Harry Potter: Keeping Up with Arthur (Post-Canon Divergent, New Generation, SI OC)

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 1: The Boy on the Train

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

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Author's Note:

Hello! This story follows Arthur Aalto, a Muggle-born with an interesting twist. More details will follow below, but for now, I'll let you get on with the chapter.

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"…and for goodness sake, try not to break any bones on the first day. Your mother will have my hide."

Arthur Aalto grinned back at his father, the familiar weight of competition settling comfortably across his shoulders. Around them, Platform 9¾ churned with magical chaos; thick white steam billowed from the scarlet Hogwarts Express like dragon's breath, whilst owls hooted indignantly from their cages and parents fussed over reluctant children. The air crackled with excitement and magic, making Arthur's skin tingle in the way it always did when he stood too close to something properly extraordinary.

"Right then, Dad," Arthur said, adjusting his grip on his trunk. "I'll try to keep the casualty count down."

His mother ruffled his honey-blond hair with the sort of fond exasperation that came from eleven years of watching her son treat danger like a particularly entertaining game. "You write to us, Arthur. Every week. And don't let that twin of yours think he's won anything just because you're not there to keep him honest."

Arthur's grin widened. Lucas stepped forward then, identical in everything except the complete absence of magic coursing through his veins. Where Arthur buzzed with barely-contained energy, Lucas carried himself with the cool calculation of someone who measured every risk before taking it. It was the only way anyone had ever been able to tell them apart.

"Aalto." Lucas's voice was clipped, matter-of-fact.

"Aalto." Arthur's response came back just as sharp.

They sized each other up for a moment, blue eyes meeting blue eyes, before Lucas's mouth quirked into something that wasn't quite a smirk. "Try not to get expelled before Christmas, Aalto. It'd be embarrassing."

"Try not to crash before I get back for holidays," Arthur shot back. "Wouldn't want Ferrari thinking the wrong twin's got the talent."

They shared a grin then – sharp and competitive and full of the sort of understanding that came from sharing everything, right up until the moment magic had split their paths in two. Lucas held out his hand, and Arthur clasped it briefly, their grips tight enough to bruise.

"Don't let the wizard thing go to your head," Lucas said.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The train's whistle shrieked across the platform, and Arthur felt his pulse jump in response. This was it. Six years of waiting, six years of glimpses into a world he'd barely been able to touch, and now–

"Go on then," his father said, voice gruff with pride. "Show them what an Aalto can do."

Arthur shouldered his way through the crowd, trunk dragging behind him as he made for the nearest carriage door. The Hogwarts Express loomed above him, all gleaming scarlet paint and polished brass, and for a moment he felt properly small. Then the feeling passed, replaced by the familiar thrill of stepping into something fast and dangerous and brilliant.

The corridors were already packed with students. Some looking green around the edges with nerves, others chattering away like they owned the place. Arthur pushed past a gaggle of older girls discussing someone called Lockhart (apparently he'd been handsome and a fraud, which seemed like rather important information to be discussing so casually), found an empty compartment halfway down the train, and settled himself by the window.

The platform was still chaos, but from here it looked manageable. Controlled. Arthur could see his parents standing with Lucas, his mother dabbing at her eyes whilst his father pointed out various interesting magical trinkets to anyone who'd listen. Lucas was scanning the crowd with the same analytical intensity he brought to studying racing lines, probably filing away details about every witch and wizard in sight.

The train lurched into motion with a great hiss of steam, and Arthur pressed his face to the window to wave. His family waved back, Lucas offering a two-fingered salute that was probably rude in atleast two languages, and then they were pulling away from the platform, away from the only world Arthur had ever properly known.

He should have been nervous. Every other Muggle-born on the train was probably having some sort of crisis about now, wondering if they'd packed the right things or learned enough from their Hogwarts letters or–

But Arthur had been part of this world for six years already. He knew about Chocolate Frogs and Quidditch and the fact that portraits could hold entire conversations if you were polite enough to listen. He knew that wizards had absolutely no idea how televisions worked and that his wandless magic was apparently something worth gawking at. He was ready for this.

The compartment door slid open with a sharp bang, and Arthur turned from the window to find two boys about his age standing in the doorway. The first was tall for eleven, with messy black hair that stuck up at odd angles and the sort of confident posture that suggested he was used to being noticed. The second was shorter, stockier, with red hair and a grin that seemed to be permanently fixed in place.

"Mind if we sit?" the dark-haired boy asked, though he was already moving into the compartment like the question was purely academic. "Everywhere else is packed with fifth-years moaning about their OWLs."

"Course not," Arthur said, shifting his legs to make room as the boys settled across from him. "Arthur Aalto."

The redhead stuck out his hand first. "Fred. Fred Weasley."

Arthur shook it, noting the firm grip and the calluses that suggested Fred wasn't afraid of hard work. "Nice to meet you."

The other boy leaned back against the seat, a practiced sort of casual that didn't quite hide the way his eyes were cataloguing Arthur's response. "I'm James," he said, letting the pause stretch just long enough to be noticeable. "James Potter."

Arthur felt his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. James Potter. As in, son of the Harry Potter who'd been the subject of hushed, reverent conversations in the Leaky Cauldron for as long as Arthur could remember. The Harry Potter whose name made grown wizards go quiet and respectful, whose story Arthur's father had devoured in every issue of the Daily Prophet he could get his hands on.

"Wicked," Arthur said, and meant it. "My dad's a bit of a Harry Potter fan. Read all about him in the Prophet."

James blinked, clearly thrown off his rhythm. Arthur supposed he'd been expecting something different. Awe, maybe, or the sort of breathless hero-worship that probably followed him around like a particularly persistent house-elf. Instead, Arthur just grinned at him, genuinely pleased to meet someone whose father had done something properly impressive.

"Right," James said after a moment, and his posture relaxed into something more natural. "Well. That's... refreshing, actually."

"Get a lot of people going mental when you introduce yourself?" Arthur asked.

"You'd be surprised how many people suddenly forget how to talk," Fred said with a snort. "It's brilliant, actually. James just has to mention his name and half the girls in our year will go all pink and giggly."

"Shut it, Fred," James muttered, but he was grinning now, the practiced confidence replaced by something that looked more like genuine amusement. "What about you, then? Aalto's not exactly a name I recognize."

"Muggle-born," Arthur said easily. It wasn't something to be ashamed of, despite what Lucas had warned him some people might think. "My dad runs electronics shops, mum's a vet. But we've been regulars at the Leaky Cauldron since I was five, so it's not like this is all completely mad."

Fred perked up at that. "Electronics? Like those tellyvision things?"

"Televisions," Arthur corrected automatically. "Yeah, among other things. But my real thing's karting. Racing, I mean. Been doing it since I was old enough to reach the pedals."

James and Fred exchanged glances, the sort of wordless communication Arthur recognized from his years racing alongside Lucas. Then James leaned forward, interest sharpening his expression.

"Racing? Like, actual racing? With cars?"

"Go-karts, mostly, though I've had a few goes in proper single-seaters. Nothing like Formula 1 obviously, but..." Arthur shrugged. "Working on it. Or was working on it."

