After several hours of smooth, clicking travel that provided a deceptively calm transition from the intensity of Hogwarts, the Hogwarts Express pulled into the platform.
Anduin completed his farewells, waving goodbye to Vivian and Charles, who were heading back to their own homes and the mundane realities of the non-magical world. For them, the holidays meant relaxation. For Anduin, it meant a change of laboratory.
He stepped off the train, pulling his packed satchel—heavy with the Rune Disk and his copied research journals—and checked the address Augusta Longbottom had provided: Autri St. Catchpol Village.
"A bit remote, but likely well-secured," he mused.
Determined to reach his destination quickly and discreetly, he raised his hand, not his wand, but his simple ash wood staff, the gesture acting as a clear magical summons.
A moment of profound magical displacement occurred. The sound was not a chime, but a violent, tearing shreek of air, and a massive, triple-decker, aggressively purple bus materialized with a jarring CLANG and a puff of acrid, dark exhaust. This was the Knight Bus.
Anduin regarded the massive vehicle with detached distaste. He knew instantly this journey would be a visceral, physically punishing experience.
"Welcome aboard the Knight Bus! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard! Just point your wand and we'll take you anywhere!" the conductor, a gangly, pimpled young man named Stan Shunpike, chirped rapidly.
Anduin paid the required fee and climbed aboard. The interior was a chaotic environment of brass beds, mismatched curtains, and a relentless, unsettling motion. He had barely secured a seat before the bus launched itself forward with a deafening bang.
The journey was an exercise in continuous disorientation. The bus didn't merely drive; it warped reality, scraping past oncoming traffic, contorting its frame to fit down narrow alleys, and jumping from one side of a bridge to the other with instantaneous, stomach-lurching movements.
The beds continually slid and crashed, and the disembodied, shrieking chatter of three shrunken heads hanging over the driver's cab added to the chaotic atmosphere.
Anduin, his equilibrium usually unflappable, had to constantly use a subtle stabilizing Charm, the same one he employed during intense flying practice, just to remain upright. Even with the Buffet Potion sharpening his focus, the sheer, unrelenting absurdity and violence of the motion was mentally taxing.
He finally stumbled off the bus in the quiet, utterly unremarkable Autri St. Catchpol Village. He took a moment, letting the earth beneath his feet feel solid again, fighting off the residual nausea caused by the magical journey.
The village was sleepy, composed of a few old brick houses and a single, ancient church spire. Following the discreet directions on Augusta's letter, Anduin quickly found the address.
The house was a large, imposing structure set back from the road behind a well-kept, high stone fence. The magic surrounding the property was not crude; it felt ancient, woven into the stone itself—a deep, protective layer of pureblood warding.
As Anduin reached the door, it swung open.
Augusta Longbottom stood framed in the doorway, an apron tied over her heavy tweed robes, a wooden soup ladle still in her hand. Her face, usually stern, was cracked by a rare, genuine smile.
"Anduin! I've been anticipating your arrival," she greeted him warmly. "It's been nearly six months since that terrible business at Christmas. I must say, you've grown up since then—not just height, but there's a certain hardness about you now. It suits a young wizard." She looked at his shoulder-length, pure black hair, which indeed gave him a distinct, almost roguish resemblance to Sirius Black.
"I must thank you again, Madam Longbottom," Anduin said, offering a respectful bow. "Your invitation is a lifeline. With the war intensifying, and with my close friends discreetly placed by Headmaster Dumbledore, this sanctuary is invaluable. It's an honor to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with comrades-in-arms, even if only for the summer."
Augusta's smile deepened at his use of "comrades-in-arms." "Don't be shy, boy. When a young man shows the courage you displayed in defending my family, my home is his home. We are glad for the company. Now, don't stand in the mud—come inside." She tugged him over the threshold.
The house was immediately distinct from the Potters' warm, comfortable cottage. The atmosphere was heavy, steeped in history and tradition. The air smelled faintly of polish, old leather, and rich cooking spices.
Anduin glanced around the living room, taking in the Longbottom legacy. The furniture was massive, carved from dark, heavy oak, clearly generational pieces that valued permanence over comfort. The walls were lined not with modern prints, but with sombre, formal portraits and pastoral landscape paintings.
Every object seemed to proclaim the family's ancient lineage. A glass display case held a collection of curious objects, including small animal specimens, but his eye was drawn to the hall stand: perched prominently on a velvet cushion was a large, somewhat absurd hat topped with a stiff, realistic vulture statue. It was a symbol of pureblood aristocracy—ostentatious and proudly defiant of modern taste.
"Definitely not Alice's aesthetic," Anduin thought, concluding that the entire décor was Augusta's unapologetic affirmation of their family's standing in the magical hierarchy.
"Dinner will be ready momentarily. Frank and Alice will be home soon from their shifts," Augusta continued, already heading back toward the kitchen, the scent of the evening meal intensifying. "In the meantime, you can keep Neville company. I wonder if the little man remembers your face?"
Anduin turned to the crib nestled beside the grand, tiled fireplace. Young Neville Longbottom was lying down, his tiny face looking up at the ceiling, momentarily forlorn.
