The morning after his unforgettable birthday, the usual post-celebration exhaustion hung heavy in the air. Still, for Echo, it was quickly overshadowed by a different kind of dread: Charms class. Today was the day Professor Flitwick would return their visual exam scores, an assessment that required them to identify and perform a series of complex, silent charms. Echo, his black hair a nervous blue, fidgeted in his seat, his hollow eyes fixed on the stack of parchment on Flitwick's desk. He hadn't expected to ace it, not by a long shot, but he'd practiced diligently, even if his wand movements were still a bit… enthusiastic. He just hoped for a passing grade, something that wouldn't earn him a withering stare from Severus or a sympathetic pat on the back from Lily.
The scores were handed out with a flourish from Professor Flitwick, who, as always, seemed to radiate cheerful energy. A buzz of whispers filled the room as students eagerly snatched their papers.
"I got a 97!" a shrill voice cut through the air. It was Penelope Clearwater, a Ravenclaw in their grade, her perfectly braided hair bouncing as she beamed. "Highest in the class, as usual!"
A collective sigh of resignation went through the Gryffindor and Slytherin students. Of course, a Ravenclaw would be the best. Echo felt a familiar pang of inadequacy, his blue hair dimming slightly. He took his paper, his heart thumping against his ribs. He braced himself for the inevitable, a respectable, if not spectacular, score. He slowly, hesitantly, lowered his gaze to the number emblazoned in red ink at the top of the parchment.
His Violet eyes widened. He blinked. Then he blinked again.
100.
A perfect score.
He got a 100?! Are his eyes working? Does he need glasses? He rubbed them furiously, then looked again. It was still there. A pristine, undeniable, glorious 100. His first perfect grade since attending Hogwarts. A slow, disbelieving grin spread across his face, and his blue hair blazed with a manic, triumphant yellow. It felt… incredible.
"What'd you get, Echo?" Frank Longbottom asked, sidling up to him, a hopeful look on his face. Frank's own paper, clutched in his hand, showed a respectable 82.
Echo, still in a daze, merely held out his paper. Frank's eyes, already wide, practically bugged out of his head. "A HUNDRED?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the classroom. "Echo got a perfect score! A hundred! Can you believe it?!"
The room, which had been settling back into a low murmur, erupted. Everyone turned to stare at Echo. He tried to pull his paper back, a blush rising on his cheeks. He'd wanted to keep it to himself, to savor this quiet, personal victory. But it was too late. Students crowded around him, craning their necks to see the impossible score.
Penelope Clearwater, her triumphant smile now twisted into a furious scowl, pushed past the throng.
"A hundred?" she demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief. She snatched Echo's paper from his hand, her eyes scanning it frantically. "This is a mistake! The class failure can't get a better grade than me!" She marched directly to Professor Flitwick's desk, Echo's paper held aloft like a damning piece of evidence. "Professor Flitwick!" she exclaimed, her voice shrill. "There's been an error! Echo received a perfect score! That's impossible! I got a 97, which is clearly the highest anyone could achieve!"
Professor Flitwick, who had been observing the commotion with a knowing twinkle in his eye, merely smiled. "No error, Miss Clearwater," he chirped, his voice as cheerful as ever. "Mr. Echo's score is entirely accurate."
Penelope scoffed. "But how? He barely manages to cast a Lumos without turning it into a miniature sun!"
Flitwick chuckled, adjusting his spectacles. "Ah, but the visual exam, Miss Clearwater, was not merely about flawless execution. It was about understanding the charm, anticipating its nuances, and demonstrating a deep, intuitive connection to the magic. Your performance, while technically superb, was… clinical. You performed the charms exactly as instructed, with precision and grace. A truly commendable effort, hence your excellent score."
He then turned his gaze to Echo, a warm, appreciative smile on his face. "Mr. Echo, on the other hand, displayed a remarkable ingenuity. While his execution may have lacked your refined elegance, he understood the spirit of each charm. For instance, when asked to demonstrate the Color-Changing Charm, you, Miss Clearwater, changed the quill to a vibrant emerald green. Perfectly executed."
