Kieran’s eyes snapped open as though someone had thrown an invisible switch. The dormitory lay in thick pre-dawn darkness, softened only by slivers of moonlight slipping through the gap in his bed curtains. The silence was broken solely by Neville’s peaceful breathing and a faint, whistling snore from Ron’s bed.
He lay motionless, staring up at the canopy, feeling his heart thud heavily against his ribs. The dream had already fled, erased the moment he woke, leaving behind only a sticky, dragging sense of guilt. The details of the nightmare had vanished, but the aftertaste remained — a weight in his chest, a phantom ache in his fingers, as though he had failed to hold on to something vital and let it shatter.
Kieran knew there was no point closing his eyes again. His body, drilled by years of rigid routine, was already thrumming with tension, demanding movement, action, anything to escape lying in this soft, suffocating feather bed alone with his thoughts.
He sat up noiselessly, folding back the heavy blanket. Habit overrode exhaustion: even in the dark he smoothed the sheet and plumped the pillow before making the bed. The movements were precise, mechanical — an anchor keeping him tethered to reality.
Gathering his hair into a tight knot at the nape so it would not interfere, he located his clothes on the chair. The school robes remained hanging — too long, too cumbersome for what he needed. He pulled on plain tracksuit bottoms and a zip-up Muggle jacket, fastening it right to the throat. The fabric rustled softly, the sound unnaturally loud in the sleeping room.
As he left the dormitory he held his breath when a floorboard creaked treacherously underfoot. No one stirred.
The Gryffindor common room was empty. Embers in the hearth had long since dulled to ash; the armchairs cast grotesque, humped shadows. Kieran paused at the portrait hole, feeling his fingers tremble faintly. This was not the noble tremor before battle described in books. This was fear. Ordinary, clammy fear of being caught.
At Mahoutokoro breaking curfew was punished harshly, but here the punishment itself did not frighten him. What terrified him was the shame. The thought of being collared by the shuffling caretaker Filch — or worse, Snape — and dressed down like a naughty child made his stomach turn. It would be loss of face. Unworthy conduct for a wizard. For a Morgan.
Yet he could not remain in the tower. He needed air.
He pushed against the Fat Lady’s portrait. She merely smacked her lips in her sleep, not even waking.
The corridors of Hogwarts greeted him with cold and silence that felt deceptive. The castle seemed a living thing — vast, sleeping beast breathing slow and deep. Draughts stirred tapestries; somewhere distant water dripped; staircases creaked softly as they shifted position.
Kieran moved quickly, keeping to the shadows of columns. Every rustle made his muscles lock. He imagined yellow eyes glowing round every corner — Mrs Norris. The nervousness, the adrenaline laced with fear, sent his blood racing faster, flushing away the remnants of the nightmare. He felt alive.
Most portraits slept; some snored so loudly their frames vibrated. But on the second floor, as he crept past a landscape of a windmill, an old wizard in a nightcap suddenly opened one eye.
Kieran froze, heart plummeting to his boots. He braced for a shout, for the old man to raise the alarm. But the wizard merely narrowed his eyes slyly, winked, placed a finger to his lips in the universal ‘keep quiet’ gesture, then resumed snoring.
Kieran exhaled, feeling a fleeting gratitude towards this peculiar place.
He reached the ground floor, turned towards the painting of fruit but passed it by, heading for an inconspicuous side door he had discovered on his first day while exploring the castle. The bolt yielded stiffly but silently — Kieran oiled it regularly, preparing a safe route for his regular morning escape from himself.
The slap of cold air against his face was almost physical pleasure. He slipped outside and eased the door shut behind him.
Outside it was dark and damp. Mist drifted across the grass, clinging to his ankles. The air smelt of wet earth, pine and approaching winter. Kieran drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the icy freshness, feeling his head clear. The tremor in his hands subsided, replaced by the familiar readiness of a body trained for work.
He broke into a light, springy run, heading towards the dark bulk of the Forbidden Forest.
Once the castle was behind him, Kieran allowed himself to accelerate. Fear of discovery receded, giving way to pure physical effort. Icy air scorched pleasantly into his lungs and streamed out in thick clouds of vapour.
Smooth flagstones gave way to tall, dew-soaked grass. Running grew harder; his feet slipped slightly, wet stems lashed his ankles, yet he forced himself to maintain pace. Each step thudded dully into the earth, driving the last traces of nocturnal anxiety from his mind.
He crested a small rise and the Black Lake opened before him. The sun was slowly rising beyond the horizon, staining the leaden water crimson and gold. The first rays touched the sleeping towers of the castle, making the stone glow, but Kieran did not pause to admire the view. He merely flicked a glance towards Hagrid’s hut — its chimney still smokeless — and took a wide arc to keep well clear. Friendly eyes were the last thing he needed just now.
A few minutes later he reached his destination — a small clearing hidden by dense undergrowth on the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. Here, behind a thick wall of ancient firs, he could not be seen from the castle windows.
Kieran slowed to a walk, circling the clearing and gulping air until his racing heartbeat steadied.
‘Right,’ he breathed into the emptiness.
He unzipped the jacket halfway down his chest, granting easy access to the wooden holster on his belt that served as a wand case. He took position in the centre of the clearing, feet shoulder-width apart. He bent his knees slightly, lowering his centre of gravity, feeling the tension in his thighs as they held balance on the slippery grass.
Inhale. Exhale.
At the peak of the exhalation his right hand flashed to his belt. A sharp, almost blurred motion — and the wand was already pointed at the chest of an invisible opponent.
A second of silence. Kieran slowly, smoothly returned the wand to its holster.
Too slow. Sluggish.
He resumed the stance. Inhale. Exhale. Draw.