"Bloody hell– that's mental," Fred said, eyes wide. "How fast do those things go?"

"Depends on the class. The one I usually race can hit about seventy on a straight, but it's not really about top speed. It's about the corners, the precision. Taking a turn at fifty when you should probably be doing thirty, finding the line that's two inches wider than what everyone else is using..."

Arthur trailed off, realizing he was getting carried away, but both James and Fred were staring at him like he'd just announced he spent his weekends wrestling dragons.

"So you willingly strap yourself into a metal box that goes seventy miles an hour?" James said slowly. "And I thought getting clobbered by a bludger was mental."

"Bludger?" Arthur's pulse quickened. "You play Quidditch?"

"Course I do," James said, puffing up slightly. "Been flying since I was three. Dad reckons I'll make the house team by third year, maybe sooner if–"

"What's it like?" Arthur interrupted, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice. "Flying, I mean. Properly flying."

James blinked at him. "You've never been on a broom?"

"Muggle-born, remember?" Arthur said. "I've watched a few games at the pub, but..."

"Right, well–" James launched into an enthusiastic description of his first Quidditch match with his cousins, hands moving as he described the feel of wind through his hair and the heart-stopping moment when a Bludger came screaming towards his head. Fred chimed in with stories of his own, talking about the makeshift pitch behind someplace called the Burrow and the time he'd nearly broken his neck trying to catch a Snitch that turned out to be a transfigured garden gnome.

The trolley witch appeared at their door as James was describing a particularly spectacular crash ("Mum went absolutely spare, there was blood everywhere"), and James immediately pulled out a handful of gold coins, buying enough sweets to stock a small shop.

"Blimey," Arthur said as James divided the haul between them. "Your parents give you that much pocket money?"

"Dad's an Auror," James said with a casual shrug that didn't quite hide his pride. "Mum writes for the Prophet. They do all right."

Arthur bit into a Chocolate Frog and watched it try to hop away, catching it just before it could escape out the window. The wizard on the card was someone called Agrippa, who apparently invented something important but looked remarkably grumpy about it.

"These are mental," Arthur said, chasing the frog around his palm. "In the best possible way."

"You should try a Bertie Bott's," Fred said with a wicked grin, offering Arthur the colorful box. "They're Every Flavour Beans. And I do mean every flavour."

Arthur selected a green one and popped it into his mouth, then immediately regretted it as the taste of what could only be spinach filled his mouth. He managed not to spit it out, but judging by James and Fred's laughter, his expression had been worth watching.

"Spinach," he said once he'd swallowed. "That's just cruel."

"Wait until you get earwax," James said cheerfully. "Or worse."

They spent the next hour trading sweets and stories, the conversation flowing easier than Arthur had expected. James told them about the time he'd accidentally set fire to his aunt's garden shed trying to impress a girl ("She wasn't impressed, and Aunt Hermione made me dust all her bookshelves– and before you think 'that's not too bad'… she has twenty-seven of them"), whilst Fred regaled them with tales of his father's joke shop and the various products he'd been helping test ("The Puking Pastilles are brilliant, but you've got to time it just right or you'll be sick for real").

Arthur found himself talking about racing more than he had in months, explaining the physics of downforce and the way fear could either sharpen your reflexes or get you killed, depending on how you handled it. James and Fred listened with the sort of fascination Arthur usually reserved for discussions about Quidditch, asking questions about G-forces and crash barriers that showed they understood the appeal of controlled danger.

"So," Fred said as he unwrapped another Chocolate Frog, "what's the most stupid thing you've ever done?"

Arthur considered this. "Probably the time I tried to overtake three people on the inside of a hairpin turn. At Silverstone, during a championship race. I was eight."

"Did it work?" James asked.

"Oh, it worked brilliantly. Right up until I ran out of track and went spinning into the gravel trap. Took out two other drivers with me and got myself banned from the next three races."

Fred was grinning like Arthur had just described the most wonderful thing in the world. "I like him, James. He's got a healthy disrespect for his own safety."

"Cheers," Arthur said dryly. "What about you two? What's the stupidest thing you've done?"

James and Fred exchanged another look, and Arthur got the distinct impression they were mentally rifling through a fairly extensive catalogue of bad decisions.

"Well," James said slowly, "there was the time we decided to see if we could fly Dad's old racing broom to France..."

"You didn't!" Arthur exclaimed.

"We got about fifty miles before the Ministry caught up with us," Fred said proudly. "Mum made us shine all of her china, but it was worth it. Nearly made it to Dover."

"Mental," Arthur said admiringly. "Absolutely mental."

The train had left London behind hours ago, and through the window Arthur could see rolling hills and small villages flashing past. The countryside was getting wilder, more remote, and he found himself pressing closer to the glass as they passed through what looked like a forest that went on forever.

"How much further?" he asked.

"Not long now," James said, checking what looked like a pocket watch made of brass and silver. "We should see the lake soon, and then–"

The train began to slow, and all three boys crowded to the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, and as they rounded a bend in the tracks Arthur caught his first glimpse of black water stretching out like a mirror.

"There," Fred said, pointing. "Look."

And then Arthur saw it, rising from the far shore of the lake like something out of a fever dream. Towers and turrets and impossible spires, all lit from within with a warm golden glow that made it look like a constellation that had fallen to earth and decided to stay. It was massive and ancient and completely, utterly magical in a way that made Arthur's chest tight with something he couldn't quite name.

"Bloody hell," he breathed.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," James said, grinning at Arthur's expression. "Think you're going to like it here?"

Arthur couldn't look away from the castle, couldn't process the sheer scale of it, the way it seemed to grow larger and more impossible with every second they spent approaching it. This was it. This was where he'd spend the next seven years, where he'd learn to do magic properly instead of just making playing cards appear out of thin air. This was where he'd become the wizard he'd been dreaming of being since he was five years old and stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron.

And as the train slowed, rounding a final bend, he saw it fully for the first time, impossibly vast against the darkening sky: Hogwarts.

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Author's note:

Hey again! I'd love to know what you thought of the beginning. As you might be aware by now, this story starts in 2015 and is set in the next generation rather than Harry's year. My goal is to explore the peace and general challenges of growing up magical, in contrast to the highly exciting childhood Harry led.

I plan to write my way through all seven years, with each year spanning 13-14 chapters. The first year will be a little slow, since the magic and experience are far too elementary to be truly exciting. But things will pick up as we move forward. Believe it!

As always, thank you for reading, and feel free to check out any of my other stories while you're at it.

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Thanks a lot to DC, hussain, Zeca, Brittney, Damian, dinolord and Nikhil for taking me on as patrons.

Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. It's ahead by a few chapters.

patreon.com/MoonyNightShade

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 2: The Hat's Dilemma

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

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"...firs' years! Firs' years over here! C'mon now, don't be shy, follow me!"

The voice boomed across the platform like a foghorn, cutting through the chaos of students and trunks and the lingering steam from the Hogwarts Express. Arthur turned towards the sound and felt his jaw drop slightly. The man holding the lantern was absolutely massive – easily twice the size of anyone Arthur had ever seen, with a wild black beard that seemed to have a life of its own and eyes that twinkled kindly in the lamplight.