Flitwick then gestured to Echo. "Mr. Echo, however, changed his quill to a shimmering, iridescent rainbow, then made it slowly shift through every color of the spectrum, demonstrating not just the ability to change color, but the mastery of the charm's potential. He went beyond the basic requirement, showcasing a creative and intuitive grasp of the magic. And that, Miss Clearwater, is why Mr. Echo received a perfect score."
A collective gasp went through the room. Penelope Clearwater's face, already flushed with indignation, turned a furious shade of crimson. She, along with several other students who had scored in the high nineties, glared at Echo, who was still beaming, clutching his perfect paper as if it were solid gold. He just kept oggling at his first good grade, completely oblivious to the glares, lost in the sheer, unadulterated joy of it all.
Transfiguration
In the next class, the same nervous energy hung heavy over the Transfiguration classroom. Professor McGonagall, ever stern and precise, returned their practical exam scores. Echo, his black hair a cautious indigo, felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach. Transfiguration was even trickier than Charms for him; his magic, usually so volatile, often had a mind of its own, turning objects into unexpected, if sometimes interesting, forms. He'd tried his best to transfigure a matchstick into a needle, but at one point, it had become a miniature, fully feathered canary that promptly flew out the window. He just hoped he hadn't managed to turn anyone's pet into a teapot during the exam.
Minerva, with a crisp swish of her tartan robes, began distributing the parchments. A quiet rustle filled the room as students eagerly snatched their results.
"I got an 88," a Hufflepuff whispered, a mixture of relief and disappointment on her face.
"Only a 75," a Gryffindor muttered, sighing.
Echo braced himself, his heart hammering. He took his paper, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he forced them open. He slowly lowered his gaze to the number.
His hollow eyes widened. Another 100.
He stared, then rubbed his eyes furiously, convinced he was hallucinating. But it remained—a perfect, pristine 100. His indigo hair flared with a disbelieving, joyous yellow—twice in a row! It felt like a dream.
"What'd you get, Echo?" Frank Longbottom's voice boomed, startling Echo. Frank, having received a respectable 92 himself, leaned over, his eyes wide with curiosity.
Echo, still in a daze, merely held out his paper. Frank's jaw dropped. "A HUNDRED?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing even louder than before. "Echo got a perfect score again! In Transfiguration! Can you believe it?!"
The classroom erupted, filled with whispers, gasps, and indignant murmurs. Everyone turned to stare at Echo, who instantly wished the floor would swallow him whole. He clutched his paper, a deep blush creeping up his neck. He'd wanted to savor this one, too, in private.
Helga Ginger, usually a picture of calm composure, pushed through the crowd, her curly blond hair practically crackling with indignation. "A hundred?!" she demanded, her voice sharp with disbelief. She snatched Echo's paper, her eyes scanning the familiar red ink. "This is preposterous! Echo can't transfigure a feather without turning it into a flock of disgruntled pigeons! I got a 98, which is the highest anyone could possibly achieve in this subject!" She marched directly to Professor McGonagall's desk, Echo's paper held aloft like a scandalous tabloid. "Professor McGonagall!" she exclaimed, her voice shrill. "There's clearly been a mistake! Echo received a perfect score! That's simply impossible!"
Minerva, who had been observing the escalating chaos with a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, merely steepled her fingers. "No error, Miss Ginger," she stated, her voice calm and unwavering. "Mr. Echo's score is entirely accurate."
Helga scoffed, her face a furious shade of puce. "But how? He once turned a teacup into a rather aggressive badger during remedial Transfiguration! His wand movements are… chaotic at best!"
Minerva let out a dry, humorless chuckle, adjusting her spectacles. "Ah, but the practical exam, Miss Ginger, was not solely about textbook perfection. It was about adaptability, creative problem-solving, and the innate understanding of magical intent. Your performance, while technically flawless, was… predictable. You followed every instruction in the letter with admirable precision. A truly exceptional effort, hence your outstanding score."
She then turned her gaze to Echo, a rare, almost proud smile gracing her lips. "Mr. Echo, on the other hand, displayed a most… unconventional brilliance. While his initial attempts often veered off course, he demonstrated an uncanny ability to salvage, redirect, and even enhance his transfigurations. For instance, when asked to transfigure a mouse into a snuffbox, you, Miss Ginger, did so with impeccable form and a perfectly crafted result."