This time he added a sharp step forward with his left foot, closing distance.
Along with the thrust of his arm he mentally reached for the magical core pulsing somewhere beneath his heart. Magic felt like a muscle — taut, ready to contract. At Mahoutokoro he had spent hours meditating, learning to sense the flow of magic through his body long before drawing the wand, long before uttering the incantation or executing the perfect gesture. Only after conscious awareness of the flow, conscious movement, did the sensei permit a curse to be sent towards a target.
‘Depulso,’ he thought, pouring only the barest thread of power into the spell.
The non-verbal impulse snapped from the wand tip. Three metres away, on a lower branch of an old oak, a single yellowed leaf stirred faintly.
Perfect control of force. Appalling speed.
Kieran returned the wand to its place, feeling dull irritation. He felt as though he were moving through deep water. A memory surfaced — Tristan. He had moved as though his body contained no bones at all, only quicksilver and wind. His draw was impossible to see, only to hear the whistle of parted air.
Compared with that, Kieran felt like a lumbering bear, a grotesque parody of a combat wizard.
‘Again,’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
Draw, step, brief impulse, return.
Draw, step, impulse, return.
He strove to catch the timing, synchronising leg and arm movement so as not to slip on the treacherous grass. Again and again. Ten, twenty, fifty repetitions.
Gradually thought began to dissolve. Irritation faded, giving way to emptiness. Only breath remained, the squeak of wet grass beneath trainers, the rhythmic contraction of the ‘muscle’ beneath his heart. His mind fell silent, allowing instinct and muscle memory to take over. In this monotonous, exhausting dance on the forest’s edge he finally felt himself in the right place.
When he returned to Gryffindor Tower the corridors were already filling with the first sleepy students, Kieran slipped silently into the showers on his floor.
Hot water struck his shoulders pleasantly, washing away sweat and the scent of damp earth. As he soaped his hands he noticed his knuckles were raw and bloody again, the surrounding skin red and swollen. Kieran held them impassively under the stream, watching pink foam swirl down the drain. He had no memory of the moment of impact. It happened periodically: blanks in recollection, battered hands, aching muscles. Routine. The cost of training. Not worth thinking about.
He dried quickly, pulled on a fresh T-shirt to cover his thin frame, and stepped into the common room.
To his surprise it was not empty. By the fire, curled up with his feet tucked beneath him in a deep armchair, sat Harry. His hair — already unruly — now stuck out in every direction, glasses perched on the end of his nose. A thick volume on defensive magic lay open across his knees.
Hearing footsteps, Harry looked up and, seeing Morgan, gave an exaggerated yawn.
‘Morning,’ he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. ‘You know, Morgan, I’m starting to suspect foul play. I used to sleep till the last possible second, and now I’m awake before dawn. It’s all your dark influence.’
Kieran gave a small smile and sank into the neighbouring armchair.
‘Happy to oblige, Potter.’
He had intended to take out parchment and write to his father in the quiet, but glancing at Harry’s bent head he changed his mind. Instead he pulled out his Charms textbook. Hogwarts’ curriculum differed radically from what he was used to in Japan. There magic had been an extension of calligraphy and the elements; here it demanded precise Latin incantations and exact wrist movements. He was constantly having to relearn, breaking reflexes honed over years just to keep up. He was grateful to Hermione, who — noticing his difficulties — had immediately begun supplying him with supplementary reading.
As though summoned by the thought, light footsteps sounded on the staircase.
‘Oh!’ Hermione paused on the bottom step, beaming. ‘Just look at this! Both of you reading first thing in the morning. Am I dreaming or have I stumbled into prefect paradise?’
Kieran lifted his gaze and held it on her a fraction longer than politeness required. Hermione was smiling, and that smile brought a strange, warm calm to his chest. Her bushy brown hair, not yet tamed by a brush, framed her head like a storm cloud threaded with morning sunlight.
‘Just trying to live up to your standards, Granger,’ he replied.
She settled on the sofa beside them, took out her comb and began slowly tidying her hair.
‘Harry, have you reached the chapter on counter-curses yet?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ Harry answered. ‘Only it says for Protego you rotate your wrist, but Moody showed a chopping motion.’
‘Moody’s a practitioner; the book gives the classical foundation,’ Kieran put in without looking up from the wand-movement diagram in his textbook. ‘In a fight you’ll chop, but in an exam you’d better rotate.’
They sat like that for a while longer, exchanging short, idle remarks. Kieran caught himself feeling an absolute, enveloping sense of comfort. The crackle of logs, the rustle of pages, the rhythmic sweep of Hermione’s comb — all of it wove a cocoon of safety in which he wanted to linger.
But the castle was waking fully.
From above came the clatter of boots as students began descending. Noisy Seamus and Dean appeared, loudly debating Quidditch. Neville passed by, peering under tables in search of his perpetually lost toad. A flash of fiery red — Ginny Weasley — darted past, casting a quick, shy glance towards Harry before hurrying to her friends. The common room filled with life, movement, the scents of shampoo and toast.
Kieran watched the bustle, book set aside. He suddenly realised the corners of his mouth were lifted in some utterly foolish, relaxed smile.
The feeling of peace vanished instantly. Kieran wiped the smile from his face, straightened his back, resuming his usual composure. He could not sit here grinning like an idiot.
‘Oi, bookworms!’ came a loud voice from the staircase.
Ron Weasley descended, yawning hugely and fumbling to button his robes incorrectly as he went. He looked rumpled but determined.
‘Stop ruining your eyes first thing in the morning. If we don’t go now Fred and George will eat all the sausages. I’m serious — yesterday they nicked a whole platter right from under my nose.’
Kieran and Harry exchanged a glance. In perfect unison, with a soft thud, they closed their books.