She captured his queen with a knight fork he should have seen coming, then pinned his rook against the exposed king three moves later.
The fire crackled.
Outside, cold wind rattled the windows.
“You’re getting better,” Hannah said, though her tone suggested she was being generous.
She flicked her braid over one shoulder as she reset the board.
“Your openings are solid.
You just…
stop paying attention around move ten.” Tobias rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
Chess had never been his game—too much forward planning, too many variables shifting in ways he couldn’t track—but Hannah played like she was reading from a script, anticipating every possible branch before he’d even settled on a move.
“Let’s try again,” he said, shifting his weight on the hearthrug.
Hannah grinned and pushed the white pieces toward him.
“Loser carries both our books to the library after.” He lost three games of chess to Hannah by the common room fire before lunch.
The library smelled of dust and old parchment, sunlight slanting in through the high windows to pool in rectangles on the worn wooden tables.
Madam Pince prowled the stacks with her wand out, ready to silence any chatter above a whisper.
Tobias set their Transfiguration books down in the quietest corner he could find, near a shelf of outdated Herbology texts.
Hannah spread out her Charms essay beside him, smoothing the parchment with her palm.
“McGonagall wants four inches on Switching Spells,” Tobias murmured, opening his own half-finished scroll.
Hannah made a small, sympathetic noise.
“Flitwick gave us twelve on Cheering Charms.” She tapped her quill against her inkwell.
“You’d think he’d be more cheerful about it.” They worked in comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of a chair or the rustle of turning pages.
Outside, the light shifted from gold to grey as afternoon deepened.
Hannah stretched, her braid swinging.
“I’m starving.
Want to go down to the lake before dinner?” She dug in her bag and produced a pair of brass binoculars with a flourish.
“Borrowed these from Ernie.
Thought we might see the squid.” The Black Lake stretched iron-dark beneath low clouds, its surface ruffled by a cutting wind.
They huddled on the bank, cloaks pulled tight, watching the water through the binoculars in turns.
Nothing broke the surface but the occasional ripple of fish.
“He’s shy today,” Hannah said after a long silence, breath fogging in the cold air.
Tobias nodded, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
The squid hadn’t surfaced for him in all his time at Hogwarts.
He wasn’t sure why he kept expecting it to.
Darkness gathered at the edges of the lake as the dinner hour approached.
They stayed until the first lanterns flickered to life in the castle windows above them, then trudged back up the path, shoulders hunched against the wind.
The Great Hall hummed with the chatter of students thawing from the cold, steam rising from plates of shepherd’s pie.
Tobias picked at the crust of his, watching the doors swing open at irregular intervals as Hogsmeade stragglers trickled in.
A sixth-year Ravenclaw dumped a Honeydukes sack on the table, sending sugar quills rolling toward the Hufflepuff first-years.
Someone near the Gryffindor end was demonstrating a screaming yo-yo from Zonko’s.
Hannah nudged her treacle pudding toward him.
“You’re not eating.” “Thinking about Switching Spells,” he lied, pushing peas into neat lines with his fork.
She snorted.
“Liar.
You’re watching the door like—” Her sentence died as Tonks shouldered into the hall, her cloak half-undone and her cheeks flushed from the wind.
A strand of bubblegum-pink hair had escaped her hood, curling against her temple.
Tonks scanned the tables, paused when her eyes met Tobias’s, and lifted two fingers in that casual flick that meant *meet me by the barrels after.* Then she vanished into the press of students heading for the Hufflepuff bench.
Hannah’s spoon clinked against her bowl.
“Told you.” Tobias stood abruptly, nearly upending his goblet.
“Library books are under the third Herbology shelf,” he muttered.
Hannah’s knowing smile followed him all the way to the doors.
The barrels swung open to reveal Tonks already perched on her usual sofa, her cloak tossed over the armrest and her boots kicked off haphazardly by the hearth.
The common room was quiet—just a pair of first-years playing exploding snap by the windows, their laughter muffled under the crackle of the fire.
Tonks grinned up at him as he approached, her hair shifting from pink to a warm amber in the firelight.