Minerva then gestured towards Echo. "Mr. Echo, however, initially turned his mouse into a rather startled, miniature rhinoceros. But instead of abandoning the attempt, he then, with remarkable presence of mind, transfigured the rhinoceros into a beautifully sculpted, entirely functional snuffbox made of petrified rhino horn, complete with an intricate carving of a charging beast on its lid. He did not merely transfigure; he reimagined. He embraced the unexpected and molded it into something even more extraordinary. And that, Miss Ginger, is why Mr. Echo received a perfect score."
A collective gasp swept through the room. Helga's face, already crimson with indignation, turned a shade that rivaled a ripe tomato. She, along with several other top-scoring students, shot venomous glares at Echo, who, once again, was blissfully oblivious. He was still staring at his paper, a beatific smile plastered on his face, lost in the sheer, exhilarating triumph of his second perfect grade.
Potions
The dread that settled over Echo during Charms and Transfiguration was nothing compared to the icy grip of fear that seized him before Potions. His black hair was a churning maelstrom of nervous violet. Potions. The class he routinely turned into a hazardous waste site. The class where Professor Cleen, a man whose patience was as thin as his hair, usually kept a permanent side-eye fixed on him, especially after the unfortunate (and entirely accidental) incident with the Reverse Patronus Charm that had summoned the drak beast from within him and summoned all thoses dementors that drained a deer dry of its soul at the start of the year. He just hoped he hadn't brewed anything that would spontaneously combust or mutate into a sentient, cauldron-devouring blob.
Professor Cleen, his face a carefully neutral mask, began distributing the exam results. The air in the dungeon classroom crackled with tension, a silent testament to the fear he inspired. Echo's heart hammered against his ribs, his violet eyes fixed on the parchment as it slid across his desk. He prepared for the worst—a failing grade, a scolding, perhaps even a remedial session with Professor Snape, a fate worse than any potion explosion.
He slowly, reluctantly, lowered his gaze. His eyes widened. He blinked. He blinked again.
100.
A perfect score. In Potions. He stared at the pristine number, convinced it was a cruel joke, a misprint, a figment of his trauma-addled imagination. He rubbed his eyes, then looked again. It was still there. A glorious, undeniable 100. His third perfect grade in a row. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face, and his violet hair blazed with a triumphant, almost delirious yellow.
As he was still gawking at the impossible score, a hushed voice, surprisingly close, startled him. "Echo," Professor Cleen whispered, his voice so low that only Echo could hear it, "I confess, even I am as surprised as you are right now. Keep this quiet." There was a genuine, almost bewildered, look in the Professor's usually stern eyes.
Echo merely nodded, still in a daze, his yellow hair dancing with unadulterated joy. He just wanted to savor this, to revel in his unbelievable success.
"What'd you get, Echo?" Frank Longbottom's booming voice, ever present, cut through his blissful silence. Frank, clutching his own parchment, which likely bore another respectable, yet non-perfect, score, leaned closer, a hopeful glint in his eye.
Before Frank could unleash another celebratory yell, Echo clamped a hand over his mouth. "Frank," he communicated, his voice barely a whisper, yet firm, "I love you, mate, but please, I need to keep this one to myself for a bit." He gave Frank a pleading look, and to his surprise, Frank nodded, albeit reluctantly, his eyes still wide with curiosity.
Echo relaxed, a quiet, contented sigh escaping him. He could enjoy this in peace.
Then, a shrill, indignant voice sliced through the air. "A HUNDRED?! In POTIONS?!"
Echo slumped onto the table with a groan, his yellow hair instantly dimming to a resigned blue. He didn't even need to look to know who it was. Susan Bones, a Hufflepuff known for her impeccable potion-making, stood rigid, her own score of 96 clutched in her hand like a weapon.
"That's impossible, Professor Cleen!" Susan shrieked, her voice echoing off the dungeon walls. "Echo can't make a potion that doesn't either melt the cauldron or accidentally give it life! He once turned a simple sleeping draught into a sentient, singing sludge that serenaded us for an hour!"
Professor Cleen let out a long, weary sigh, running a hand through his sparse hair. He looked at Echo, who was now dramatically burying his face in his arms on the table.
