Ten a.m. on the Hogwarts Express.
The train had been scrubbed clean over the two-month break; its scarlet paint gleamed like new. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had so much luggage (and were bickering nonstop about their pets) that they'd missed the early rush and barely made it aboard.
Mrs. Weasley kissed every one of her kids goodbye, then stood on the platform with teary eyes, waving until they were out of sight.
"We lost way too much time," Harry grumbled to himself. "Now we'll be lucky to find seats."
They shuffled down the corridor toward the back. The front carriages were packed; familiar faces waved, some even called out to squeeze in with them. Harry forced a smile and nodded politely.
Finally, they reached the very last compartment. Inside sat a stranger—an adult wizard.
He wore an ancient, patched robe that had seen better days. His face was pale and gaunt, exhaustion etched into every line. He looked young-ish, but his light-brown hair was already streaked with gray.
"Professor R. J. Lupin," Hermione whispered, surprised.
"You know him?"
"It's on the suitcase." She pointed to a small, battered case on the rack. The letters were peeling, but you could still read the name. "New Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Let's hope he breaks the curse and actually lasts the year."
The three of them slipped in quietly, stowing trunks and pet cages. Ron made a point of sitting as far from Crookshanks's basket as possible. He kept sneaking glances at the sleeping professor while whispering with the others.
They'd only had a quick meet-up at the Leaky Cauldron with parents hovering, so there'd been no chance to really talk. Now the stories spilled out.
Ron's Egypt trip had been epic—ancient wizarding tombs, curses, the works. Hermione's Paris vacation was just as wild: Scourers, New Salem cultists, and her new "sister" who was actually an Obscurial.
Harry, stuck in London all summer, still had plenty: blowing up Aunt Marge, joyriding the Knight Bus, crashing at the Leaky Cauldron… and overhearing Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's late-night argument.
Ron's eyes went wide. "You're telling me all those random blokes at the pub last night were undercover Aurors? Dad got called in, that's why he could pull a Ministry car?"
"Remember that book Death Omens we saw at Flourish and Blotts?"
Harry ran a hand over the seat, already feeling safer on the Express. "It said a big black dog means death. I've seen one a bunch of times lately. Gives me the creeps."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "The shop assistant told me that book's like a medical textbook—read it and suddenly every headache's a brain tumor. It's all in your head."
"Really?"
Harry scratched his head and sighed.
The snack trolley witch came by. They loaded up on sweets and hot pumpkin juice, then settled into lighter gossip.
The train chugged steadily north. Outside, the landscape turned greener, the sky darker. They'd left London in sunshine, but before lunch the clouds had swallowed the light.
By afternoon it was raining—soft at first, then harder. Hills blurred into gray smears. The windows turned into sticky sheets of water. Thick clouds and fog ate the daylight; the little lamps in the corridors and on the racks flickered on.
The train swayed. The mountains sliding past the windows slowed. Brakes screeched against the rails.
"Are we there?" Ron craned his neck.
Hermione checked her watch. "No way. It's not even four."
"Then why are we stopping?"
"I'll check…" Harry, closest to the door, stood up.
Heads poked out of every compartment—kids chattering, confused. Then a scream—high-pitched, definitely Ginny's.
A massive BOOM shook the whole train. Windows rattled, luggage crashed from the racks, lights stuttered and died. Darkness swallowed everything.
"Did we hit something?" Harry gripped the door handle. "Ron? Hermione? You okay?"
"Quiet." A calm voice cut through the dark.
A soft crackle. A trembling flame sparked to life, lighting a small circle. Professor Lupin was awake, wand raised, the firelight carving shadows across his tired face.
He took a steadying breath. "Stay where you are."
Harry followed his gaze into the corridor and froze. Ice flooded his veins.
A cloaked figure loomed, nearly brushing the ceiling. Its face was hidden beneath a hood. One gray, shriveled hand stretched out, glowing faintly—like a specimen floating in Snape's jars, wrinkled and dead but still moving.
It inhaled—slow, rasping, like an old man's last gasp.
Harry's head spun. His breath locked in his chest. Cold sank into his bones, dragging him down. His vision blurred, pupils dilating, consciousness slipping into black.
As he collapsed, his eyes caught one last glimpse through the window.
No more rain-soaked darkness. A winged horse soared through the storm—black, shimmering scales over bony wings, eyes cold and distant.
On its back, the young professor sat calmly, reins in hand.
The clouds were ink-black. Raindrops veered away from him, sliding off an invisible sphere as if afraid to touch his robes.
…
The Express had stopped at the mouth of a tunnel. Headlights and windows were dark; only the last compartment glowed faintly.
A flash of silver—wolf-shaped Patronus slammed the dementor backward out of the carriage.
"Expecto Patronum," Melvin murmured. He knew exactly who'd cast it.
The train was still on the Inverness border, not yet into the Highlands. This stretch wasn't on the dementors' patrol route. But the rain and fog had thickened the chill, amplifying their senses. The happy chatter of young witches and wizards had drifted through the mist like a beacon, luring one stray from the pack.
Fog hid everything. Rain washed away traces. Even if this lone dementor vanished without a trace, the Ministry would find nothing.
Melvin tugged the reins and signaled his Thestral.
The creature understood. Wings beat once—hard—and it shot after the fleeing dementor.