Harry asked, "That Ritual Stone—does it really hide some sort of dark secret?"
Skyl waved a hand, looking unconcerned. "Maybe. But I couldn't get it to activate."
Hermione Granger suddenly cut in. "Which book did you learn those spells from? I've memorised The Standard Book of Spells and there isn't a single spell like the ones you used."
Neville added in a small voice, "And you didn't seem to use a wand…"
Ron cheerfully explained to the girl, "Er, not every spell's exactly like it is in the books. The ones I know are more like that sort of thing."
Hermione's gaze turned sharp. "What magic can you do?"
"I can turn Scabbers yellow." Scabbers was Ron's pet—a very old, crippled, rather feeble rat. Like everything the Weasley boy owned, it had already gone through his older brothers' hands before it came to him: his wand, his textbooks, even his pet.
Everyone turned to look at him when they heard that. Under their stares, Ron guiltily looked back at them, then slowly fished his wand out of his trunk—a battered thing with the core already showing through the wood. He began the spell.
"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow."
Ron pointed his wand at Scabbers. The rat had its head tucked into an empty sweets box, dozing, utterly indifferent to the incantation.
The compartment fell silent. The clacking of the train over the tracks suddenly sounded loud and harsh.
Ron, embarrassed and angry, muttered a few curses at Scabbers under his breath, then dejectedly put his wand away.
Harry had no idea how to comfort him.
Just then Hermione drew her own wand. "I practised some spells from the books over the holidays. They work quite well." She pointed it at Harry's battered old glasses. "Reparo!"
The glasses, which had been broken before and held together with strips of clear tape, mended at once. The frames shone, and the lenses became clear and full again.
"Thank you."
Ron looked even more miserable. He was sure Hermione was just showing off.
Hermione turned to Skyl. "You see? These spells work. But the ones you use are either too simple or far too long. Are they spells you only learn in the higher years?"
Skyl's expression was gentle, like a patient teacher and friend. He glanced slowly around to catch the children's attention before he began to explain.
"You're very observant. You're right—I wasn't using a wand, and I wasn't using spoken incantations. I was using wandless, wordless techniques. To be precise, I've been using Transfiguration the whole time."
"Transfiguration?"
"Yes. Of all branches of magic, Transfiguration is without doubt the most important and most essential. Any witch or wizard who achieves anything in this field is among the best of the magical world. The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Professor Dumbledore—the greatest wizard of this age—once taught Transfiguration. And the current Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, is also a master of the subject. I have one piece of advice for you, so listen carefully: if you want to touch the roots of magic itself, pour your passion, inspiration, and trust into Transfiguration."
The door of the compartment was opened by yet another visitor.
"So it's true? Everyone on the train's talking—Harry Potter's in this compartment. Which one of you is Harry Potter?"
The speaker was a pale, handsome blond boy, dressed very neatly and carrying himself with a lofty air. Two boys stood behind him like bodyguards, both short, fat, and ugly.
Harry had been half lost in thought, but when he heard the blond boy's words he instinctively answered. The moment he saw the boy's face clearly, he recognised him at once. They had already had one very unpleasant conversation in Madam Malkin's robe shop in Diagon Alley, and Harry had found him so arrogant he could hardly bear it.
"I'm Draco Malfoy." The blond boy nodded to Harry and to Skyl, who was clearly much older than the others; the rest of the young witches and wizards he simply ignored. Then he introduced his two hangers-on. "This is Crabbe and this is Goyle."
No one in the compartment said anything. Ron snorted with laughter as soon as he heard the name "Malfoy".
The moment Malfoy heard the laughter, he snapped back, "Is my name funny? I only had to look at your hair to know—you're another Weasley. Freckles all over, and your family's got more children than it can afford to feed."
Ron slumped, crushed.
Skyl spoke up to stop Draco's nastiness. "Kid, do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Now apologise to Ronald. And Ron, you should be ready to say you're sorry too."
"Oh, looks like we've got someone important here," Draco drawled, sounding like a slug dragging itself across tiles. "But I don't need to apologise to a Weasley. My father says people like them will never get along with proper wizards."
Right then Harry really wanted to punch Draco in the face. Ron's cheeks were burning red. Neville, who was closest to the door, shrank inward as far as he could, while Hermione gripped the hem of her robes and pressed her lips together, saying nothing.
Skyl suddenly smiled and said to Harry, "See? A school journey is always like this—full of bumps and scrapes. What are you going to do, then? Stand up for your friend, or tell him to swallow the insult?"
Harry shot to his feet, facing Malfoy. Ron stood up right after him, then Hermione Granger, and finally Neville, shaking all over, got to his feet behind his new friends as well.
With numbers on their side, Draco's pale little face went even whiter. His eyes darted nervously as he croaked, "You're going to fight before term even starts? Aren't you afraid of being expelled? My father's on the school Board of Governors. If you dare lay a finger on me, he'll have you all thrown out."
Skyl lounged comfortably against the window, thoroughly amused, fanning the flames. "Go on and hit him, I'll mend your injuries. I promise no one will ever know."
Draco shrieked like a girl whose skirt had just been yanked up, then spun round with his two cronies to run away. He had only taken two steps before he heard Skyl bark, "Upside down!"
The scattered sweet wrappers and boxes on the seats and floor suddenly lengthened into ropes, coiling around the three little thugs and binding them together. Then the ropes shot up and fastened themselves to the ceiling, leaving Draco and his two followers dangling upside down in midair.
…
"Now, where was I? Oh, right—we'd just finished with the necromancer. The next stretch of the journey was fairly quiet. After a week on the road, the carts reached the eastern borders of Whiterun Hold, about to enter Eastmarch…"
On the morning of the eighth of Midyear, a blanket of mist lay over their riverside campsite. Most people were still asleep when a sudden burst of noise broke out. Skyl crawled out of his tent and looked around the foggy camp. Not far away he heard the clop of hooves, the clang of armour, the rumble of wheels. Dark shapes moved through the haze, dense as a thicket of low trees.
Faendal was crouched on a rock overlooking the road. Kliman called up to him, "Faendal, what do you see?"
"An army. Lots of soldiers. Supply wagons. And cavalry."
Kliman frowned. "Damn. Can you see what they're wearing?"
"Imperial soldiers."
"Good. At least they're not Stormcloaks"—the Nord rebels led by Ulfric Stormcloak. Kliman let out a breath of relief, then turned to Skyl. "Those people are rude to outsiders like you. Best keep your distance from them in future."
The caravan had met a column of marching Imperial troops. Their commanding officer was a brisk, no-nonsense Nord woman the soldiers addressed as Legate Rikke. In the name of Emperor Titus Mede II, she conscripted the entire caravan.
From then on, they served as civilian labourers, following the Imperial army to relieve Fort Amol, which was under siege by the rebel forces.