Anduin continued his purposeful stride down the bustling length of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, intending only to find an unoccupied compartment and begin the mental transition back to academia. Just as he passed a luggage trolley laden with enormous, brass-bound trunks, he was pulled up short by a familiar, ugly magnetic field of tension.
A small, tight knot of wizards had gathered a short distance away, their voices sharp and low, immediately signaling a public escalation.
When Anduin focused his attention, he saw the cause: once again, the grief-stricken McKinnon family stood in direct confrontation with the Travers family. This annual occurrence—the clash of the bereaved and the arrogant—had become a dark fixture of the platform's routine.
This time, Anduin did not simply observe from a respectful distance. Driven by the cold promise he had just made to Charles, he moved closer, positioning himself about twenty meters away, utilizing a column of stacked trunks as cover. He needed to study his future targets with the meticulous detail of a cartographer mapping hostile terrain.
The adult wizards on both sides, utterly consumed by their bitter dispute, paid no mind to the approaching young student. However, Sample Travers and Charles Weasley were more observant. Charles caught Anduin's eye and offered a brief, heavy nod—a silent confirmation of their shared objective.
Sample, however, fixed Anduin with a slow, calculating, and sinister gaze. He hadn't forgotten the subtle humiliations from the previous year, nor the elusive nature of the Muggle-born who seemed to slip through every attempt at physical confrontation.
Anduin's focus, however, was on the adults of the Travers line. Next to Sample stood his mother, a striking, yet sharply featured woman with unnaturally long, pale blonde hair and robes tailored to the height of Ministry fashion.
Her expression was frozen in a mask of haughty disdain, entirely impervious to the pain she was witnessing. Her husband, presumably Sample's father, was a thin, sickly man with a carefully sculpted goatee, his face an unhealthy shade of pale.
But it was the fourth member of their group that commanded Anduin's full attention: a sullen, heavy-set man who stood slightly behind the others. This man wore a fixed, chillingly contemptuous smile that did not reach his cold eyes as he surveyed the McKinnon family.
Anduin immediately recognized the archetype. This man had the dead-eyed look of a predator—a dangerous certainty etched into his posture. This was the man Charles had whispered about, the one they suspected of being a Death Eater, protected by the lack of concrete evidence and the corruption within the Ministry.
The fact that he was audacious enough to flaunt his presence here at King's Cross, amidst a crowd of grieving allies, spoke volumes about his family's confidence in their untouchability.
As Anduin watched, Sample Travers sidled up to his uncle and whispered something sharply in his ear, gesturing subtly toward Anduin. The sullen man's cold gaze immediately shifted, locking onto Anduin with piercing intensity, studying him with a silent, assessing scrutiny that felt like a curse.
Anduin met the stare without flinching. A cold, wry grin touched his lips, a silent challenge sent across the busy platform. His eyes narrowed, cataloging the man's every physical detail—height, weight, stance, and the flicker of entitlement that crossed his features. This was the face of the enemy, and Anduin committed it to memory.
The tense standoff was eventually broken by the swift arrival of a small contingent of Aurors, who moved in with practiced professionalism. They were tasked with maintaining the delicate peace, forcibly separating the two sides as they did almost every year.
Despite having colleagues among the McKinnons, the Aurors could not publicly involve themselves in the private feud. The rules of engagement required neutrality unless a physical fight broke out.
Anduin, recognizing the futility of an impromptu battle, turned back toward the train. Now is not the time to initiate a skirmish you cannot finish, he calculated. Gathering intelligence is the only wise move now.
He found a secluded compartment near the rear of the train and had just settled his trunk when the door slid open and Charles Weasley burst in, his face flushed with residual fury.
"Did you see them? Did you see the sheer arrogance?" Charles raged, dropping heavily onto the bench opposite Anduin. "Those men are my aunt's murderers, and they stand there as if they're heroes! That Travers brute, he just sneered at the whole McKinnon family!"
Before Charles could continue his tirade, Anduin reached into his robe pocket, pulling out his wand. Without a word, he cast a powerful, multi-layered Shield Charm on the compartment door and windows, ensuring their conversation would not be overheard.
"I saw, Charles," Anduin confirmed, his voice now a low, conspiratorial murmur. "From their expressions, I can confirm they carry absolutely no psychological burden from their actions. They feel entitled to the kill. The Ministry's laws are built to protect men like that, not to prosecute them."
"I won't let them get away with it," Charles declared, his jaw clenched tight. "That little viper, Sample, he's barely better than his father. I swear, I'll teach him a lesson the moment we're back at Hogwarts. You'll help me, Anduin, right?"
Anduin fixed Charles with a steady, assessing look. "I think you need to focus on protecting yourself first, Charles. Sample Travers is a viper, yes, but he is a viper with a wealthy, powerful nest. If you act impulsively, you won't teach him a lesson; you'll only suffer an ugly and very public humiliation."
"So I'm just supposed to stand by and watch those guys escape justice? To simply endure the injustice?" Charles shouted, his hands gesticulating wildly, the raw pain of his grief transforming into frustrated aggression.
