letter with careful fingers.
**Second Year Results: Marcus Starborn**
* Charms – *Outstanding*
* Transfiguration – *Outstanding*
* Defence Against the Dark Arts – *Outstanding*
* Potions – *Outstanding*
* Herbology – *Outstanding*
* Astronomy – *Exceeds Expectations*
* History of Magic – *Exceeds Expectations*
* Flying – *Satisfactory*
My breath caught, just slightly. It wasn't that I had expected anything less. But seeing it in ink, formal and recorded, felt different. It felt earned. I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling. Even Astronomy and History—subjects I found dull compared to the arcane intricacy of Charms or the thrilling unpredictability of Defence—hadn't pulled me under.
I sat down at my desk and pulled out parchment. It was time to make my third-year elective choices official.
**To: Deputy Headmaster Herbert Beery
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**
*Dear Professor Beery,*
*I hope this letter finds you well. I have now settled into my summer accommodations in Hogsmeade, and I have received my second-year results. I would like to formally declare my elective subjects for the upcoming academic year. I have chosen to pursue both Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. I believe both branches will be essential to my continued magical growth, particularly in the theoretical and structural understanding of magical systems.*
*Thank you for your continued support.
Sincerely,
Marcus Starborn*
I let the ink dry before sealing the envelope with a simple charm. I'd send it off with the post owl tomorrow.
For now, I wandered back into the bedroom, letting my fingers trail along the edge of the desk. I imagined it piled with Arithmancy charts, Runic translations, magical schematics. I imagined books lined on the shelves: *Numerical Harmonies*, *Runes and Resonance*, *Magical Logic and Theoretical Pathways*. I could already feel the challenge waiting for me in those pages, like a mountain daring me to climb it.
I stared out the window, watching the wind sweep through the grass in the garden. Somewhere out there, Grindelwald was growing bolder. Dark ideas were taking root across Europe.
I didn't sleep the first night.
Not because I was afraid—those days were long behind me—but because the silence felt so different from Hogwarts. At school, even in the dead of night, there was the occasional creak of ancient stone, the whisper of ghosts, the murmur of wind brushing against castle walls. Here in Hogsmeade, the quiet was true and full. It pressed against me like a soft blanket, unbroken except by the occasional hoot of an owl or the rustle of trees in the distance.
I lay on the bed, eyes tracing the wooden slats of the ceiling, and thought.
About everything and it went on and on till it light was coming through the window, I would have liked to continue.
But now, as the sky lightened with morning, I turned from thoughts of school and focused on the house.
There was work to do.
The garden needed enchantments. I started with a basic protective perimeter—a charm that would prevent insects or pests from ruining any plants I decided to grow. I used one of my mother's old techniques, passed down from the Starborn line, layering it with a passive nourishing ward that would draw magic from the air and convert it into faint warmth for the roots. I didn't have seeds yet, but I had plans: nightshade, dittany, possibly even some fluxweed if I could acquire it safely.
Inside, I rearranged the bookshelf to categorize by subject: Theory, Practical, Combat, Arithmancy, Runes, Magical History, Bestiaries. I had already brought several texts back from the Hogwarts library under special permission—Beery and Dumbledore had quietly approved. They knew I wasn't just studying for class. I was building a foundation.
Then came the wardcore.
I spent that afternoon reinforcing the house's existing defensive grid. I walked the perimeter, wand in hand, and re-inscribed the anchoring points. Every spell was carefully chosen: Muggle-repelling charms, anti-Apparition wards for unknown signatures, and a powerful disillusionment weave that could render the entire house nearly invisible to any probing spell. I even wove in a slow-cycling notification tether to my wand—if anyone so much as breathed too heavily within ten feet of my windows, I'd know it instantly.
By the time I finished, sweat streaked my forehead and the air was humming faintly with power. The wards were mine now. Personal. Responsive.
It was then, in the lull, that the loneliness hit me.
Not sharply. Just a quiet ache, like a memory that hadn't faded. I found myself thinking of Henry's wild grin during broom practice, of Elizabeth's sarcastic quips during History of Magic, of Eleanor's thoughtful pauses when discussing runes, and of Edgar's quiet but brilliant ideas. They were the closest thing I had to a family now, in their own strange ways.
I missed them already.
But they'd write. We all would. We'd made a pact the last night in the common room: a weekly letter, no matter what.
I knew they'd keep their word. So would I.
Later that evening, I lit a few floating candles in the main room and sat at the desk with parchment again. I started sketching.
