Summer arrived right on schedule, and the train bound for London rolled through the open fields beneath bright, gentle sunshine.
The young witches and wizards from Hogwarts were all smiles. Everyone was desperate to find something—anything—to say to the friends beside them. Even classmates who'd been quiet and withdrawn at school became talkative. They made promises not to lose touch over the summer, to keep writing often, and to share every little interesting thing that happened in their lives.
Except for the seventh-years.
Most of their compartments were quiet. Sitting together, it felt like there was nothing left that needed saying—everything had already been said. For the younger students, summer was only a brief parting. For the seventh-years, it might be the last time they were ever gathered like this. Everything from their school days would become nothing more than memory, waiting for some ordinary afternoon in the rest of their lives to make them suddenly curl their lips into a small smile.
As the train neared London, everyone changed out of their robes into light summer clothes.
By the time they stepped onto the platform, the sky had already dimmed, and the summer dusk carried a faint chill.
Students drifted through the ticket barrier in little groups. Outside the station, they said their goodbyes. Skyl once again witnessed how nastily the Dursleys treated Harry, but the boy didn't seem to mind at all. Instead, he showed a sincere smile and even thanked his aunt and uncle.
Everyone's home situation was different. Neville was returning to that oppressive house of his. Mr and Mrs Granger waved to Hermione from a distance. Mrs Weasley arrived with little Ginny in tow, and the moment she spotted the children, she hurried over with a face full of joy.
Skyl kept his hands in his pockets. Plenty of people came to say goodbye to him too—but once the bustle ended, he would be alone again.
"Hey! Skyl!" A bright, lively woman's voice called out.
From the crowd waiting at the station, an unexpected familiar figure came jogging over—Finger Maiden.
"Why are you here?" Skyl asked.
"I knew you'd be getting out of school," the Finger Maiden said, blinking at him with gentle warmth.
Skyl smiled. "Thanks for coming to pick me up. I just happen to be homeless right now."
"Come rest at my flat. I changed the sheets in the guest room yesterday."
"Are you still running the bakery?" Skyl asked.
"Yes. Business is alright."
By their agreement, Skyl visited the Finger Maiden once a month. They were old acquaintances by now.
She lived alone in London. After Skyl left, she stayed by herself in her flat for two days, unable to decide what kind of job she should look for. Every meal was cheap white bread from Mother's Pride, with a bottle of cranberry jam—both bought from a supermarket half a street away. She had tried applying for a caretaking job at a hospital, but she was turned away for lacking the necessary skills.
After that, she started going to the library often, trying to study basic nursing.
During that stretch of days studying in the library, she walked past a small bakery every day. It was always quiet; at lunchtime, she was the only customer. The owner was a somewhat sharp-tongued widow. Both her husbands had died during the Second World War. The deepest memory the war left her was the sound of bombers over London. Her only child had starved to death.
The Finger Maiden paid to take over the bakery. The former owner wasn't friendly, but the Finger Maiden truly liked the bread there.
With a young, beautiful new owner, business immediately picked up.
Skyl often asked Gally to keep an eye on the Finger Maiden in secret. When he wasn't busy, he visited her himself. Running a bakery was never smooth sailing—there were always problems of one sort or another. When business was good, she could barely keep up; when it was slow, the emptiness was hard to endure. Men loitered outside the door all day, lingering with excuses—most of them dazzled by the Finger Maiden's beauty and hoping to win her favour. It caused no shortage of trouble.
Following Skyl's advice, the Finger Maiden rarely went out at night. Only once, after she accidentally left her keys at the bakery, she was robbed by a group of thugs on the way there and back. That time, a house-elf helped her from the shadows. The Finger Maiden didn't take it to heart and didn't tell anyone—she simply took out a loan and bought a second-hand car for getting around.
After picking Skyl up at the station, she drove first to a nearby big supermarket to stock up on ingredients for the next few days. The moment they got back to the flat, she went straight into the kitchen and started preparing dinner. There was something almost astonishing about that competent, modern-woman energy.
The flat's decor was simple. There were hardly any personal items in sight, and everything was arranged perfectly neatly. Skyl turned on the television at random, and it happened to be showing Mr. Bean. Sitting on the sofa, he felt that even without magic, this kind of life was strangely interesting.
The Finger Maiden's best dish was still her mixed-vegetable stew. She never bought cookbooks. She'd just pick up whatever ingredients caught her eye at the supermarket, then add them to the pot in batches, let them simmer, and finish with a simple seasoning. She disliked pre-made meals; there were no tins anywhere in the kitchen.
She carried a pot of bright red soup to the table, set down a basket of bread, and that was dinner. The two of them sat facing each other, one hand holding bread, the other holding a long spoon, sharing straight from the pot.
"Thank you for the work," Skyl said.
"Is it good?" she asked.
Skyl nodded, then steered the topic toward her. "Have you remembered anything?"
"No." She paused. "But I want to change my name."
"Is Annie too ordinary?" Skyl asked.
"No. I like it. I just want something more interesting." The Finger Maiden hesitated. "I want to change it to… Marika."
Skyl startled. "Are you sure? Why?"
"I just think it's easy to say."
"Later, I need to run a check on you," Skyl said.
"About changing my name?"
"That's your decision. I can't control you." Skyl leaned back lazily. "Besides, I'm just a stray drifter mooching meals at your place. If I refuse, you can throw me out."
"Skyl, where are you going this summer?" Marika exhaled as if she'd finally loosened up, and her voice became lighter. "Do you want to come work at the bakery with me? Even a drifter can have a job."
"That actually sounds fun." Just then, Skyl received a phone call—this one from Winterhold.
On the other end, Brelyna said, "The Dragonborn is going to hold a peace council. He wants the Empire and the Stormcloaks to pause the war, so he can focus on dealing with Alduin."
"That's a good thing," Skyl said. "If he needs anything, help however you can."
"The Dragonborn really wants to see you. He learns unbelievably fast. Winterhold doesn't have much left it can teach him." Brelyna smiled. "He nearly broke your record."
"The Dragonborn is that sort of person—he doesn't play by the rules." Skyl chuckled. "He's a born hero. Who knows, he might even become Emperor. I really should go meet him. Maybe the job of keeping the peace will end up on his shoulders. A peaceful Skyrim is good for Winterhold's development."
"Please come back when you have time," Brelyna said softly.
Skyl ended the call and returned to the table. Marika had been waiting, and she asked in a low voice, "You're leaving already?"
"How could I?" Skyl said. "At the very least, I'm sleeping here tonight."
Marika smiled warmly. "Eat. The soup's about to get cold."
After dinner, they leaned back on the sofa and watched television. Mr. Bean really was a good show. Skyl actually preferred Yes, Minister, but Marika didn't like it.
Outside the window, the sky had turned completely black.
Marika yawned. She went to take a bath, then stepped out of the bathroom wiping her damp hair.
"Come here a second," Skyl said, motioning her closer.
Then, as casually as reaching out to take a cup, he drew out her soul.
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