Anduin calmly took out a small, corked vial containing a pale blue liquid—a mild, self-brewed Tranquilizing Draught—and handed it to his friend. "Drink this first. You are volatile, and that state is a weakness. Your emotions are blinding you to simple reality. For example, what happens if Sample, or one of his upperclassmen friends, cornered you in a duel at Hogwarts? You said you'd give him a taste of the evil curse you just learned, didn't you?"
Charles, slightly mollified by the presence of the potion, took a small, careful sip before answering, "Yes, I'd use the best dark spell I know! I'd make him regret crossing me!"
Anduin raised an eyebrow, a slight, disapproving twist to his lips. "And when you hit him with that dark spell, he won't be honorably defeated. He'll drag you into a dark corner, call in a pack of five older, stronger Slytherin friends, and they will beat you mercilessly. You don't actually believe he will fight you fair and square, do you? Pureblood power dictates that the rules are for us, not for them."
Charles's bravado deflated slightly under the cold logic. "Then what do you propose I do? I won't stand for it!"
"There is only one thing you can do, Charles, and that is to get stronger," Anduin advised, the words sounding more like a military order than friendly advice.
"Slytherin's purebloods are highly organized and united by their entitlement. Unless you are absolutely confident that you can handle not just Sample, but the older, more skilled students he will inevitably bring, jumping in front of them with a weak curse is suicidal. Patience is not weakness; it is a prerequisite for victory."
Charles slowly absorbed the draught, his breathing beginning to even out. "But I'm only twelve," he muttered, his anger replaced by a realistic sense of despair. "And you, Anduin, you must be incredibly strong. I remember Aunt Marlene telling me how you helped them fight the Death Eaters. Do you have any real ideas for how I can bridge that gap?"
Charles's willingness to trust Anduin, a Slytherin, stemmed entirely from the knowledge that Anduin had actively fought the Death Eaters and supported the Weasley family through their darkest hour.
Anduin looked at the now-calmer Charles, recognizing the sincerity in his request. He saw a loyal soul begging for the tools of survival.
"I have an idea, but it requires absolute commitment and secrecy," Anduin said, leaning forward. "You know where Hagrid's cabin is, past the school bridge? You turn left at the roundabout, and walk all the way to the edge of the grounds, right where the trees of the Forbidden Forest begin."
Charles's eyes widened in surprise. "Isn't that the path into the Forbidden Forest? We're not allowed in there, are we?"
"That is precisely why it is perfect. Secrecy is our first defense," Anduin explained.
"I'm usually there most afternoons, working. You can come find me every day after classes, and I will help you train. I don't mean practice dueling with friendly, light spells. I mean unlearning all the foolish rules the school has taught you and preparing for a fight where the opponent intends to kill you. The reason you have to be patient is not because you are weak, but because you need to ensure you have a better than ninety percent chance of winning when you finally make your move."
Anduin's plan was clear: he would teach Charles the necessary darker, more pragmatic aspects of magic that Hogwarts ignored. He would instill in him the same ruthless pragmatism that had kept Anduin alive. This wasn't about grades; it was about survival and the architecture of a delayed, but overwhelming, counter-strike.
Under the soothing, calculating influence of the draught, Charles's emotional turmoil finally stabilized. He sat in silence for a long moment, processing the gravity of the commitment. Finally, he nodded solemnly, "Every day. I'll be there."
The seriousness of their conversation, the pact for vengeance and survival, was abruptly interrupted.
The door to the compartment slid open again, and Vivian Greengrass stepped inside. She greeted the two boys with a radiant, almost aggressively cheerful smile, as if no dark shadow could possibly penetrate her aura. She was dressed in immaculately pressed robes and carried a sense of uncomplicated, buoyant optimism that immediately shattered the heavy atmosphere of the carriage.
Charles, jolted out of his dark thoughts, awkwardly mumbled a greeting to Vivian. He grabbed his worn satchel. "I need to find Percy and the Gryffindor lot," he announced, desperate to escape the intense, conspiratorial compartment, and quickly slid out of the door, nodding curtly to Anduin before leaving.
Vivian settled down, placing her substantial luggage—a vanity case and a sleek, modern leather trunk—in the rack overhead. She looked at Anduin with amusement.
"What were you two talking about just now? You looked like you were plotting a coup against the Ministry," Vivian asked, her curiosity bright. "Whatever it was, I hope it didn't involve too much illegal dark magic before the year even starts."
Anduin allowed a small, teasing smirk to return to his face—a brief, necessary respite from the weight of his promise. "Oh, it's nothing to worry about," he replied smoothly. "He was just confessing that he likes you, but he was unsure if he should risk telling you because he thinks you're out of his league."
Vivian instantly flushed crimson, her composure momentarily fractured by the unexpected subject. "What!?" she stammered, her voice high-pitched and incoherent. "Charles and I? That's ridiculous! What are you saying? You're both absolute children, you've all gone completely mad!"
Anduin chuckled softly as he watched Vivian's flustered, disbelieving reaction. It was a strange, almost absurd moment of lightness in the wake of a funeral and a pact for vengeance.
He knew Charles would vehemently deny the suggestion if asked, but the sight of Vivian's genuine, immediate blush was proof enough that the playful jibe had struck a chord.
He wondered if perhaps, somewhere beneath the grief and the rage, the Weasley boy harbored a more complicated mix of emotions than just anger.