The leather was smooth under his thumb, worn slightly shiny along the edges from years of use.
His mother had bought it secondhand in Diagon Alley—he recognized the faint scent of cedar and beeswax, the same as the shopkeeper’s counter where she’d taken him for his wand.
“You’ll need it,” Eleanor said, watching him trace the seam.
“For when you’re practicing.” Tobias nodded.
He didn’t mention that his Lumos still sputtered like a dying candle.
Instead, he flicked the clasp open—empty, of course, since his wand was upstairs in his trunk—and closed it again with a quiet *snick*.
The radio murmured something about enchanted snowfall in Edinburgh.
Eleanor stirred her tea, the spoon clinking against the porcelain.
Through the doorway, the Christmas tree lights winked unevenly, one bulb flickering near the base.
“Try the cloak on,” she said after a moment.
He stood, the wool heavy and warm in his hands, the yellow trim bright even in the dim kitchen light.
When he swung it over his shoulders, the hem brushed his ankles.
“It’s too big,” he said.
Eleanor smiled.
“It’s for next year.” Tobias ran a hand down the front, feeling the thick weave.
The cloak smelled faintly of mothballs and something herbal, like the potions storeroom at St.
Mungo’s.
In the sitting room, the flickering bulb gave one last half-hearted glow before going dark.
The doorbell rang at three.
Tobias glanced at Eleanor, who nodded toward the hallway with the ghost of a smile.
The wood of the front door was cold under his fingers when he turned the knob.
Daniel stood on the step in his Christmas coat—navy blue, slightly frayed at the cuffs—with a Marks and Spencer carrier bag dangling from one hand.
Snowflakes dusted his shoulders.
“Happy Christmas,” he said, holding out the bag.
The wine bottle clinked faintly inside.
Tobias took it.
“Thanks.” Daniel stepped inside, stomping his boots on the mat more than necessary.
He hugged Eleanor briefly—shoulders only, the way people did when they weren’t sure how to hug—then turned to Tobias and extended his hand.
Tobias shook it.
Daniel’s palm was dry and warm, his grip careful, as if afraid of crushing something.
“Smells good,” Daniel said, nodding toward the kitchen.
“Roast and potatoes,” Eleanor said.
“You’re just in time.” They moved to the sitting room.
The flickering bulb had gone out entirely now, leaving a small gap in the string of lights.
Eleanor poured wine into mismatched glasses—one with a chip on the rim, one with a faded Quidditch team logo.
Daniel took his with both hands, as if afraid to spill.
“School going all right?” he asked after a sip.
Tobias shrugged.
“It’s fine.” “Learn anything interesting?” “Herbology,” Tobias said, because it was the least magical-sounding subject.
“Plants and things.” Daniel nodded like this made perfect sense.
The radio played “O Come All Ye Faithful” softly in the background, the brass section slightly fuzzy through the old speakers.
Eleanor stood.
“Dinner’s ready.” Daniel set his glass down with exaggerated care.
The three of them moved toward the kitchen, where the table was set with the good dishes—the ones that didn’t match but were all some shade of blue.
Eleanor had lit the candles with her wand earlier; they flickered now over the steaming plates.
The three of them sat down to the dinner Eleanor had been preparing all afternoon.
Daniel cut into his roast with the precision of an accountant balancing columns, the knife clicking against the plate in steady, measured strokes.
Tobias watched the steam curl off his own potatoes—Eleanor had charmed them to stay hot—and wondered if his father ever thought about magic the way he thought about spreadsheets: a system of rules he didn’t understand but had learned to navigate by rote.
“Pass the sprouts, would you?” Daniel said, pointing with his fork.
Tobias pushed the bowl across.
The radio in the kitchen had switched to “Silent Night,” the singer’s voice muffled by the wall between them.
Eleanor poured gravy over her potatoes in a slow spiral.
“They’re from the garden,” she said.
“The sprouts.” Daniel nodded.
“Taste like it.” The conversation lapsed into the comfortable silence of people who had known each other too long to need filling.
Tobias traced the rim of his water glass with one finger, leaving smudges on the cold surface.