"Indeed, Miss Bones," Professor Cleen conceded, his voice remarkably calm. "Mr. Echo's track record in this subject has, shall we say, been... eventful. However," he paused, his gaze sweeping over the now-glaring students, "the practical exam was not solely about avoiding catastrophe. It was about understanding the fundamental principles of potion-making, the properties of ingredients, and the creative application of those principles. While Mr. Echo's initial attempts often resulted in unexpected outcomes, he demonstrated a remarkable ability to analyze his errors, adapt, and ultimately achieve the desired result through unconventional yet effective means. He has, regardless of his many, many mess-ups, shown a significant improvement in his understanding and control of potion ingredients and their interactions."
Another wave of indignant whispers and glares of ire washed over Echo. But this time, he wasn't reveling in the attention. He was done.
With a groan, Echo slowly lifted his head, his blue hair a mixture of mortified pink and defeated grey. He reached into his robes, pulling out Shimmer's thick, sturdy beating stick. He then held it out to Professor Cleen, his hollow eyes wide and earnest.
"Professor," he communicated, his voice flat with despair. "Please. Just hit me. As hard as you can." He then lowered his head back to the table with a thud and pointed to it. "And don't hold back."
Magical History
The dimly lit classroom for Magical History was, as always, a battleground against slumber. Professor Binns, a ghostly figure who often drifted through walls mid-sentence, droned on about goblin rebellions, his reedy voice a hypnotic lullaby. Echo, his black hair a weary indigo, found himself fighting a losing battle, his eyelids growing heavy. He had a sneaking suspicion his excellent grades were about to hit a brick wall. Magical History was pure memorization, and his mind, still reeling from the chaos of the morning, felt like a fog-filled swamp. He just hoped his score wasn't so abysmal it would warrant a personal intervention from Professor Binns himself.
The parchment for the History of Magic exam was distributed with a faint, almost inaudible rustle, as many students were already dozing or half-awake. Professor Binns merely floated around, occasionally sighing through a student, his ghostly form stirring the air as he collected the completed papers. Echo took his, his heart a dull throb against his ribs. He didn't even bother to prepare mentally; he simply accepted his fate. He slowly, reluctantly, lowered his gaze to the number.
His violet eyes widened. He blinked. Then he blinked again.
100.
A perfect score. In Magical History. His fourth perfect grade. He stared at the pristine number, a wave of disbelieving, quiet joy washing over him. He felt his indigo hair shimmer with a soft, contented gold. He didn't dare make a sound, glancing around the room. Most students were either still half-asleep, their heads propped on their hands, or staring blankly at their own papers, utterly oblivious. No booming Frank Longbottom this time. No outraged Penelope Clearwater. Just the gentle drone of Professor Binns and the soft, steady glow of his perfect score. It was a nice change of pace. He tucked the paper carefully into his bag, a small, secret smile playing on his lips. This one was all his.
Echo, a lightness in his step he hadn't felt in years, practically skipped down the bustling corridors. His black hair was a vibrant, joyful yellow, mirroring the unrestrained elation bubbling within him. Four perfect scores. Four! He clutched the precious parchments to his chest, a wide, unshakeable grin plastered on his face. He couldn't wait to show Amos, Lily, and even Severus. They would be so proud. He rounded a corner, humming a triumphant tune, when three figures suddenly materialized in his path, effectively blocking his way. Penelope Clearwater, Helga Ginger, and Susan Bones stood before him, their expressions a chilling mixture of fury and calculated menace. Penelope's usually neat hair seemed to crackle with static, Helga's face was a mottled red, and Susan clutched her wand with a white-knuckled grip.
Echo's yellow hair flickered with a hesitant blue. "Oh, hey guys," he began, trying to keep his voice light. "Classes are over, you know."
"We know, Echo," Penelope snarled, her eyes narrowed. "We just wanted a word. Specifically, we want to know what in Merlin's name you did to get perfect scores in Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions."
Echo blinked, his blue hair softening to an innocent indigo. "Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall already explained it in class," he said, genuinely confused. "And Professor Cleen even said he was surprised. Honestly, I was half-expecting to get a barely passing grade in all of them myself."
Helga scoffed, stepping closer. "That's exactly it, Echo! That's supposed to be the norm for you! You're the weirdo in the corner who accidentally turns teacups into badgers, not the rising star suddenly acing every subject!"
"Yeah," Susan added, her voice dripping with venom. "You're supposed to be failing, not showing us all up!"