As Anduin approached, his long, dark hair swinging into view, Neville's large, round eyes fixed on the new arrival. Neville whimpered, his face scrunching up in a half-tearful grimace of confusion and fear. But before the tears could break, the child paused, staring at Anduin's features.
Anduin smiled, trying to inject warmth into his cold gaze. He gently reached out and took the child's small hand. "Little Neville, do you remember me? We were quite the team against those Death Eaters."
At the sound of Anduin's low voice, and the brief contact with his hand, Neville's reaction was immediate and dramatic. He wasn't just scared; he seemed to recoil from a sudden sensation. The child instantly burst into a loud, full-throated wail.
Anduin froze, his hand suspended in the air. He realized the problem wasn't his looks, but his magical presence. His relentless Occlumency training had layered his mind in a sheath of cold, emotionless magical control—the Sentinel.
Neville, a sensitive, young wizard, was instinctively reacting to the profound lack of warmth and the sheer, focused power of Anduin's inner architecture. The child's magical senses likely registered him as a beautiful, but terrifyingly cold, magical entity.
"Okay, okay, I won't disturb you anymore," Anduin muttered, stepping a safe distance back, feeling a strange mix of helplessness and philosophical confirmation of his own transformation. My mental hardening is now physically palpable.
The crying momentarily paused the bustling in the kitchen. Augusta peered out, saw Anduin standing awkwardly and Neville wailing, and merely rolled her eyes before giving the child a quick, firm, wordless pat that instantly quieted him. She gave Anduin a slight shake of her head and returned to her cooking, clearly used to her grandson's dramatic tendencies.
A moment later, the front door swung open, and Frank and Alice Longbottom walked in, dropping their Ministry work bags near the hat stand. They looked weary from a long day, but their faces instantly lit up upon seeing Anduin.
"Anduin, you absolute legend! I still can't believe Mum managed to get you here for the summer," Frank exclaimed, his exhaustion temporarily forgotten as he strode forward to shake Anduin's hand with genuine enthusiasm. "It is magnificent to see you. Honestly, Alice and I have been so swamped—the Ministry is in constant crisis mode—and now Mum finally has someone to talk to who doesn't wilt under her scrutiny. You are a savior of domestic harmony."
"Frank, you are being ridiculous," Alice chided gently, but she smiled warmly at Anduin, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she held Neville. "It's wonderful to have you, Anduin. Your presence will bring a much-needed sense of calmness and stability to the household this summer."
"Thank you, Frank, Alice. Madam Longbottom has been exceptionally generous," Anduin replied, pleased by their warm reception.
"Hmph. You two are gossiping about me again, aren't you? Dinner is ready! Stop loitering in the hall," Augusta's stern voice echoed from the doorway.
Frank immediately flinched, pulling a dramatically chastised face. "Yes, Mum, I know, Mum, sorry, Mum." He then turned and, with an exaggerated wink, gave Anduin a conspiratorial stick of his tongue, reminding Anduin that behind the brave Auror was still a mischievous boy intimidated by his mother.
Anduin observed the exchange, finding the family dynamic intriguing. Augusta was severe, yet her love permeated the house—a strict, traditional love that manifested in unwavering protection and, judging by the smells wafting from the kitchen, magnificent cooking. True culinary genius, Anduin mused, could only be born of sincere devotion.
The first meal of the summer was truly spectacular. It was a massive, sprawling dinner—roast beef, glazed carrots, fresh vegetables, and thick, rich gravy.
The food was so abundant that it suggested the Longbottoms ate like this every night, a testament to Augusta's belief in maintaining a full, hearty table regardless of the darkness outside. Frank and Alice, relaxed and visibly unburdened, discussed trivial Ministry gossip while Augusta focused on efficiently spoon-feeding a now-happy Neville.
After the dishes were cleared, Anduin retrieved the gifts he had prepared from his satchel. Augusta initially protested, citing traditional courtesy, but Anduin insisted, framing the gifts as a necessary token of respect for the shelter and security she was providing. Augusta finally relented, quickly storing the massive Tepo Ham—a highly coveted non-magical delicacy—in a cooling charm.
Frank, however, was immediately interested in the two bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. He expertly opened one, poured a small, discreet measure into a squat glass, and took a sip, sighing contentedly. He then glanced nervously towards the kitchen doorway, where Augusta was settling Neville for the night, and gave Anduin a sly, complicit look.
It was a strange picture: a highly decorated Auror, the bane of Death Eaters, secretly enjoying a drink for fear of his mother's disapproval—a humorous insight into the rigid social etiquette of pureblood homes.
Settled back into the massive chairs in the living room, with the only light coming from the embers of the fireplace and a few antique lamps, Alice cradled the now-sleeping Neville while Frank slowly savored his whisky.
"So, Anduin," Frank began, leaning slightly forward, his voice low and confidential.
"We heard some talk from a few of the professors—McGonagall especially—about your first year. Beyond the whole 'saving-the-world-at-Christmas' event, what was the everyday life like? I'm fascinated by the new generation. Did you manage to keep the Slytherins from completely eating the Gryffindors alive? And how was the legendary McGonagall causing trouble for you? I remember her detention regimen well—it was brutal."