"Blimey," Fred muttered from beside him. "That's Hagrid. Dad's mentioned him. Says he's mental about dangerous creatures."

"Right then," James said, shouldering his way through the crowd with the sort of practiced confidence that suggested he'd been doing this sort of thing his entire life. "Come on. Last thing we want is to get left behind on our first day."

The three of them followed the stream of first-years as Hagrid led them away from the platform and down a narrow path that seemed to disappear into the darkness ahead. Arthur's breath misted in the cold air, and he could smell pine and damp earth and something else; something wild and magical that made the hair on his arms stand up.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called out as the path opened onto the shore of the black lake Arthur had seen from the train. It had to be the largest he'd ever seen. The water stretched out before them like black glass, reflecting the stars and the nearly full moon overhead. And there, across the water, Hogwarts rose from the darkness like something out of a dream.

Arthur had thought he'd been prepared for it. He'd seen it from the train, after all. But this was different. From here, with the castle lit from within and reflecting on the still water, it looked less like a building and more like magic itself given physical form. Towers twisted up into the night sky, windows glowed with warm yellow light, and the whole thing was so vast that Arthur couldn't take it all in at once.

"Mental," he breathed.

"Wait until you see the inside," James said, but even his practiced coolness couldn't quite hide the awe in his voice.

The boats were small and looked like they'd been carved from single pieces of dark wood. Arthur had expected them to have oars, but as soon as he, James, and Fred had settled themselves into one, it began moving on its own, gliding across the water with barely a ripple.

"Magic boats," Fred said with satisfaction. "Much better than having to row the thing ourselves."

Arthur trailed his fingers in the water and immediately pulled them back. It was freezing. "How deep do you reckon it is?"

"Deep enough," James said. "Dad told me there's a giant squid in here. Friendly, apparently, but still. Giant squid."

"Course there is," Arthur said. "Because normal-sized squids would be too easy."

They were halfway across the lake now, and Hogwarts loomed larger with every passing second. Arthur could make out individual windows, see the way the light spilled out across the water, and count at least seven different towers. It was overwhelming in the best possible way.

The boats glided into what looked like a natural grotto carved into the base of the castle, and Arthur felt solid stone beneath his feet as he clambered out. The air was warmer here, though it still carried that wild, magical scent that made his pulse quicken.

"Everyone out!" Hagrid called, his lantern casting dancing shadows on the rough stone walls. "This way, don't dawdle now!"

He led them up what seemed like hundreds of stone steps, past walls hung with portraits that moved and whispered to each other as they passed. Arthur caught glimpses of medieval knights and elegant ladies and what looked like a small dragon curled up in the corner of one frame, all of them watching the procession of first-years with interest.

Finally, they reached a massive pair of oak doors that looked like they could have stopped a charging elephant. Hagrid knocked three times, and the doors swung open to reveal a tiny wizard standing on what appeared to be a stack of pillows.

Arthur's heart jumped. Professor Flitwick looked exactly the same as he had six months ago when he'd visited their house – small and precise, with bright eyes and snow-white hair peppering black.

"Thank you, Hagrid," Professor Flitwick said in his high, cheerful voice. "I'll take them from here." He beamed at the assembled first-years, and Arthur caught the small nod of recognition the professor sent his way. "Right then, children. Follow me."

They found themselves in an entrance hall that was bigger than Arthur's entire house, with a marble staircase that seemed to go up forever and more moving portraits than Arthur could count. The noise from beyond another set of doors was tremendous; hundreds of voices talking and laughing and the clatter of cutlery on plates.

Professor Flitwick stepped back onto yet another stack of pillows and cleared his throat. "Welcome to Hogwarts," he said, his voice somehow carrying despite his size. "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates in the Great Hall. But first, you must be sorted into your Houses."

He went on to explain about Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, about how your House would become your family, about earning points and losing them and the House Cup at the end of the year. Arthur tried to listen, but his attention kept drifting to the sounds coming from the Great Hall and the way his stomach was twisting itself into knots.

He was going to be fine. He was going to get into Gryffindor with James and Fred, and they were going to have the most brilliant time, and–

"The Sorting Ceremony will begin in a moment," Professor Flitwick said, and Arthur's attention snapped back to the present. "Please wait here."

The professor disappeared through the doors, leaving the first-years alone in the entrance hall. The noise from the Great Hall died down to an expectant hush, and Arthur felt his pulse hammering in his throat.

"Right," James said quietly. "This is it, then."

"We'll all be in Gryffindor," Fred said with the sort of confidence Arthur wished he felt. "Has to happen. It's destiny."

The doors swung open again, and Professor Flitwick beckoned them forward. "Follow me, please. Single file."

Arthur's first glimpse of the Great Hall nearly stopped him dead in his tracks. The ceiling was gone, replaced by what looked like the night sky outside; stars twinkling in an endless expanse of darkness; thousands of candles floated in mid-air, casting everything in warm, golden light. Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, packed with students who had all turned to watch the first-years enter.

And at the far end, on a raised platform, sat the staff table. Arthur could see McGonagall in the center – the stern and imposing witch from his chocolate frog cards – and beside her other professors he didn't recognize. The whole thing was so overwhelming, so impossibly grand, that Arthur felt small and insignificant in a way he hadn't since he was five years old.

Professor Flitwick led them to the front of the hall, where an ancient wooden stool sat waiting. On the stool was a hat that looked like it had seen better centuries; patched and frayed and stained with what Arthur hoped was just age.

The professor unrolled a long piece of parchment and cleared his throat. "When I call your name, please come forward and take a seat on the stool."

Arthur's stomach dropped into his shoes as the reality of the situation hit him. Aalto. He was going to be first. He was going to have to go up there in front of the entire school, with no one else having gone before him to show him how it was done.

"Aalto, Arthur," Professor Flitwick called out, his voice echoing in the sudden silence.

The collective intake of breath from four hundred students was audible. Arthur stood frozen for a moment, meeting James's wide-eyed, panicked look and Fred's expression of horrified sympathy. Then he forced his legs to move, walking on unsteady feet towards the stool.

The walk felt like it took forever. Every eye in the hall was on him, hundreds of faces watching his every step. He could hear his own breathing, could feel the weight of their attention like a physical thing pressing down on his shoulders.

He reached the stool and sat down, the ancient wood creaking under his weight. Professor Flitwick lifted the hat and placed it gently on Arthur's head, and suddenly the world went dark and quiet except for the sound of his own heartbeat and–

"Well now," said a voice inside his head, ancient and raspy and amused. "Starting the year with an interesting one, are we? Confidence of a king... a mind that races... plenty of courage, oh yes, plenty of courage. You'll need it for what's ahead."

Arthur tried to think of something to say, but the voice continued before he could form words.

"But what's this? The magic in you... it's not a neat little well like most of your peers. It's a wild, untamed spring... not channeled, but overflowing. You've been tasting it on your own, haven't you? Shaping it without a wand. Highly unusual... and powerful. Very powerful indeed."

