The End-of-Term Assessment had left Echo feeling a renewed sense of confidence. He had proven, both to himself and to the Ministry, that his unique magic was not a flaw but a different kind of strength. He still had his struggles in some classes, but the gnawing fear of expulsion had receded, replaced by a quiet determination to continue mastering his craft on his own terms. The next few weeks passed quickly, a blur of continued lessons with Hagrid in the forest, intense (if still gruff) tutoring sessions with Snape, and the joyous discovery of Wick's increasingly mischievous personality. The tiny dragon, no longer quite so tiny, was now adept at snatching loose change from Echo's pockets and occasionally breathing wisps of truly noxious smoke at Sniffles if the Niffler got too close to her hoard of shiny pebbles. Their secret, surprisingly, remained safe. Hagrid was a master of discretion, and the cave in the Forbidden Forest, warmed by natural thermal vents, provided an ideal, hidden home for the rapidly growing Hebridean Black.
Echo even found himself relaxing a little in the common room. The snickers had mostly subsided, replaced by a grudging respect for his unusual talent, or at least, a bewildered acceptance of his eccentricities. He was still "the strange first-year who hangs out with Hagrid," but the "monster" label seemed to be fading. He spent more time observing other students, particularly the Gryffindors, a chaotic, boisterous lot who seemed to possess an endless supply of self-confidence and an equally endless capacity for mischief. One afternoon, as he was leaving the Great Hall after lunch, a loud, booming laugh echoed from down the corridor. Echo sighed. He knew that laugh. It belonged to James Potter, a fourth-year Gryffindor, perpetually disheveled, perpetually grinning, and perpetually surrounded by his equally boisterous friends. James was everything Echo wasn't: popular, charismatic, and effortlessly good at conventional magic. He was also, much to Echo's constant annoyance, a relentless tormentor of Snape, his favorite pastime seeming to involve public humiliation of the Slytherin upperclassman.
Echo tried to slip past unnoticed, but it was too late. James, along with Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—the infamous "Marauders"—were blocking the corridor, clearly engaged in some elaborate prank planning. James, with his messy black hair and a pair of spectacles perched precariously on his nose, spotted Echo.
"Well, well, if it isn't the Slytherin sprout!" James called out, a wide, challenging grin on his face. "Lost your way, have we? Or just admiring the superior architecture of the Gryffindor corridor?"
Echo stopped, a familiar tension coiling in his stomach. He wasn't afraid of them, not exactly, but their relentless teasing was exhausting. He just wanted to be left alone.
"I'm just passing through, Bambi," Echo said, trying to keep his voice neutral but allowing his sass to slip out.
Sirius Black, leaner and even more chaotic than James, stepped forward, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, no, you don't, sprout. We haven't had our daily dose of Slytherin glumness yet. What's that in your pocket, anyway? More sad little Nifflers?" He gestured playfully at the slight bulge where Sniffles was currently dozing, but quickly got annoyed by the poking, causing him to burst out and try to nip him.
Remus Lupin, the quietest of the group, with a thoughtful, almost weary expression, merely watched, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. Peter Pettigrew, round and nervous, fidgeted behind them.
"It's none of your business, Black," Echo retorted, clutching his pocket instinctively as Sniffles tried to jump out and tear the boy's pants to shreds.
James chuckled. "Feisty, aren't we? Heard you've been spending a lot of time with Hagrid, sprout. Learning how to talk to the Bowtruckles, are we? Going to teach them to fetch your potions ingredients?"
The mockery was unmistakable. Echo felt the familiar heat rise in his cheeks. He hated being mocked, hated being seen as weird, even though it was a daily occurrence and practically the norm. Still, it usually happens behind his back or out of earshot, not in front of his face.
"At least I'm learning something useful," Echo shot back, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "Unlike some people who just spend their time tormenting others."
The air suddenly went still. James's grin tightened, and Sirius's eyes lost their amusement, becoming sharp.
"Careful, sprout," James said, his voice low. "Don't go accusing us of things you don't understand."
Echo, emboldened by a sudden surge of his wild magic, found himself unable to back down. "Oh, I understand perfectly, Potter. I see what you do to Snape. It's cruel. And it's pointless. I also saw that shiner last night, I know it was you! You're lucky, Serveus, stopped me from telling Lilly and having her rip you and the rest of your weird polycule a new one."
"Is that where Snape got that insult from?!" Remius stated in surprise.
"Is he where Snape gets all his new insults for us?" Peter whispered to the others.
