He’d been sleeping with it under his pillow since the troll incident, though he couldn’t say why—just that the weight of it there made the dark feel less porous.
The holly wood was smooth against his palm as he turned it over once, twice, watching the morning light catch faintly along its length.
No spark.
No warmth.
Just the same inert stick it had been since September.
From downstairs came the muffled thump of someone dropping a trunk, then laughter—probably Ernie and Justin attempting to levitate their luggage again.
Most of their year had already migrated to the common room, dragging half-packed belongings behind them like reluctant hermit crabs.
Only the first-years lingered now, clinging to the castle’s hollowed-out quiet before Friday’s inevitable crush at Hogsmeade Station.
Tobias folded his gray jumper sleeves inward, the way Eleanor had taught him—”Like wrapping a present for itself”—then laid it in the trunk beside his trousers.
His robes went next, black fabric settling without a wrinkle.
He hesitated briefly before tucking the wand into the cloth pouch Tonks had slipped him last week (“For smuggling contraband treacle tart,” she’d said, winking), then nestled it between two folded shirts where the curve of wood wouldn’t show.
The hole in his chest ached dully in the cold.
He pressed the heel of his hand against it through his undershirt, counting breaths until the cartilage-ringed edges stopped throbbing.
Outside, snow tapped at the window like something asking politely to be let in.
He laid each layered shirt flat in his trunk one at a time.when the owl tapped its beak against the glass.
It was a school owl—broad-faced, feathers ruffled from the wind—with a thick envelope clamped in its talons.
Tobias slid the window open, letting in a gust of cold air that smelled of pine and distant chimney smoke.
The owl dropped the letter onto the sill with a decisive *plink* and then turned its head expectantly toward the water dish on his nightstand.
He poured water carefully, watching the owl dip its beak in quick, efficient sips.
The envelope was heavier than Eleanor’s usual weekly letters, the parchment slightly rough under his fingers as he untied the twine.
The seal cracked with a faint snap—red wax, imprinted with the looping *E* she’d used since he was small.
*I have the week off*, she wrote, *and the house looks like a greengrocer exploded in the sitting room.
Garlands everywhere.
You’ll hate it.* Beneath, in her same neat print: *Daniel’s coming for dinner on the twenty-fifth.
Just us three.* Tobias read that line twice.
His father hadn’t joined them for Christmas since the divorce.
The letter ended, as it always did, with the sentence she’d added every year since he was six: *I will be at the barrier waiting.* He smoothed the parchment flat against his knee, folded it once along its original crease, and tucked it into the top of his trunk, between two shirts where the edges wouldn’t bend.
Outside, the owl shook its wings once and launched back into the grey morning.
The common room smelled of damp wool and burnt toast when Tonks found him later that evening, curled in one of the squashy armchairs with his Potions essay balanced on his knees.
Her trunk announced her descent with a series of rhythmic thuds—step, *thump*, step, *thump*—before she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, flushed and slightly breathless, dragging the enormous thing behind her like a reluctant dog.
“You’d think they’d charm these to weigh less,” she muttered, giving the trunk a final heave toward the fireplace.
It slid half an inch before catching on the rug.
She abandoned it there and collapsed into the chair opposite Tobias, tossing a lock of mousy brown hair out of her eyes.
“Finished packing?” Tobias asked without looking up from his parchment.
“Mostly.
Mum sent another owl this morning—” She dug in her robe pocket and produced a crumpled letter sealed with black wax.
“Apparently Andromeda’s decided to host *all* the tolerable Black relations this year.
Which means exactly three people, but still.” She made a face.
“You’d think after the divorce she’d stop trying to impress them.” Tobias set his quill down.
“You’re going, then?” “Not like I have a choice.” She kicked her feet up onto the hearth, scuffing one boot against the stone.
“Write me if you get bored.
I’ll need the distraction.” He nodded, folding his essay carefully.
The firelight caught the edge of his sleeve where it dipped just below his wrist—a flash of pale skin, unmarked.
Tonks rummaged in her bag suddenly, producing a brown paper packet tied with string.
“Here.
For the train tomorrow.” She tossed it to him; it landed softly in his lap, warm from her pocket and smelling faintly of cinnamon.
Cauldron Cakes.
The good kind from Honeydukes, with the crackling sugar crust.
“Thanks,” he said, and meant it.
She grinned, sharp and sudden.
“Don’t eat them all at once.””Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tobias lied, already imagining the sugar crackling between his teeth.
He slipped the packet into his robe pocket where it made a satisfying crinkle against the folded letter from Eleanor.
The fire popped in the hearth, sending up a spray of orange sparks that caught briefly in Tonks’s hair before fading.
She tilted her head back against the chair, closing her eyes.
“Tell your mum I say hello, yeah?” “Will do.” Tobias glanced at the clock above the mantel—half past nine.
The common room had emptied out, leaving only the two of them and the faint smell of burnt toast lingering near the hearth.
Somewhere upstairs, a dormitory door slammed.
Tonks sighed through her nose.