Arthur felt something like pride swell in his chest, but the Hat wasn't finished.

"And deeper still... what have we here? An echo... a whisper of the Serpent's tongue... but no trace of the bloodline. No hint of the Heir. Curious... a fluke of nature, then. A mutation. How very, very rare."

The Hat sounded genuinely intrigued rather than alarmed, which Arthur took as a good sign.

"Such a strange mix," the Hat continued. "The power could be honed in Slytherin, they do appreciate raw talent. The mind would do well in Ravenclaw – that analytical streak serves you well on the racing circuit, doesn't it? But that spirit... that love of diving headfirst into the unknown, consequences be damned... that's a racer's heart. And there's only one place for a heart like that..."

Arthur held his breath.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The word boomed out across the Great Hall, and Arthur felt a wave of relief so intense it nearly knocked him off the stool. The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers and applause, students jumping to their feet and clapping him on the back as he stumbled towards them.

He found a seat about halfway down the table and tried to smile at the older students who were welcoming him, but his attention was already turning back to the front of the hall where James and Fred were still standing with the other first-years.

"Brilliant sorting," said a girl with curly brown hair who looked like she might be a third-year. "You looked terrified up there."

"Cheers," Arthur said absently, watching as Professor Flitwick called the next name.

The sorting continued. Arthur watched as students he didn't know were sorted into Houses he didn't care about, his anxiety growing with each passing name. What if James ended up in Slytherin? What if Fred went to Hufflepuff? What if he was stuck at Gryffindor table surrounded by strangers while his friends were scattered to the other corners of the hall?

"Jenkins, Sarah," went to Ravenclaw. "Lewis, Michael," ended up in Hufflepuff. Arthur's leg bounced under the table as he waited.

"Longbottom, Alice."

Arthur perked up at that – he knew that name from somewhere. A round-faced girl with determination written in every line of her posture walked to the stool. The Hat barely touched her head before calling out "HUFFLEPUFF!" and she practically skipped to her table.

More names. More waiting. Arthur's palms were sweating now, and he found himself clenching and unclenching his fists under the table. Come on, he thought desperately. Come on.

"Potter, James."

The whisper that went through the hall was audible. Every head turned to watch as James walked to the stool, his shoulders set with the sort of determination Arthur recognized from their conversation on the train. The Hat was placed on his head, and for a long, tense minute, nothing happened.

Arthur held his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Arthur's shout of triumph was lost in the roar from the Gryffindor table. James broke into a grin that could have lit up the entire hall and jogged over to the table, sliding onto the bench next to Arthur and slapping him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.

"Kept you waiting, did I?" James said with the sort of cocky grin that didn't quite hide his own relief. "Had to make sure the seat was warm!"

"You absolute pillock," Arthur said, but he was grinning too widely to make it sound like an insult.

They turned their attention back to the sorting. There were still plenty of names to go, and Fred wouldn't be called until near the end. Arthur tried to relax now that James was beside him, but he couldn't quite manage it. Not until all three of them were safely sorted.

The minutes dragged by. Arthur half-listened as the older students around them made comments about the new arrivals, but most of his attention was focused on the dwindling line of first-years at the front of the hall.

Finally– finally– Professor Flitwick called out "Weasley, Fred."

The Hat had barely touched Fred's head before it shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" and Fred was practically sprinting across the hall towards them, his grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in half.

"Bloody hell," he said as he collapsed onto the bench across from Arthur and James. "Thought it was never going to be my turn. Fred Weasley, by the way," he added to the older students nearby, who laughed and introduced themselves in return.

Arthur felt the last of his tension drain away. They'd done it. All three of them, sorted into Gryffindor just like they'd hoped. They were going to be sharing a dormitory, taking the same classes, sitting at the same table for every meal for the next seven years.

The sorting continued with the few remaining students, but Arthur barely paid attention. He was too busy listening to James explain Quidditch positions to an offended-looking second-year and Fred regaling anyone who would listen with stories about his father's joke shop.

Finally, Professor Flitwick rolled up his parchment and stepped down from his pillows. Headmistress McGonagall rose from her seat at the staff table, and the hall fell silent.

"Welcome," she said, her voice carrying easily to every corner of the vast room, "to a new year at Hogwarts. I have only a few announcements before we begin our feast. First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest is, as its name suggests, forbidden to students. Several of our older students would do well to remember this as well."

Her gaze swept the Gryffindor table, and Arthur was fairly sure he saw a few guilty looks.

"Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that the list of banned items now includes Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The complete list may be viewed in Mr. Filch's office for those interested in reviewing several hundred items."

She paused, scanning the hall with the sort of look that suggested she could see right through anyone foolish enough to be planning mischief.

"And now, before we begin our feast, let us welcome our new students with the school song!"

Arthur blinked. A school song? But before he could ask James about it, McGonagall had raised her wand, and golden ribbons were streaming from the tip, forming themselves into words that hung in the air above the staff table.

The entire hall burst into song, though it quickly became apparent that everyone was singing to their own tune and tempo. The result was a cacophonous mess that somehow managed to be stirring anyway. Arthur found himself grinning as he tried to follow along, listening to James belt out the words in what sounded like a funeral march while Fred had apparently decided to turn it into some sort of jaunty sea shanty.

When the last voices finally faded away – a pair of Hufflepuff seventh-years who had apparently decided to perform an opera – McGonagall smiled and raised her hands.

"And now," she said, "let the feast begin!"

The golden plates and goblets that had been sitting empty on the tables suddenly filled with food. Mountains of it. Roast beef and chicken, potatoes and vegetables, pies and pastries and things Arthur didn't even recognize. The smell hit him all at once, making his mouth water and reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the sweets on the train.

He looked from James's grinning face to Fred's, then at the mountain of food that had just appeared before them, and thought, with a certainty that filled his entire being, I'm home.

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Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. It's ahead by a few chapters.

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[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3: Heir to the Common Room

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

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"...right then, first years! Stick with me! And try not to get lost, the staircases like to move."

The prefect's voice cut through the chaos of the entrance hall as hundreds of students scattered in every direction, older years heading off with the casual confidence of people who knew exactly where they were going. James Potter straightened his shoulders and grinned as the cluster of nervous first-years huddled closer together, looking like sheep who'd just realized they were being herded by a particularly unreliable shepherd.

This was it. This was the moment he'd been waiting for his entire life.

The prefect – a sixth-year with a badge that caught the torchlight – started up the marble staircase, and James fell into step behind him with Arthur and Fred flanking him like wingmen. The moving staircases that had the other first-years gasping and clutching at the bannisters were old news to James. He'd been hearing about them since he could walk, had dreamed about riding them since he was old enough to understand what Hogwarts meant.

"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered as a staircase swung away from the wall just as they were about to step onto it, leaving them stranded on a landing with a portrait of a medieval knight who was busy picking his nose with his gauntlet. "Do they always do that?"

"Only when they're feeling particularly vindictive," James said with the sort of casual authority that came from a lifetime of Hogwarts stories. "Wait for it..."

The staircase swung back into place with a grinding of stone on stone, and the prefect stepped onto it like nothing had happened. James followed without hesitation, Arthur and Fred close behind.