Echo's indigo hair flared with a touch of annoyance. "Things change sometimes, you know," he replied, a hint of defiance entering his voice. "And it's not like I'm going to get a big head over this or start showing it off. I was more than happy to keep it to myself."
Penelope's lip curled. "Oh, we're sure you were. We're just going to make sure the status quo stays the same."
Before Echo could react, Penelope lunged, her wand already raised. " Stupefy! " she shrieked.
Echo barely had time to flinch before the spell hit him square in the chest, sending him sprawling backwards. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, and his vision blurred. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flurry of movement. Shimmer, who had been perched on his shoulder, let out an indignant squeak as a silent hex sent him tumbling, unconscious. Sniffles, who had been rummaging in Echo's bag, jangled a protest before a powerful charm sent him flying into the opposite wall, where he landed with a soft thud, momentarily stunned.
Helga and Susan joined Penelope, their wands pointed at the dazed Echo. A barrage of curses, non-lethal but painful, slammed into him. Echo cried out, his body convulsing as a stinging hex made his skin burn, followed by a full-body bind that left him utterly helpless. His hair, now a frantic, nauseous green, flickered weakly.
Penelope, a triumphant smirk on her face, knelt and snatched the four precious parchments from Echo's lax grip. She glanced at the scores, her eyes widening in disbelief as she saw the pristine 100s emblazoned on each one. Helga and Susan peered over her shoulder, their expressions mirroring hers.
"Another hundred? And in Magical History?" Susan growled, her voice low with pure rage.
"The nerve of him!" Helga hissed.
With a collective snarl, the three students raised their wands. " Incendio! " they chanted in unison.
A jet of furious, orange flame erupted from their wands, engulfing the four parchments. Echo watched, horrified, as his first-ever normal accomplishments, his tangible proof of worth, curled and blackened, turning into brittle ash and drifting soot. A strangled sob escaped him, tears streaming down his face as the last remnants of his perfect grades dissolved into nothingness.
The three girls laughed, a cruel, echoing sound, as they turned and sauntered away, leaving Echo lying on the cold stone floor, defeated and heartbroken, amidst the smoldering remains of his hard-earned success.
He lay there for what felt like an eternity, the acrid smell of burnt parchment stinging his nostrils, his body aching, his spirit crushed. Shimmer and Sniffles were slowly beginning to stir, but he barely noticed. All he could see was the image of those perfect 100s, turning to dust.
A few minutes later, a soft gasp brought him back to reality. "Echo? What in Merlin's name…?"
He flinched, not wanting to be seen, but it was too late. Lily Evans, her red hair a bright splash of color against the dim corridor, stood a few feet away, her eyes wide with concern. Frank, who had undoubtedly rushed to tell her the good news, was nowhere in sight. She had only seen him from behind and was too far to see what was left of his scores.
"Frank told us you finally got some good grades," she said, her voice softening, a warm smile beginning to form on her lips. "We wanted to see them before we celebrated, but he said you were being all secretive. Come on, let me see them!"
Echo slowly turned, his face a ghastly white, streaked with tears and soot. Lily's smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure horror as her gaze swept over his bruised body, the unconscious Shimmer and Sniffles, and the scattered, burnt remains of his papers.
A fresh wave of sobs wracked Echo's body. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the still dazed Shimmer and Sniffles, one in each arm. Without another word, without even looking back at Lily's bewildered, worried face, he bolted, running as fast as his aching legs could carry him, the corridor's silence echoing with his desperate, heartbroken cries. Lily stood there, utterly confused, watching his retreating form disappear around the corner, her heart sinking with a terrible, unshakeable dread.
Then a series of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Frank Longbottom, Amos Diggory, and a grim-faced Severus Snape rounded the corner.
"Lily! Where's Echo?" Frank asked, his voice laced with concern, his eyes darting around.
Lily's gaze was still fixed on the corner where Echo had disappeared, her face a mask of distraught confusion. "I... I don't know, Frank," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He just... ran off. He was crying." She gestured vaguely to the ground, her eyes wide with a terrible dawning realization. "And look... look at this."
Frank, Amos, and Severus followed her gaze to the scattered, blackened remnants of parchment. Frank knelt, his brow furrowed, and carefully picked up one piece, its edges crumbling to ash. "What are these?" he murmured, then his eyes widened. On one fragment, barely visible amidst the scorch marks, was the unmistakable red ink of a "100."
