Draco had long since stopped shrieking in that simpering voice of his. He was still muttering under his breath, but even he didn't really know what he was saying anymore—all of his attention was fixed on the story. When Skyl paused, Draco couldn't help asking, "So you're saying that, on your way to school, you even had to take part in a Muggle war?"
Skyl nodded. "That's right. The civil war in Skyrim was in full swing. We were unlucky—an Imperial supply train ran into a Stormcloak ambush. The battle broke out that very night. The rebels used rolling boulders and massive tree trunks to block the road, then hid in the forest. Once the caravans halted, they attacked from the flank.
"Thousands of arrows fell at once, like a rainstorm meant for killing. There were screams everywhere, blood everywhere. Rebel cavalry circled round from the rear, cutting off our way back. The Imperials were attacked from both sides and had to fall back toward the river. Legate Rikke tried to organize a counterattack, but huge numbers of soldiers were still forced into the water. On the opposite bank there was another unit of rebel archers shooting at the men as they fell into the river."
Hermione's face tightened with worry. "Were you all right? Kliman, Faendal, and Sven—are they all right?"
"The four of us stuck together. As soon as the formation fell apart, I grabbed them and ran. I transfigured the thick reeds on the riverbank into a raft and we rode the current downstream. At night the river was pitch-black, like the inside of some beast's belly. The twin moons and the stars were only a faint glimmer far ahead, impossible to reach.
"The raft shot along, leaving the screams and the dull clang of steel far behind. Just when we were breathing again, the light on the water ahead suddenly stopped—and then vanished, like it had dropped down a well. Faendal went as white as a sheet and started screaming. Kliman and Sven screamed too. There was a waterfall ahead. You've all heard summer rainstorms at night—well, this was ten times louder."
…
The raft went hurtling down the river, tossed and spun like a leaf in a whirlpool.
They had barely escaped death when the sudden appearance of the waterfall made all four hearts jump into their throats again.
"Think of something! Skyl, use that wizard brain of yours and think of something!" Kliman was frantic. "I can't swim!"
Sven was kneeling on the raft, praying, "Kynareth, Stendarr, Dibella, Akatosh—whoever's listening, please save us!"
Faendal had started stripping off his armour; he was clearly preparing to be thrown into the water.
Skyl burst out laughing. He didn't look the least bit nervous. He stood at the prow like a ship's captain, and the moment the raft flew out over the lip of the falls, he flung his arms wide. The wooden raft turned into a gigantic eagle, spreading vast wings and letting out a piercing cry over the night sky of Skyrim.
The eagle skimmed above the river and came down in the hold of Eastmarch, where the Darkwater River met the White River.
The four of them collapsed on the bank, gulping air.
Kliman stared up at the stars and started laughing. "We're alive."
"Yeah. We're alive," Faendal said, eyes so wet with sweat they almost looked tearful.
"How are you feeling, Skyl?" Sven asked weakly, still sounding half-dazed.
"It's nothing more than an ordinary day in Skyrim," Skyl said, folding his hands behind his head and humming a little tune.
…
The sight of Draco hanging upside down drew a lot of young witches and wizards. They crowded into the corridor outside the compartment, pointing and whispering about the three boys.
"Put me down!"
"Ready to talk properly now?" Skyl snapped his fingers. The ropes binding Draco and his two stooges suddenly lengthened, lowering them to the floor—and then, with a soft bang, turned into streamers and glitter that burst and showered down like a hero's welcome salute. Draco's pale blond hair was plastered to his head with sweat and now covered in glitter, making him look like some bedraggled party doll fished out of a pond.
The prefects hurried over. "What's going on here?"
Draco immediately started complaining to them. "This random man attacked us!"
Harry stepped forward and explained what had happened from the beginning. The other students whispered to one another, pointing back at him.
"Look, that's him."
"The Boy Who Lived."
With the other kids in the compartment adding their versions, the truth was easy enough to see. Draco had been the one trying to pick a fight. He absolutely refused to admit it, of course, and tried to muddle things as much as he could.