They climbed for what felt like hours, past portraits that whispered and pointed, past suits of armor that clanked ominously as they passed, past doorways that led to corridors James had heard about but never seen. His dad had walked these same stairs twenty years ago, had probably stood on this exact landing, had definitely gotten into trouble somewhere along this route.

The thought made James's chest tight with something between pride and pressure. This wasn't just a school. This was his inheritance.

"Nearly there now," the prefect called back to them as they climbed past a portrait of a fat monk who was trying to teach a group of cherubs how to juggle. "Just a few more flights."

James caught Arthur looking around with the same wide-eyed wonder he'd shown in the Great Hall, and felt a surge of satisfaction. It was brilliant, watching someone see all of this for the first time. Someone who appreciated it properly, instead of just taking it for granted the way some of the pureblood kids did.

"Mental, isn't it?" James said as they passed a portrait of a witch who was attempting to charm her hat into dancing. "Dad says the portraits remember everything. Every conversation, every student who's walked past. That one there" – he pointed to a severe-looking wizard in black robes – "apparently caught my dad sneaking back from the kitchens at two in the morning when he was in fourth year."

"Your dad got caught sneaking around?" Fred asked with obvious delight.

"All the time," James said proudly. "Reckons he spent more time in detention than in class some terms."

They reached the seventh floor, and James felt his pulse quicken as the prefect led them down a corridor lined with portraits of Gryffindor lions in various heroic poses. At the end of the corridor hung a portrait that James recognized from a dozen stories; the Fat Lady, resplendent in her pink silk dress, a goblet of wine in her hand.

"Password?" she asked the prefect, her voice melodious and slightly slurred.

The prefect opened his mouth to respond, but James stepped forward before he could speak.

"Grata Domum," James said clearly, his voice carrying the sort of confidence that suggested he'd been saying Hogwarts passwords his entire life.

The Fat Lady's eyebrows climbed towards her elaborate hairline, and she gave James a knowing smirk. "Well, well. Another Potter, is it? You've got the look of your father about you."

"So I've been told," James said with a grin that was pure cheek.

"In you go then, dear. Welcome home."

The portrait swung forward like a door, revealing a circular opening just large enough for a person to climb through. James went first, of course, scrambling through the portal and emerging into–

It was exactly like the stories. It wasn't just a room; it was a promise. And it was his.

The Gryffindor common room stretched out before them, all warm scarlet and gold, with a fire crackling merrily in an enormous stone fireplace. Squashy armchairs and sofas were scattered around the room, their red velvet worn smooth by generations of students. Tapestries hung from the walls showing Gryffindor's greatest moments, and the windows looked out over the dark grounds, where James could just make out the glimmer of the lake in the moonlight.

The room was buzzing with activity; older students sprawled in chairs, comparing timetables and catching up on summer gossip. A group of seventh-years had commandeered the best spots near the fire, and someone had produced a deck of Exploding Snap cards that kept going off with tiny bangs and puffs of smoke.

"First years!" called a voice from across the room, and James turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered boy making his way towards them. His hair was a brilliant turquoise tonight, and the Head Boy badge on his robes caught the firelight.

James's grin widened as Teddy Lupin reached them, clasping him on the shoulder with the sort of easy familiarity that came from years of family gatherings.

"Welcome home, James," Teddy said, his voice warm but carrying an undertone of authority that suggested he was already anticipating trouble. "Try not to set anything on fire before morning, alright? McGonagall's already got you pegged."

"I haven't set anything on fire," James protested, though his grin suggested he wasn't entirely opposed to the idea.

"Yet," Teddy said dryly. "The night's still young." He turned to Arthur and Fred, his expression shifting into something more formally welcoming. "Holding up alright?"

Arthur nodded, looking slightly bewildered by the easy family dynamic he'd just witnessed. "Arthur Aalto. And this is Fred Weasley."

"This is Fred Weasley, is it?" Teddy laughed. "Of course I know Fred – we're all basically family. Welcome to Gryffindor, all of you. Try to keep James out of trouble, will you?"

"That's Teddy," James said as the Head Boy moved off to greet the other first-years. "He's basically my brother."

"Basically?" Arthur asked.

"Dad's godson," James explained with a shrug. "Family dinner every Sunday, holidays together, the whole thing. He's alright, for someone who takes his headboy duties seriously."

Fred was looking around the common room with obvious appreciation, his gaze lingering on a particularly impressive tapestry showing a Gryffindor knight battling what looked like a small dragon. "This is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

James felt that familiar surge of proprietary pride as he watched his friends take in the common room. This was his world, his heritage, and they were impressed by it. As they should be.

"Come on," he said, weaving between the occupied chairs towards the fire. "Let me show you the best bits."

He led them past a group of third-years arguing over their favourite bands and stopped in front of a particularly squashy armchair positioned at the perfect angle to catch both the warmth of the fire and the view out the windows.

"My dad said this is the best armchair, right by the fire," James said, running his hand along the worn velvet arm. "Reckons he planned half his adventures from that spot."

Arthur reached out to touch the chair as well, his expression thoughtful. "It's mad, isn't it? All the people who've sat here. All the things they've planned."

"The Marauders probably used this chair," James said, the words coming out with more reverence than he'd intended. "Gramps and his friends, I mean. They had their own group, their own name. Teddy's dad was one of them. Did all sorts of mad things."

"What sort of mad things?" Fred asked, his eyes lighting up with interest.

James launched into the stories he'd grown up with – the ones his dad had told him when Mum wasn't listening. The Animagus transformations, the secret passages, the legendary pranks that were still talked about in hushed tones thirty years later. Arthur and Fred listened with the sort of rapt attention that made James feel ten feet tall.

"Mental," Arthur said when James finished describing the time his grandad and his friends had turned the Great Hall into a swamp. "Absolutely mental."

"They were legends," James said simply. "Real legends."

The prefect reappeared then, herding the first-years towards a narrow spiral staircase that led up from the common room. "Right, boys this way. Time to find your dormitory."

They climbed the winding stone steps, past several doors marked with different years, until they reached one labeled "First Years." The prefect pushed it open to reveal a circular room with five four-poster beds, each hung with deep red curtains and fitted with thick, warm-looking blankets.

"Your trunks should already be here," the prefect said, and sure enough, James could see his familiar trunk at the foot of one of the beds. "Lights out in an hour. Try to get some sleep, you'll need it for tomorrow."

James claimed the bed nearest the window, Arthur took the one next to him, and Fred settled on Arthur's other side. The other two beds were claimed by a nervous-looking boy called Nigel and someone named Marcus who immediately buried himself in a book and didn't seem inclined to talk.

They unpacked in comfortable silence, hanging robes in the wardrobe and arranging their belongings in the small bedside tables. James kept catching glimpses of the grounds through the window; the dark bulk of the Forbidden Forest, the glimmer of the lake, the lights of Hagrid's hut in the distance.

When the prefect returned an hour later to check on them, James was lying in bed with his curtains drawn, listening to the sounds of his dormmates settling in for the night. Arthur was shifting restlessly in the bed next to him, and he could hear Fred's quiet breathing already evening out into sleep.