Not spells or diagrams this time, but plans. For learning. For self-mastery. For the future. I drafted a daily schedule—hours for studying, for wandwork, for practicing mind arts, for warding theory, and even some basic dueling drills. I wasn't going to waste this summer. I would grow into this space, into my power, into the quiet resolve that had brought me this far.
As night fell and the garden darkened, I stood in the doorway one last time Before retiring for the night
The first full week in the house passed like water flowing between stones—quiet, steady, but always moving forward. I found that the rhythm of living alone suited me, though not without effort. I woke at dawn, let the sunlight through the curtains, and began each day with a practiced wand movement that summoned my to-do list—enchanted to update itself based on my magical focus and physical energy levels. A minor arithmantic flourish I'd designed myself.
Breakfast was usually something simple—toast, eggs, fruit if I had any from the Hogsmeade market—and I prepared it without magic, just to keep the ritual of hands and flame alive. There was something grounding in turning eggs with a spatula or waiting for water to boil over fire instead of conjuration.
By midmorning, the training began.
My focus was on magical reinforcement and control. A wizard's power is only as useful as their discipline. I rotated between spellwork, runic diagram studies, mind arts exercises, and long hours reviewing my dueling stance and footwork through mirrors. I crafted several small dummies—one made of wicker, another of water enchanted to hold form—and tested spells upon them. I'd disarm, defend, and hex in repetition, weaving between targets and building internal timing.
Each spell was practiced to the rhythm of my breathing. I'd learned from my duels with Professor Dumbledore that panicked thought always bred sloppiness. Precision, not speed, was the key.
But what intrigued me more than anything was the way my house responded to me.
The wards were strong now—woven with my own signature magic, yes—but they also felt… aware. Like an extension of my will. When I opened the door after shopping in the village, I could sense them parting for me, layers lifting and reforming behind me like ghostly cloaks. If someone lingered too long at the edge of the garden path, a silent pulse tingled up my spine.
It was magic as I had always imagined it could be—interwoven, living, breathing with me.
The letter confirming my selections had returned with a small note scribbled in Beery's unmistakably refined hand:
> "Wise choices, Mr. Starborn. Your path opens with knowledge. Do not hesitate to walk it with pride.
> – Beery"
The next morning, I added new charms to the window above my desk—small lenses of magical clarity that allowed me to see more clearly at night and during fog. A gift to myself, and perhaps a small challenge as well. The process required runic calibration, and that let me test my early understanding of the scripts I'd soon be studying in earnest.
And then there were the nights.
They were my favorite.
In the stillness, I'd walk into the garden barefoot, wand in hand, and trace the lines of constellations with magic—tiny silvery shapes floating in the air, reflecting the sky above. I'd summon a flame in my palm, not for warmth, but for company. I'd breathe in, deeply, and try to feel not just the world, but my place in it.
It was in one of those moments, alone beneath the stars, that I truly realized something:
I wasn't a child anymore.
Not just because I'd fought monsters or earned good grades. But because I was responsible for myself—my growth, my magic, my decisions. No parents to guide me, no professors watching over me now. Just the flicker of magic and the pulse of purpose in my veins.
I often thought of my friends during those quiet times. Eleanor, thoughtful and curious, who saw patterns where others saw chaos. Edgar, gentle and observant, always writing notes that turned out to be brilliant. Henry, brave and loyal, who never let anyone walk alone. Elizabeth, sharp-tongued but kind-eyed, with a mind as quick as lightning.
We'd made memories together. Shared laughs and tears and late-night discussions about everything from magical theory to the absurdities of Hogwarts food.
I missed them—but their friendship lingered like runes etched into stone.
On my final night before diving deeper into advanced studies, I found myself at the desk again. I took out a fresh piece of parchment and began drafting something… different. Not a schedule. Not a spell.
A letter.
> "Dear Eleanor,
>
> I hope France was as brilliant as you described in the common room—I still remember how excited you looked. Things here in Hogsmeade are quiet, peaceful even. The house feels like a place out of time, and I've already rewritten half the ward structure just for practice. I received my grades—'O's across the board except for Astronomy and History, both 'EE'. I've officially enrolled in Runes and Arithmancy. I imagine you'll be doing the same.
>
> Do write back.
>
> Sincerely,
> Marcus."
I folded the letter, sealed it, and sent it with my owl just as dawn crept in.
Tomorrow, the true summer training would begin. I had goals. Magic to master. Histories to study. Enchantments to test.
But tonight, I slept under starlight, wrapped in the knowledge that for the first time in my life…
I was exactly where I was meant to be.