Outside, a car passed slowly, its tires hissing on the wet pavement.
When Daniel left at eight, Tobias walked him to the front gate.
The streetlights made yellow pools on the pavement, and the air smelled of snow that hadn’t quite settled.
Daniel hesitated by the gatepost, then reached out and ruffled Tobias’s hair—a gesture that felt both practiced and uncertain, like a habit he wasn’t sure he should keep.
“See you Easter, maybe,” Daniel said.
Tobias nodded.
“Yeah.” Back inside, Eleanor was already at the sink, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows.
Tobias picked up the tea towel without being asked.
The radio had cycled back to carols, the volume low enough that the words blurred into the sound of running water.
Eleanor handed him a plate, still warm from the washing.
“He tried,” she said after a moment.
Tobias dried the plate in slow circles.
“I know.” The kitchen windows had fogged at the top, sealing them in a pocket of warmth and steam.
Through the haze, Tobias could just make out the dark shape of the garden, the outlines of the sprout plants Eleanor had mentioned earlier.
He stacked the dried plate on the counter with the others and took the next one she passed him.
He was glad his father had come and glad he had gone.
Upstairs by ten, the house settling into its nighttime quiet, Tobias placed a single unlit candle on his desk and sat on the edge of his bed.
The wand felt familiar in his hand—too familiar, almost, like a tool he’d never learned to use properly.
He raised it, performed the form, said the word.
The thin flicker came, died, left the air smelling faintly of ozone.
He understood, in his patient way, that the practice was the work.
The wand wasn’t going to start working overnight, and that wasn’t news to him.
The bedroom was the same as it had always been—the same bed since he was four, the same desk, the same faint crack in the ceiling plaster shaped like a question mark.
He set the candle out.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
He raised the wand.
He performed the form.
He said the word.
The flicker came again.
He tried the spell forty more times across the next hour and got the same thin flicker each time.
The forty-first attempt produced nothing at all—not even the usual sputter.
Tobias lowered his wand, flexed his fingers.
The air smelled faintly of burnt sugar now, something he hadn’t noticed before.
Eleanor knocked at half past eleven—the particular rhythm she used at his door—and sat down on the edge of his bed.
She was still in her dressing gown, her hair loose around her shoulders.
“Still up?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.
Tobias set his wand on the desk.
“Practicing.” She nodded, her gaze skimming past the unlit candle to the crack in the ceiling.
“How’s school?” The question was small, the way mothers asked—not about marks or spells, just the shape of his days.
“Tonks dropped her trunk down the stairs,” he said after a moment.
“All seven flights.
Kept apologizing while it was happening.” Eleanor smiled.
“She sounds lively.” “Cedric walked me up from the dungeons once,” Tobias added.
“After I got lost.” He didn’t mention the troll, or the hospital wing, or the way Cedric’s hand had hovered near his elbow like he thought Tobias might collapse.
Eleanor listened the way she always did—not nodding too much, not pressing.
When he finished, she reached over and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
“You’ll find your way,” she said, which wasn’t about the dungeons.
Tobias looked at his wand on the desk.
The holly wood looked almost black in the dim light.
She kissed his forehead and went back downstairs.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone with the faint hum of the house settling and the occasional creak of old pipes.
Tobias stared at the wand on the desk, its holly grain barely visible in the dim light.
He understood, with the quiet clarity of a child who’d grown used to waiting, that Lumos wasn’t going to hold tonight.
That Christmas hadn’t changed anything.
That practice wasn’t magic—just work.
He stood, the floorboards cool under his bare feet, and placed the wand beside the unlit candle.
The candlewick curled slightly at the tip, untouched by flame.
He turned the lamp off, and the room folded into darkness, the streetlight outside painting thin stripes across the ceiling through the gaps in the blinds.
The bed dipped under his weight as he climbed in, the sheets crisp from this morning’s wash.
He pulled the duvet up to his chin, the fabric faintly smelling of lavender from Eleanor’s detergent.
The wand lay motionless on the desk.
The candle stayed unlit.
The street outside was silent, the snow still holding off.
He closed his eyes.
He slept the long sleep of a child in the bed he had had since he was four.
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.