But James wasn't planning on sleeping. Not yet.

He waited until he was certain Nigel and Marcus were both breathing deeply, until the sounds from the common room below had died down to the occasional crackle from the fire. Then he leaned over and prodded Arthur through the gap in his bed curtains.

"You're not actually going to sleep, are you?" he whispered.

Arthur's curtains opened to reveal a grin that matched James's own. "Hadn't planned on it."

James reached across Arthur to prod Fred, who opened one eye and looked at them with mild curiosity. "Something more interesting than sleep on offer?"

"Always," James said. "First night at Hogwarts. We can't waste it lying in bed."

A silent agreement passed between them, a sort of wordless communication that James had always yearned for from watching his parents with their friends. This was how it started. This was how legends were made.

They slipped out of bed and padded barefoot across the cold stone floor, James leading the way back down the spiral staircase. The common room was nearly empty now, just a few seventh-years huddled around the dying fire and lost in conversation about NEWTs and career prospects.

James guided Arthur and Fred to the far side of the room, where the shadows were deeper and they were less likely to be noticed by anyone who might object to first-years wandering around after lights out.

"Right," he whispered as they huddled behind a particularly large sofa. "What do you want to see first? I know where some of the secret passages are, and Dad mentioned there's a room somewhere that's full of things people have lost over the centuries..."

But Fred was already distracted, his attention caught by something across the room. He was staring at a large tapestry depicting a wizard battling a kraken, his head tilted slightly as if he was trying to work out a puzzle.

"That tapestry," he said quietly. "Does something look off about it to you?"

James and Arthur followed his gaze. The tapestry looked normal enough to James – old, certainly, and a bit faded, but nothing particularly unusual about it.

Fred stood up and crossed to the wall, running his hands along the bottom edge of the tapestry. "Here," he said. "It's not quite flush with the wall. There's a gap."

James felt his pulse quicken. Secret passages were one thing, but discovering something new on their very first night? That would be proper legendary.

The three of them gathered around the tapestry, and Fred was right, there was definitely a gap at the bottom, just wide enough for fingers to slip underneath the heavy fabric. Together, they lifted the tapestry away from the wall, revealing a small wooden door set into the stone.

"No handle," Arthur observed, running his hands over the smooth wood. "And no keyhole."

James was about to suggest they find something to pry it open with when Arthur stepped closer to the door, his expression shifting into something focused and intent. He placed his palm flat against the wood and closed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then James heard the soft click of a lock disengaging, and the door swung open on silent hinges.

"How did you–" James started, but Arthur just grinned and gestured towards the opening.

"After you, Potter."

The space beyond the door was small and cramped, clearly some sort of storage room that had been forgotten by successive generations of students. Dust motes danced in the beam of light from James's wand, revealing old Quidditch banners, a broken Beater's bat, and scrolls of parchment that looked like they might crumble if touched.

It was perfect.

"This is it," James said, his voice hushed with something approaching reverence. "This is ours."

They settled themselves on the dusty floor, the single beam of light from James's wand casting long shadows on the stone walls. The space felt secret and private and completely separate from the rest of the castle, like they'd found their own little corner of Hogwarts that belonged to no one but them.

"We need a name," James said suddenly. The words had been building in his chest since the moment they'd sat down on the train together, since the moment he'd realized he'd found his crew. "The Marauders had one. We need one."

Arthur was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "All I know is I can't wait to get on a broom. I miss chasing that feeling, you know? The speed, the adrenaline. Everything else just falls away."

"And you'll be chasing the Quaffle," Fred said with a grin, "James will be chasing the Snitch..." He paused, his grin widening. "I'll be chasing after you two with a Dungbomb."

The word hung in the air between them, and James felt something click into place. It was perfect. Simple and perfect and exactly right.

"Chasers," Arthur said, his voice soft but certain. "We're the Chasers."

James looked around at the dusty walls of their newly claimed headquarters, at the broken Quidditch equipment and forgotten banners. This was it. This was the beginning of everything. His dad had started his legend in the dormitory above them, plotting with his friends by wandlight. Now James was doing the same thing, in his own way, with his own crew.

He looked at the grinning faces of his two new best friends, the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from his wand, and knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the beginning of their story.

——————————

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[Trace7187]

James blinked at him. "You've never been on a broom?"

"Muggle-born, remember?" Arthur said. "I've watched a few games at the pub, but..."

Click to shrink...

Arthur was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant. "All I know is I can't wait to get on a broom again. I miss chasing

Click to shrink...

Not sure when he went on a broom but I wonder what him being a parselmouth is gonna do for this.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Not sure when he went on a broom but I wonder what him being a parselmouth is gonna do for this.

Click to shrink...

Thanks mate, really good catch. The 'again' shouldn't be there. I must've confused it with chapter 5... well, you'll see. The parseltongue will pay off, but it'll be a while. It's all set up for now.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Chapter 3.5: Interlude - Apexes and Aerodynamics

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

——————————

Author's note:

This chapter is for worldbuilding, showing what Arthur has left behind. If you're not familiar with racing, don't worry. I've made sure anyone can understand what's going on.

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"...copy that, Lucas. Two more laps, then box. Watch the temperature on turn seven, it's getting greasy."

The voice crackled through Lucas Aalto's helmet radio as he hurled his kart through Copse corner at sixty miles per hour, the engine screaming just inches behind his head. Rain spat against his visor, turning the world into a blur of wet tarmac and spray from the kart ahead. His body was pressed hard against the left side of his seat as G-force tried to tear him away from his racing line, every muscle in his neck and shoulders straining to keep his head upright.

The kart beneath him felt alive, its chassis flexing and chattering over the bumps, transmitting every vibration through his hands and spine. He could feel the rear tyres sliding slightly as he fed in the power, the back end wanting to step out on the damp surface. But Lucas knew this feeling, had lived with it since he was old enough to reach the pedals. It was the edge. That knife-thin line between grip and disaster that separated the quick from the dead.

He lifted off the throttle for a fraction of a second, feeling the rear tyres bite again, then buried his foot back down as the track straightened towards Becketts. The rev counter needle swept past eight thousand RPM, the engine note climbing to a shriek that would have been deafening without his helmet. The spray from the kart ahead was blinding, but Lucas held his line, trusting his memory of the track and the slight changes in sound that told him where the corners were.

Through the radio, he could hear the metallic chatter of his pit crew preparing for his arrival, the pneumatic hiss of air guns and the sharp commands of the chief mechanic. This was Formula 4 testing at Silverstone – serious business, where lap times were measured in tenths of a second and every detail mattered.

Lucas braked hard for the chicane, feeling the kart dive forward as the weight transferred to the front wheels. He turned in precisely, clipping the apex kerb with surgical accuracy, then fed the power back in as the track opened up again. His eyes were already scanning ahead, reading the racing line like a mathematical equation, calculating the geometry of speed.

Two more corners, and he was on the home straight, the pit lane entrance rushing towards him. He lifted off the throttle and raised his left hand to signal his intention, pulling across into the pit lane as his speed dropped from a hundred and twenty miles per hour to the mandatory forty in a matter of seconds.