"He... he got a hundred," Frank whispered, a stunned look on his face. "In Charms, Lily, I saw it! He actually got a perfect score! And one in Transfiguration too, I saw that too!"
Lily looked at Frank, her eyes pleading. "Frank, what happened? He was... he was covered in soot, and he had Shimmer and Sniffles in his arms. And he looked utterly broken."
Frank swallowed hard, a grim expression spreading across his face. "Well," he began slowly, "when Echo got his Charms score, Penelope Clearwater wasn't happy about it. Said he couldn't possibly have gotten a higher grade than her. And then in Transfiguration, Helga Ginger was the same. Then, in Potions, Susan Bones absolutely lost it when she saw his score. They were all... really angry about it." He paused, looking at the charred papers. "But a lot of people weren't happy, Lily. Everyone thought Echo couldn't get perfect grades."
Lily's eyes, which had been darting between Frank's face and the burnt papers, suddenly snapped into focus on the fragment with the "100." A terrible, cold certainty began to settle over her. She looked at the other blackened pieces, piecing together the events in her mind. The girls' anger, Echo's joy, his secretiveness, and then... this.
Suddenly, from behind a nearby tapestry, James Potter and Sirius Black, drawn by the commotion, peeked out, their faces a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"They did this," Lily whispered, her voice barely audible, but vibrating with a terrifying, controlled fury. Her eyes, usually a vibrant emerald, had turned a chilling, dangerous shade of jade. She looked up, her gaze sweeping over the charred remains, then slowly settling on the distant corridor where the three girls had vanished. "I'm going to kill them."
"Lily, no!" Severus's voice, surprisingly urgent, cut through the air. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't just—"
James, his eyes wide with alarm, popped fully out from behind the tapestry. "Whoa, hold on, Evans! Snivellus is right for once. You can't just go manhandle three bratty, uppity second-years!"
Lily turned, her gaze landing on James and Severus, her jaw set. She reached out, her hands clamping onto both their shoulders with surprising strength. A very worrying smile spread across her face. "You're wrong," she said, her voice soft and dangerously sweet. I can't kill three second-years." Her grip tightened, her smile widening into something genuinely terrifying. "Because I can, and I will."
Frank, looking utterly horrified yet strangely resolute, stepped forward. "Lily, I'll help cover for you."
Lily's smile didn't waver. "No, Frank," she replied, her eyes still fixed on the two boys she held. "You won't need to cover for me." She then turned her gaze to Frank, a glint of something unhinged in her eyes. "You'll just need to help me hide the bodies with Shimmer."
Frank blinked. "Shimmer? Where is he?"
As if summoned, Shimmer materialized on Lily's shoulder, his fur bristling, and in his tiny paws, he clutched a small, gleaming, dangerously sharp knife.
Sirius, his face a ghastly white as he remembered the pain of Shimmer's beating stick, gulped. "Okay, Evans, please. For the love of Merlin, let's take the knife away from the monkey before he learns how to use a gun!"
"Sirius has a point, Lily," Amos added, his voice strained. "Let's not… escalate this to a multi-student fatality. Think of the paperwork alone!"
Lily's smile remained fixed, but her eyes, still sharp with fury, flickered between the boys. "Paperwork? Is that all you can think about, Amos? Echo was just… he was so proud! And those wretched girls… they destroyed it! They destroyed his first real accomplishments!" Her grip on James and Severus tightened further.
"Lily, please," Severus pleaded, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. "Think rationally. There are other ways to deal with this. Detention. House points deducted. There are… procedures."
"Procedures?" Lily scoffed, her voice dangerously low. "Procedures didn't stop them from attacking him, Severus. Procedures didn't stop them from burning his grades." Her gaze hardened. "No, some things require… a more direct approach."
James, seeing the unyielding resolve in her eyes, tried a different tactic. "Evans, listen. What about Echo? He wouldn't want you to get in trouble. He wouldn't want you to… to commit murder over this."
Lily paused, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, he wouldn't want me to get in trouble, would he?" she mused, a chilling edge to her voice. "And why, pray tell, would he not want me to get in trouble for defending him?" She looked at Shimmer, who was now polishing his knife with a disturbingly cheerful gleam in his eye. "Shimmer, dear, would you say Echo wants us to hide bodies?"