Percy couldn't help scolding Ron. "Ron, what have you done to yourself?" As a newly promoted prefect, the last thing he wanted was his own family making his job harder.
Ron stared back at Percy in disbelief. His brother immediately regretted it; his face shifted between guilty and stubborn. After a brief, stiff discussion with the other three prefects, the Slytherin prefect led Draco away.
On his way out, Draco threw a cold smirk into the compartment, as if to say: You're done for.
Harry felt a little uneasy and glanced at Skyl. The older boy was propping his chin up with one hand, perfectly unconcerned, like one of those seasoned students who knew exactly which problems were serious and which weren't worth worrying about. That calmness eased Harry's heart as well.
Percy stayed behind in the compartment to give Skyl a stern reminder—or rather, an order, though he didn't yet have the habit of talking down to people, so his tone stayed soft.
"Please don't cast spells on younger students without good reason. If anyone gets hurt, it will be very bad for your academic record."
Skyl didn't argue; he simply nodded. Percy said a few more stiff words, then, just before leaving the compartment, happened to catch sight of Ron sitting with his head turned away, arms folded, the corners of his eyes visibly red. Percy hesitated for a moment, then still turned and went out.
The twins were loitering outside, watching the show. They pulled faces at Percy's back; once he was gone, they came in and clapped Ron on the shoulders. When they saw he was still sulking, they each stuck out a hand and started tickling him from both sides.
"Get off! Get off!" Ron couldn't help laughing in front of his friends, squirming on the seat like a caterpillar.
George sighed. "Ah, our dear Percy—"
Fred picked up the line without missing a beat. "—eyes full of power, and no room left for his darling little brother."
"But don't worry, ickle Ronniekins—" George's syrupy, mocking grin made Ron grind his teeth.
"—even if you lose one Percy, you've still got loads of big brothers who love you. Hahaha."
Once they'd successfully teased their little brother into laughing, the twins finally left the compartment, satisfied.
Ron's cheeks were scarlet, and the freckles on his nose practically glowed like fireflies. He sneaked a guilty look around at everyone and grumbled, "They're always like that. All they know how to do is pick on me."
Harry felt a stab of envy at that kind of brotherly affection. Watching the twins tease Ron, he couldn't help thinking, If only I had brothers like that. But all he had was a cousin, Dudley Dursley—that fat, lazy, spoiled, vicious boy with the foul temper.
Hermione said, "Your brother—the prefect, Percy…"
"Don't talk about him. He's the worst," Ron groaned, clutching his head.
"All right."
Skyl hadn't said a word. He watched the young kids' back-and-forth and felt a kind of vibrant energy sprouting in his own chest.
Neville quietly shrank back into his seat.
Skyl noticed and praised him. "You did well, Neville. Standing up for your friends like that—I think you'll make a fine Gryffindor."
"Thank you."
Harry was puzzled. "What does 'Gryffindor' mean?"
Hermione raised her eyebrows and jumped in before anyone else. "Hogwarts is divided into four houses, named after the four founders: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."
"Which house is the best?"
Hermione guessed, "Probably Gryffindor. Dumbledore was in that house."
Ron nodded. "All my brothers are in Gryffindor. Mum and Dad were in it too. They're counting on me getting in as well, but Ravenclaw wouldn't be bad either. As long as it's not Slytherin. That place is awful."
"Why?"
Harry said, "Slytherin—that's where You-Know-Who… where Voldemort went to school, right?"
"Yeah. And every dark wizard ever was in Slytherin."
Harry turned to Skyl. "Which house will you be in?"
"Me?" Skyl shook his head. "It'll be either Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, I suppose."
Ron got excited. "You'll definitely be in Gryffindor!"
"Why?"
"Because you're the brave sort. Just think about it: for the sake of going to school, you went through all that—bandits, necromancers, a war—and none of it beat you. You're a warrior."
Harry nodded. "Like King Arthur—a hero."
Skyl chuckled and gently corrected them. "No, I'm not a hero."
I'm a god.