The Aalto Racing pit box was a symphony of controlled chaos. His father stood at the pit wall with a stopwatch and laptop, his face set in the same focused expression Lucas knew from his own reflection in the mirror. Two mechanics in matching overalls swarmed the kart before Lucas had even switched off the engine, one checking tyre pressures whilst the other connected a laptop to download the precious telemetry data.

Lucas pulled off his helmet and balaclava, his blond hair dark with sweat despite the cool September air. His face was flushed from the physical demands of wrestling the kart round Silverstone at race pace, but his eyes were sharp and analytical, already mentally reviewing every corner of the session.

"How did that feel?" his father asked, not looking up from the stopwatch display.

"Rear's sliding in the wet sections," Lucas said, accepting a bottle of water and taking a careful sip. "Lost it slightly through Luffield, but the balance is better than this morning. What does the timing say?"

Mr. Aalto's eyes flicked to the laptop screen where the data was already beginning to populate. "You found two-tenths on your best time. Good progress." He paused, scrolling through the telemetry traces. "But you're still losing time somewhere. Let's have a look."

They huddled over the laptop, Lucas studying the coloured lines and numbers with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts. To most people, it would have been meaningless; graphs showing brake pressure, throttle position, steering angle, and lateral G-force. To Lucas, it was a roadmap to perfection.

"There," his father said, pointing at a section of the trace where the line dipped slightly. "Copse corner. You're losing two-tenths consistently. You're turning in too early, compromising your exit speed."

Lucas nodded, memorising the data. In this world, everything was measurable, quantifiable. There were no mysteries, no magic – just physics and the relentless pursuit of hundredths of a second. He could see exactly where he was losing time and exactly how to find it again.

"Right," he said. "I'll attack it later on the exit. Better to sacrifice entry speed for a faster run down the Hangar Straight."

"Precisely." His father closed the laptop with a satisfied click. "Take fifteen minutes. Hydrate, and we'll send you back out for a qualifying simulation."

Lucas nodded and walked to the back of the pit garage, where a folding chair waited next to a small table covered in racing magazines and technical manuals. He was reaching for a bottle of energy drink when his father appeared at his shoulder, holding an envelope.

"This came this morning," Mr. Aalto said. "From your brother."

The envelope was made of thick, cream-coloured parchment that felt expensive and strange between Lucas's fingers. His name was written on the front in Arthur's familiar scrawl, but the ink looked oddly dark and seemed to have an unusual sheen to it.

Lucas tore it open and unfolded the letter, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline as he read.

Lucas,

Hope the karting's going well and you haven't wrapped yourself around anything permanent. Things here are absolutely mental, and I mean that in the best possible way.

You wouldn't believe this place. I'm writing this in our common room, which has a fire that never goes out and portraits that actually talk back to you. There's this one called Sir Cadogan who keeps challenging people to duels and yesterday he tried to get James to fence with him using a poker from the fireplace.

Lessons are mad. Yesterday in Charms we learned to make feathers float, and this morning in Transfiguration Professor McGonagall turned her desk into a pig and back again like it was nothing. James tried to charm his tie to knot itself this morning and nearly strangled himself. Fred said it was the best laugh he's had all week.

The castle's enormous. We're still finding new rooms and staircases. James reckons his dad never found half the secret passages, and we're making it our mission to map the whole place. We've already found this brilliant little room behind a tapestry where we can plan properly without prefects breathing down our necks.

Oh, and we've got a ghost for a History teacher. Professor Binns. He's about as interesting as watching paint dry, but at least when he's boring you to death, it's literal. There's also this poltergeist called Peeves who throws chalk at anyone who looks at him wrong.

The Potions master is absolutely mental, which is almost refreshing, and the Herbology greenhouse has plants that try to bite you if you're not careful. Honestly, some days I think you've got the safer hobby.

Write back when you can. Mum and Dad say to tell you they're proud and to stop trying to shave milliseconds off your lap times by skipping meals.

Your considerably more magical twin,
Arthur

P.S. - James snores like a chainsaw. Fred says we should slip him a Silencing Charm, but I told him we're not supposed to learn those until fourth year. Shows what I know.

Lucas read the letter twice, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. Talking portraits and floating feathers and teachers who could turn desks into pigs. It sounded like something out of a children's book, the sort of fantastical nonsense that belonged in fairy tales rather than real life.

But it was real. Arthur was living it, breathing it, probably taking it completely for granted by now because that was what Arthur did. He adapted, he conquered, he made everything look effortless.

Lucas folded the letter carefully and slipped it into his pocket. Around him, the sounds of the racetrack continued; the whine of engines, the bark of radio communications, the sharp metallic ring of tools on carbon fibre. This was his world. No magic, no mysteries, just the pure, brutal honesty of physics and engineering.

Ghosts and talking hats. Arthur was chasing the impossible, learning to bend reality to his will. Lucas was chasing tenths of a second, hunting for the perfect line through corners that had been mapped and measured and analysed by thousands of drivers before him. He wasn't sure which was more insane.

But he knew which was his.

A mechanic appeared at his shoulder. "Ready to go back out? Track's drying up a bit."

Lucas stood and reached for his helmet, the familiar weight of it settling over his head like armour. The radio crackled to life, and he could hear his father's voice already discussing strategy with the engineers. Data points and tyre compounds and aerodynamic settings – the language of speed.

"Box is ready when you are," came the voice through his headset.

Lucas pulled on his gloves and walked towards his kart, where the mechanics had finished their checks and were already moving the tyre warmers. The machine sat there waiting for him, all carbon fibre and aluminium and barely contained violence. No magic required.

He settled into the cockpit and fired the engine, feeling the familiar vibration through his spine as the revs climbed. His father gave him a thumbs up from the pit wall, and Lucas returned it with a sharp nod.

Two-tenths at Copse corner. Patient on entry, aggressive on exit. The data didn't lie, and neither did the stopwatch.

He selected first gear and rolled out of the pit box, the wet tarmac reflecting the grey September sky above. The track stretched out before him, six kilometres of precision engineering where every metre mattered and every mistake was measured in thousandths of a second.

Arthur could keep his magic. Lucas had something better: the absolute certainty that if he was faster, it was because he'd earned it. Every lap time, every position gained, every victory. It would all come down to skill and determination and the relentless pursuit of perfection.

The engine screamed behind him, the world narrowed to a ribbon of wet tarmac, and he pushed the throttle down, hunting for the perfect line.

——————————

Thanks a lot to david, AnonyGuy and Mark for taking me on as patrons.

Consider Patreon if you'd like to support me. It's ahead by a few chapters.

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[iceknight90]

Really enjoying this. Looking forward to more youthful shenanigans by the Chasers.

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Really enjoying this. Looking forward to more youthful shenanigans by the Chasers.

Click to shrink...

Cheers mate, definitely a lot more on the way!!

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Disclaimer:

I don't own the characters or the world appearing in this story. They are creations and property of J.K. Rowling. I'm not sure if I can claim any OCs as my own, so I'll play it safe and dedicate them to her as well.