Shimmer chittered, nodding enthusiastically and pointing his tiny knife towards the corner where Echo had vanished.
Sirius gulped again. "Okay, look, I'm all for vigilante justice, but even I draw the line at a homicidal monkey with a shank. Evans, think! What if Echo finds out? He'll be even more upset if he knows you've gone and committed some… some atrocity on his behalf!"
Lily hesitated, her smile faltering slightly. "He… he might be a little upset, I suppose," she conceded, a hint of conflict in her voice. "But he'll understand. He always understands, eventually." She still clutched James and Severus.
"He's right, Lily," Frank said, stepping closer. "Echo… he just wants things to be normal. To have friends who don't get into trouble because of him, a life that isn't a constant fight. If you… If you do this, it'll just be another thing that makes his life abnormal."
Lily's gaze softened, and her grip on the boys finally loosened. The fiery glint in her eyes dimmed slightly, giving way to a deep, troubled sadness. She looked at the burnt parchments, then back down the empty corridor. "You're right," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He just wants… a normal life." Her shoulders slumped, and Shimmer, sensing the change, put away his knife with a disappointed huff.
"But what do we do?" Amos asked, relief evident in his voice. "We can't just let them get away with it."
Lily took a deep, shuddering breath, her anger slowly transforming into a cold, calculated resolve. "No," she said, her voice firm. "We don't let them get away with it. But we do it… Echo's way." She looked at the boys, a dangerous glint returning to her eyes, though this time it was tempered with a hint of mischievous cunning. "We make sure they regret this. We make sure they regret it so thoroughly, so utterly, that they never even think about messing with Echo again. And we do it without a single drop of blood." She paused, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "Not a single drop of theirs, anyway."
James, Sirius, Amos, and even Severus exchanged wary glances. They had a feeling "Echo's way" might be even more terrifying than Lily's initial plan. Shimmer, however, chittered with renewed excitement, a wide, toothy grin on his tiny, furry face.
Meanwhile, far from the bustling corridors, hidden away in a seldom-used alcove on the seventh floor, Echo was curled into a tight ball, his face buried in his knees. Shimmer and Sniffles, still a little dazed but recovering, lay protectively beside him, occasionally nuzzling his unresponsive form. His hair, a dull, lifeless grey, hung limply around him, mirroring the utter desolation in his soul.
Tears, hot and endless, streamed down his face, soaking into the rough fabric of his robes. He choked on a sob, his chest aching with a raw, agonizing pain. Why? The question echoed in his mind, a relentless, torturous whisper. Why can't I just have something normal?
He thought of his "perfect" grades, the fleeting, exquisite joy they had brought him, only to be snatched away and incinerated in a burst of petty malice. He thought of his magic, a constant, unpredictable force that often caused more trouble than it solved, never allowing him a moment of quiet, stable power. He thought of his friends, the ones he cherished so fiercely, who always seemed to be caught in the crossfire of his tumultuous life. Lily is always ready to defend him, always getting tangled in his messes. Amos, Frank, and even Severus were dragged into his orbit of chaos. Why couldn't he just have a group of normal, un-endangered friends who didn't have to deal with dark lords or whatever else was waiting around corners?
He thought of his childhood, snatched from him, replaced by a never-ending quest to understand who and what he was. His "place in Slytherin," a house he'd initially wanted to find a sense of belonging in, now felt like another burden, another expectation to meet, another source of potential conflict.
He just wanted a regular magical life. A simple life. To cast spells that didn't go awry, to attend classes without a looming sense of impending disaster, to have friends who didn't risk their lives for him, a peaceful home, and grades that, even if not perfect, were at least acknowledged. Why did he always have to jump through hoops, battle dark forces, and become the center of some new, bizarre crisis just to accomplish the simplest things? Why couldn't the universe just let him be happy? Why couldn't it just let him be?
Another wave of sobs wracked his body, and Sniffles, with a soft whimper, nudged his hand, trying to offer comfort. But Echo barely noticed. He was lost in the bitter, aching depths of his despair, wondering if he was cursed, destined to chase forever a normalcy that would always, always remain just out of his reach.