She nudged her bag with a foot.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the armchair opposite hers.
Tobias sank into the worn upholstery, the heat of the fire pressing against his legs.
Tonks leaned forward, rummaging in her bag with the air of someone unveiling a minor treasure.
Her cloak rustled as she pulled out a single bottle of butterbeer, the glass still faintly warm from where it had been pressed against her side all afternoon.
The label was slightly smudged from handling, the cap still tight.
She slid it across the small table between them with exaggerated care.
“Three Broomsticks special,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“Had to tuck it under my robes at the gate.
Rosmerta winked when I bought just the one.” Tobias picked it up.
The glass was smooth under his fingers, the weight reassuring.
He twisted the cap—it came off with a quiet hiss, releasing a sweet, malty scent that curled into the air between them.
Tonks watched him, her expression unreadable for a moment before she gestured with her chin.
“Go on.
First time’s the best.” He lifted the bottle to his lips.
The first sip was warmth and fizz, caramel and something almost like shortbread dissolving on his tongue.
It tasted like nothing he had had before.
Tonks stretched her legs toward the fire, toes wiggling in mismatched socks.
“High Street first,” she said, watching the flames.
“Cobblestones worn smooth from centuries of boots.
Honeydukes has this bell that chimes when you push the door open—sounds like someone dropping a sack of galleons.” Tobias took another sip, letting the warmth settle in his chest.
The butterbeer left a faint fizz on his tongue, like catching sparks from a spell.
“Post office is all owls,” Tonks continued, tapping her fingers against her knee.
“Hundreds of them perched on rafters, staring down like they’re judging your handwriting.
Zonko’s smells like gunpowder and licorice—Fred and George blew up a shelf of trick wands trying to outdo each other.” She grinned at the memory.
The fire popped.
A log collapsed into embers.
“And then there’s the Shrieking Shack,” she said, quieter now.
“All boarded up at the village edge.
Supposed to be haunted, but I think it’s just the wind through the cracks.” Tobias laughed once, a soft exhale through his nose.
The bottle was half-empty now, the liquid catching amber in the low light.
Tonks leaned forward suddenly, elbows on her knees.
“Been thinking about you this term,” she said, studying his face.
“You seem…
alright.” He rolled the bottle between his palms.
“I’m alright.” The door to the dormitory corridor creaked open.
Hannah stepped in, took one look at them—Tonks bent forward like a conspirator, Tobias cradling the butterbeer like something fragile—and smiled.
Without a word, she pivoted on her heel and disappeared back the way she came.
The latch clicked softly behind her.
Tonks exhaled, leaning back into the sofa cushions.
“Abbott’s sharp,” she muttered, stretching her arms above her head until her shoulders popped.
“Could’ve been worse.
Could’ve been Sprout.” Tobias tilted the bottle, watching the last sip cling to the glass.
The warmth had settled low in his stomach, humming under his ribs.
Tonks held out her hand, palm up.
He passed her the empty bottle.
She stood in one fluid motion—fifth-year grace where he still had second-year clumsiness—and crossed to the bin by the door.
The bottle clinked against parchment scraps as it fell.
When she returned, she didn’t sit.
Just hovered by the arm of his chair, hands shoved in her pockets.
“Year and a half now,” she said abruptly.
Tobias looked up.
“Since we met,” she clarified, though he’d understood.
Her hair darkened to a deep burgundy in the firelight, like dried ink.
“Figured I’d say it before someone else does.
Seems like the sort of thing people tally.” He nodded slowly.
Tonks rocked back on her heels.
“Anyway.
You’re stuck with me till I graduate.” A grin flashed across her face, there and gone like a snitch’s wingbeat.
“Assuming you don’t get sick of me first.” The clock above the mantel chimed quarter to ten.
Tonks yawned, wide and unselfconscious.
“Bed,” she announced, already turning toward the stairs.
Tobias stood, the taste of butterbeer lingering at the back of his tongue.
He was in bed at ten with the taste of the butterbeer still in his mouth.
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.