“Better finish packing,” she said without moving.
Tobias nodded, gathering his parchment and quill.
The Cauldron Cakes shifted in his pocket as he stood, their weight familiar as a second heartbeat.
Morning came grey and damp, the platform at Hogsmeade Station crowded with students shouting over each other’s heads.
Tobias spotted Hannah near the third carriage, her trunk listing slightly to one side where she’d forgotten to fasten the latch properly.
“Need help?” he asked as he reached her.
She blinked up at him, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Oh—yes, please.” They found an empty compartment near the middle of the train, its windows already fogged with condensation.
Tobias stowed their trunks overhead just as Ernie Macmillan shouldered through the door with Susan Bones in tow, both of them flushed from running.
“Made it,” Ernie announced unnecessarily, collapsing onto the seat opposite Hannah.
Susan dropped a pack of Exploding Snap onto the table between them with a decisive *thwack*.
“Game?” she asked, already shuffling.
They played badly through the morning, the countryside blurring past in streaks of winter-brown and faded green.
Tobias lost three rounds in a row when his cards kept exploding before he could lay them down properly.
By lunchtime, Hannah had chocolate smudged on her sleeve from the Cauldron Cakes they’d split open between games, the crackling sugar long since dissolved to sticky crumbs.
The light faded early as the train crawled south, London’s outskirts rising dark against the horizon.
Tobias pressed his forehead to the cold glass, watching the streetlights blink on one by one in the gathering dark.
Eleanor was on the platform at King’s Cross in her best coat.—the same one she wore every year for this, navy wool with the silver buttons Tobias had polished for her last Christmas Eve.
Her hands were tucked into her pockets against the cold, but she straightened the moment she spotted him, her mouth shaping his name silently through the glass before he’d even stepped off the train.
The station smelled of wet pavement and diesel, the air thick with shouted greetings and the squeal of trolley wheels.
Tobias maneuvered his trunk through the crowd, letting the current of students carry him toward the barrier where Eleanor waited.
Her fingers were cold when they brushed his cheek, but her smile was warm as ever.
“You’ve grown,” she said, and he had, just enough that she had to tilt her chin slightly to meet his eyes.
The car was parked three streets over—small, old, dependable.
Eleanor unlocked it with a twist of her wrist and a murmured word Tobias didn’t catch, the engine coughing to life before she’d even settled into the driver’s seat.
London traffic crawled around them, brake lights staining the drizzle red.
Eleanor turned the wipers on low, their rhythmic squeak keeping time with the radio’s static.
“Tell me,” she said after a while, both hands steady on the wheel.
Not *how was school* or *did you make friends*, just *tell me*, the way she always did—an open palm waiting for whatever he chose to place in it.
He told her about the flying lesson first—how the broom had jumped to his hand on the third call, how the wind had smelled like rain and wet grass.
He left out the way his stomach had dropped when he’d wobbled sideways, how his fingers had ached afterward from gripping too tight.
“Seven times,” he admitted when she asked about charms.
“The feather smoked on the seventh try.” Eleanor’s knuckles whitened briefly on the wheel.
Not disappointment—worry, the same kind she’d had when he’d brought home his first failing Potions essay.
“And your wand?” “Same.” She exhaled through her nose, long and slow.
The wipers squeaked again, pushing water off the glass in uneven arcs.
“Tonks gave me Cauldron Cakes,” he offered after a while, and Eleanor’s shoulders relaxed incrementally.
“Good.” Her thumb tapped the wheel once, twice.
“She’s kind.” The car smelled like it always did—leather and the faint tang of Eleanor’s peppermint chewing gum.
Tobias leaned his head against the window, watching his breath fog the glass in uneven bursts.
He did not tell her about the troll because she would worry.
He did not tell her about Daniel’s letter either because she would ask questions he couldn’t answer—questions like *why now* and *what changed* that had been circling in his head since Wednesday morning.
The porch light was on at the Bromley house when they pulled into the drive.
The small plastic Christmas tree stood in the front window as it always did, its tinsel catching the light in uneven glints.
Eleanor killed the engine and the wipers stuttered to a stop mid-swipe, leaving a smeared arc of rainwater across the windshield.
Tobias followed her up the front path, his trunk wheels grinding over the wet pavement.
The key turned in the lock with a click that sounded louder in the quiet street.
The hall was warm and smelled of casserole—beef and thyme, the kind Eleanor made when she’d had time to let it simmer properly.
“Garlands,” she warned as she hung her coat on the peg, nodding toward the sitting room doorway where a loop of holly sagged slightly off-center.
Tobias stepped around it, careful not to brush the berries.
The house was exactly as it always was—the same worn rug in the hall, the same faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the same way the third stair creaked when he put his weight on it.
He carried his trunk up the narrow stairs to his bedroom and set it down.
If Hollow at Hogwarts has caught your eye and you’d like to keep going, the full story lives on the usual site under TransmigratorTales, alongside my other ongoing serial.
More on the way, and I’m really glad you’re here reading this.