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The fireplace in Hagrid’s hut threw steady heat against the damp edge of the Forbidden Forest.
Ever since Styx had woken the Longbottoms, the owls had turned his office into a feathered siege.
Thank-you letters, apology letters from parents who had written the week before demanding his removal, formal invitations to dinners he had no intention of attending.
Ignoring them would have looked worse than answering, so he had done the practical thing.
The Shadowkhan wrote every reply.
Hagrid watched him from across the table, tankard in hand, expression worried.
“Styx, you sure it’s all right, not answering those yourself?” “It’s fine.” Styx tilted his Butterbeer.
The taste was better than he remembered.
“They only care that someone answered.
The handwriting’s neat enough.” Hagrid opened his mouth to say more, then the door shook under a heavy knock.
Fang erupted from the hearth rug, short legs scrabbling, tail whipping like a propeller.
He planted himself at the oak door and barked as though the castle itself were under attack.
“Back, Fang!” Hagrid pulled the door open and looked straight out at empty air.
“Hagrid, we’re down here.” He glanced lower.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood in the shadow of his boots.
“Ah.
Come in, you three.” The moment they crossed the threshold Fang locked onto Ron.
Two massive paws landed on the boy’s chest and a wet tongue went to work.
Ron laughed and twisted, trying to shove the dog off without much success.
Hermione spotted Styx first.
Her face lit up and she crossed the room in three quick steps, dropping onto the bench beside him.
“Professor Styx—how did you actually cure Neville’s parents?
I went through every text I could find on nerve damage and Dark Arts residual effects.
Nothing even hinted at a method that worked after eleven years—” “Mickey Mouse’s Clubhouse tools.” Silence lasted three full seconds.
The eager light in Hermione’s eyes collapsed into pure betrayal.
She was Muggle-born.
She knew exactly when she was being mocked.
Styx chuckled under his breath and reached over to ruffle the cloud of brown curls.
“All right.
Why are the three of you out here this late?
Filch isn’t going to care that you’re famous.” Hagrid’s voice rumbled from the kitchen.
“Harry’s Gryffindor’s Seeker now.
Match against Slytherin in a couple of weeks.
These three come by when the nerves get loud.” He emerged carrying a tray the size of a small shield.
The things on it were dense, dark brown, and looked like they had been baked during a small earthquake.
Coarse grains glittered on the surface.
He set the tray down hard enough to make Styx’s tankard jump.
“Rock cakes.
New recipe.
Want one?” Ron’s nostrils flared.
“They smell brilliant.” He grabbed one before anyone else moved.
Hagrid offered the tray to Styx with hopeful eyes.
Styx took one, set it carefully on the edge of his plate, and kept his face carefully blank.
He already knew what these things could do to a walnut.
Harry and Hermione each claimed a cake.
Hagrid shoved an entire one into his mouth and chewed with loud, satisfied crunching.
Encouraged, the three first-years bit down.
The sound Ron produced was higher and sharper than Hagrid’s.
He froze.
A white fragment sat embedded in the half-eaten cake in his hand.
His own canine tooth.
Harry and Hermione stopped mid-chew and stared at each other with identical expressions of pure survival instinct.
Ron’s eyes filled.
A thin, wounded noise escaped him.
Hagrid stood frozen, enormous hands twisting in his apron, face the colour of a ripe beetroot.
Styx lasted three seconds before the laugh broke free.
“Professor!” Hermione’s glare could have stripped paint.
“Sorry.
Couldn’t help it.” He flicked two fingers toward Ron’s mouth.
Soft blue light washed across the boy’s jaw.
The broken tooth knitted itself back into place as though it had never left.
Ron prodded it with his tongue, still sniffling, then finally relaxed.
Hermione’s attention snapped from the healed tooth to Styx’s empty hands.
“What spell was that?” “Episkey.” “You didn’t say anything.
And you didn’t have a wand.” Styx set his tankard down.
“Wandless casting.
Harder than non-verbal.
It demands absolute focus—one stray thought and the magic scatters.
Most of the useful references sit in the Restricted Section.
Even seventh-years struggle with it.
Aurors and healers train it because wands get dropped in a fight, and sometimes you need both hands free for diagnostic work.” Hermione absorbed every word like a sponge that had finally found water.
Hagrid quietly swapped Ron’s ruined cake for a thick slice of buttered bread and poured pumpkin juice for Harry and Hermione.
The hut settled into the soft crackle of the fire and the wet sound of Fang gnawing an old bone under the table.
Styx watched Harry across the table.
The boy had barely touched his juice.
“Harry.
You look like you’re somewhere else.” Ron answered around a mouthful of bread.
“He’s terrified of losing to Slytherin.” “Ron!” “What?
It’s true.
Hermione showed us his dad’s old trophy.
James Potter was Gryffindor’s Seeker the year they took the Cup.” Hagrid’s face softened with memory.
“James was an outstanding Chaser…”