A dangerous glint entered James's eyes. "Snape deserves everything he gets. And why are you even talking to Lilly? You two aren't even friends. Besides, Sanpeis a greasy git, a slimy snake—"
"He's my friend!" Echo cut him off, the words escaping before he could stop them. A gasp went through the Marauders. Even Remus looked surprised.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. James stared, genuinely taken aback. No one, absolutely no one, defended Snape, especially not a first-year. Then, James's expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk began to form. "Your friend, is he? Well, isn't that just… precious. The little sprout and the greasy snake, bonding over dark arts and general gloominess. I should have known." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Echo, then down to his pocket. If Echo could hiss or growl like a creature, he would just about now. "Tell you what, sprout. Why don't you prove how 'useful' your magic is? Prove you're not just another one of Snape's little projects."
Sirius exchanged a look with James, a challenge in his eyes. "Yeah, sprout. Impress us. Do something spectacular. Something that doesn't involve talking to twigs."
Echo felt his unique magic hum, responding to the challenge, to the pressure, to the raw, untamed energy of the Marauders. His black wand felt suddenly warm in his pocket, almost eager. He could feel it; the beast within was stirring, not with anger, but with a fierce, almost arrogant desire to prove itself.
"What do you want me to do?" Echo asked, his voice surprisingly steady.
James's smirk widened. He looked around, his eyes falling on a dusty, forgotten statue of a grumpy-looking gargoyle that stood in a niche beside the corridor. "Alright, sprout. That gargoyle there. It's been looking a bit… static lately. Make it do something. Make it move. Make it dance. Anything. And no wand-waving, no fancy incantations. Just… your 'useful' magic." He crossed his arms, challenging. "Impress us, Echo."
Echo looked at the gargoyle, then at the expectant, slightly mocking faces of the Marauders. He knew this was a trap, a setup for public humiliation. But something inside him, a stubborn pride fueled by months of quiet triumph and unspoken frustration, refused to back down. He wouldn't just move it; he would make it live. He would show them. He walked slowly towards the gargoyle, the silence of the corridor amplifying the tension. He ignored the Marauders' expectant stares, ignoring the little voice in his head that screamed for him to run. He extended his hand, not his wand, just his open palm, towards the cold stone. He closed his eyes, focusing. He reached out with his unique magic, not to cast a spell on the gargoyle, but to feel into it. He felt the ancient stillness of the stone, the faint echoes of the magic that had first shaped it, the dormant potential within its unmoving form.
He imagined the rock waking up, the molecules vibrating with a slow, internal hum. He didn't picture a dance or a levitation. He pictured life. He channeled the transformative power, the same power that had brought Wick back from death, not as a destructive force, but as a slow, inexorable awakening. He gathered the ambient magic in the corridor, the faint life force from the dust motes dancing in the faint light, the residual energy from every student who had ever passed through these halls, and he released it into the gargoyle. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the stone statue. James's mocking smirk faltered. Sirius leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. Remus, ever observant, watched with a flicker of genuine curiosity. Peter whimpered slightly.
The gargoyle's stone eyes, which had been blank and lifeless, slowly, agonizingly, began to shift. A faint, reddish light, like an ember stirring to life, ignited within them. The rough, chiseled features seemed to soften, to gain a fleeting expression of… wakefulness. A deep, grinding sound, like ancient gears turning, emanated from within the statue as its head slowly, slowly, turned. It didn't dance. It didn't float. It simply looked. Its gaze, ancient and heavy, swept over the Marauders, then settled on Echo. And then, with a sound like crumbling stone and dry leaves, it let out a single, profound, guttural gargle. It wasn't a roar, or a growl, but a sound of deep, resonant acknowledgement, a sound that spoke of centuries of silent watching, now broken by a single, powerful act of awakening.
Then, as suddenly as it had awakened, the light in its eyes faded, and its head slowly returned to its original, still position. The stone was cold and unmoving once more. The corridor was silent, save for the rapid breathing of the Marauders. For the first time Echo had ever seen, James was utterly speechless. His jaw hung slightly open, his spectacles askew. Sirius looked pale, his chaotic energy momentarily drained. Remus stared at the gargoyle and then at Echo, a flicker of something akin to awe in his eyes. Peter looked ready to faint. Echo, utterly drained but vibrating with a quiet triumph, simply stood there, his hand still extended. He had done it. He had shown them.
Finally, James found his voice, though it was a mere whisper. "What… what was that?"
Echo slowly lowered his hand, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "My useful magic, Potter. It doesn't just talk to twigs. It wakes up stones." He turned, a newfound confidence in his stride, and walked away, leaving the Marauders staring at the silent, enigmatic gargoyle and at the unsettling truth that there was far more to Echo, the Slytherin sprout, than they had ever imagined.
"What the bloody hell was that, Prongs?" Sirius demanded, shaking his head as if to clear it. "He made a gargoyle… gargle?"
James, still rooted to the spot, swallowed hard. "I… I don't know. That wasn't any charm I've ever seen." He looked at the silent stone, then back to the empty corridor where Echo had been. The boy was gone, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
"He said he saw the shiner we gave Snape," Remus murmured, mostly to himself, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. "And he knows about… us." He glanced at Peter, who was still looking like he'd seen a ghost.
"Forget that, Moony! He said useful magic!" Sirius practically shrieked, his composure returning with a vengeance, replaced by a surge of indignant anger. "He just called our magic useless! After… after that!"
James's eyes narrowed. A familiar resentment swiftly replaced the momentary awe. Echo had humiliated them, not just by his bizarre display of magic, but by dismissing their own. And in front of Peter, who would undoubtedly recount the tale in hushed, terrified whispers to anyone who would listen.
"He won't get away with that," James growled, clenching his fists. "No, first-year calls my magic useless. Not even a weird Slytherin sprout."
"So, what do we do?" Peter squeaked, finally finding his voice. "That was… creepy. What if he curses us?"
"He's not going to curse anyone, Wormtail," James scoffed, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. "He's just… different. But different doesn't mean better. We just need to remind him of his place. And remind him that his 'useful' magic isn't going to save him from a bit of good, old-fashioned humiliation."
Sirius grinned, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Oh, I like the sound of that, Prongs. Something that'll really knock that arrogant smirk off his face. Something… public."
Remus sighed, rubbing his temples. "Do we really need to escalate this? He's just a first-year. And that magic… it was rather extraordinary, wasn't it? Besides, I know he's built like a tickle me Elmo doll, but he's more terrifying than a chimera on coke."
"Exactly why we have to escalate it, Moony," James said, his voice firm. "Can't have little sprouts thinking they can outshine the Marauders. He wants to show off his 'useful' magic? Fine. We'll give him an audience."
Over the next few days, the Marauders' campaign against Echo intensified, becoming a meticulous, calculated effort to dismantle his newfound confidence. They didn't use obvious jinxes, which would attract Snape's immediate wrath or Dumbledore's attention. Instead, they opted for psychological warfare, exploiting Echo's quiet nature and his academic struggles. One morning, Echo walked into the Great Hall to find every single piece of cutlery on the Slytherin table twisted into grotesque, writhing snakes, their handles forming mocking caricatures of Snape's face. A chorus of horrified gasps and disgusted murmurs rippled through the Slytherin students. Echo knew immediately who was responsible. He looked up at the Gryffindor table, where James, Sirius, and Peter were trying (and failing) to stifle their laughter. Remus, as usual, was looking vaguely uncomfortable, but even he had a faint smirk playing on his lips. Echo gritted his teeth. It was childish, but effective. He couldn't eat with a spoon that resembled a sneering Snape.
Later that day, during his Transfiguration class, Echo found his textbook magically glued shut, not with a simple sticking charm, but with something far more intricate, a complex web of ensnared pages that defied all his attempts at a counter-spell. Professor McGonagall, already exasperated by his persistent mishaps, gave him a stern lecture about unpreparedness, subtracting ten points from Slytherin. Echo knew, with a burning certainty, that it was the Marauders. He'd seen Sirius giving him a wide, innocent-looking grin from across the classroom just before he'd opened his book.
The humiliation peaked during a particularly busy afternoon in the crowded corridors. Echo was walking to the library, trying to avoid eye contact, when he suddenly found his shoelaces inexplicably tied together, not just once, but in a series of impossibly intricate knots. He stumbled, falling flat on his face amidst a flurry of amused whispers and outright laughter from the passing students. He heard James's booming laugh from a nearby alcove, followed by Sirius's gleeful whoop. As he struggled to untangle himself, his face burning, he heard James call out, "Careful there, sprout! Wouldn't want your useful magic to trip over its own feet, eh?"
Echo flushed crimson. He could feel the eyes on him, the judgment, the amusement. It was exactly what they wanted. He was back to being the strange, clumsy first-year, the target of their cruel jokes. All the confidence he'd gained from the assessment, from Wick, from Hagrid, felt like it was crumbling around him. The beast within stirred, a low, frustrated growl, not of destructive rage, but of pure, unadulterated shame. He wanted to lash out, to show them the real power he possessed, but he knew that would only confirm their worst suspicions, that he was a monster. So he bit his tongue, slowly, painstakingly untangling the elaborate knots, enduring the mocking glances and the stifled snickers, the Marauders' triumphant laughter echoing in his ears. They were getting their licks in, alright. And it tasted like ash.