——————————

Author's note:

I love Sirius Black. Don't we all? So it was such a shame to lose the family, wasn't it? Hence, I took a slightly different approach. Orion Black isn't anyone's secret son; he's just from a separate, minor branch of the family. However, since the main branch is all gone now, they are technically the quintessential Blacks, I suppose.

Suspension of disbelief. That's all I ask for

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"...and my dad said his first time on a broom, he felt like he'd finally come home. Said he was a natural. Reckon it's in the blood."

James Potter puffed his chest out as he strode across the castle grounds, his swagger so pronounced Arthur was surprised he didn't trip over his own feet. The morning air was crisp and clear, with that particular bite that promised proper autumn was on its way, and Arthur could see his breath misting slightly as they walked towards the flat expanse of lawn where Madam Hooch conducted her flying lessons.

"Course it's in the blood," Fred said with a grin, hefting his bag higher on his shoulder. "Same way pranking's in mine. Dad always said the Weasleys were born to cause trouble."

Arthur said nothing, but he could feel his pulse quickening with every step they took towards the training pitch. He'd been waiting for this moment since his first glimpse of Quidditch players soaring around a pitch on a Daily Prophet at the Leaky Cauldron. After eleven years of being limited to two dimensions, the thought of finally breaking free of the ground was making his hands shake with anticipation.

"Bit quiet, aren't you, Aalto?" came a drawling voice from behind them.

Arthur turned to see Orion Black keeping pace with their group, flanked by two other Slytherin first-years Arthur recognized from the sorting but couldn't name. Black was tall for eleven, with sharp features and the sort of pale, aristocratic bearing that suggested he'd never had to work for anything in his life. His dark eyes held a mixture of amusement and disdain that made Arthur's jaw clench.

"Just thinking," Arthur said evenly.

"How refreshing," Black replied with a smirk. "I was beginning to wonder if Gryffindors were capable of thought. Tell me, Aalto – that's not a wizarding name, is it? I don't recall hearing it in any of the old families."

"Muggle-born," Arthur said, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. "Problem with that?"

Black's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline in mock surprise. "Not at all. Though I do wonder how someone who's spent their entire life bound to the ground expects to master something as refined as flying. It's rather like asking a fish to climb a tree, isn't it?"

James stepped closer, his expression darkening. "Careful, Black. You're talking to one of my mates."

"How noble of you, Potter," Black said smoothly. "Though I suspect your protection won't help him much once we're in the air. Flying isn't something you can learn from books, after all. It's instinct. Breeding."

Arthur felt the familiar competitive fire kindle in his chest – the same feeling he got when another driver tried to intimidate him on the karting circuit. "We'll see about that, won't we?"

They'd reached the training area now, where two neat rows of brooms lay waiting on the grass. Arthur had expected them to look more impressive, but the school brooms were clearly old and well-used, their handles worn smooth and their twigs slightly frayed at the ends. Still, they were flying machines, and Arthur could feel his heart rate climbing as he took his place next to one of them.

The joint lesson meant twenty Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years were spread out across the lawn, chattering nervously amongst themselves. Arthur could see several students eyeing their brooms with obvious trepidation, whilst others – mostly the purebloods – looked bored, as if this were just another tedious requirement to get through.

"Right then," came a sharp voice that cut through the chatter like a blade. "Gather round."

Madam Hooch strode onto the pitch with the purposeful gait of someone who had no time for nonsense. She was compact and weathered, with short grey hair and eyes that were an unsettling shade of yellow. She looked like she could have been carved from granite, all hard angles and no-nonsense authority.

"Welcome to your first flying lesson," she said, her hawk-like gaze sweeping over the assembled students. "I've been teaching first-years to fly for more years than most of you have been alive, and I can tell you now that there are two types of students: those who listen to instruction, and those who spend their afternoons in the hospital wing having bones regrown."

A nervous giggle rippled through the group, quickly stifled when Madam Hooch's gaze landed on the offenders.

"Flying is not a game," she continued. "It requires discipline, respect, and absolute concentration. Those of you who think you can show off or take shortcuts will find yourselves grounded faster than you can say 'Quidditch.' Am I understood?"

"Yes, Madam Hooch," came the chorused response.

"Good. Now, I want you all to step up to the left side of your broom and stick your right hand over it." She demonstrated with her own broom, a sleek racing model that made the school brooms look like museum pieces. "When I give the command, you will say 'Up!' clearly and with authority. The broom should jump into your hand. If it doesn't, you're not commanding it properly."

Arthur positioned himself next to his assigned broom, a particularly battered specimen that looked like it had survived several decades of nervous first-years. Around him, he could hear the whispered conversations of his classmates.

"What if it doesn't work?" someone muttered.

"Mine looks like it's held together with string," complained another.

Arthur blocked out the chatter and focused on the broom at his feet. He'd been commanding machines his entire life – go-karts that required split-second reactions and perfect timing to master. This couldn't be so different.

"Up!" Madam Hooch commanded.

"Up!" shouted twenty voices in unison.

The results were spectacularly varied. Several brooms didn't move at all, despite their owners' increasingly desperate pleas. Others wobbled uncertainly before rolling over listlessly. A few managed to rise a few inches before dropping back to the grass.

James's broom snapped into his hand like it had been waiting for him its entire existence. He caught Arthur's eye and grinned smugly.

Across the pitch, Orion Black's broom rose smoothly into his grasp with what looked like practiced ease.

But Arthur barely noticed either of them, because his own broom had shot into his hand so quickly and with such force that it nearly smacked him in the face. The handle felt warm and solid in his grip, and for a moment he could have sworn he felt a subtle vibration running through the wood, like the purring of a contented cat.

"Excellent, Potter. Black. Aalto," Madam Hooch said crisply, though Arthur noticed her yellow eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than the others. "The rest of you, keep trying. The broom must feel your confidence and authority."

It took another few minutes before most of the class had managed to summon their brooms, though some still looked like they were holding particularly venomous snakes rather than flying implements.

"Right," Madam Hooch continued once everyone had a broom in hand. "Now I want you to mount your brooms. Grip firmly, but don't strangle the poor things. When I blow my whistle, you will kick off from the ground, hover for a moment, then come straight back down. Anyone – and I mean anyone – who tries to show off will find themselves in detention for the rest of the term."

Her gaze swept pointedly over James and Orion Black, both of whom tried to look innocent.

Arthur swung his leg over the broom and immediately felt that same strange connection he'd experienced when summoning it. The wood seemed to warm beneath his hands, and he could sense the magical energy thrumming through it like electricity through a wire. It was completely different from sitting behind the wheel of his kart, but somehow it felt familiar all the same.

"Three, two, one," Madam Hooch counted down, then blew her whistle with a sharp blast.

Arthur kicked off hard and felt the ground fall away beneath him with a sensation that was part exhilaration, part terror, and entirely addictive. The broom rose smoothly, responding to his slightest shift in weight, and suddenly he was floating ten feet above the grass with nothing but air between him and the earth below.

Around him, the other first-years were having mixed results. Several had managed to achieve a wobbly hover, clutching their brooms with white knuckles. Others had shot up too high and were now drifting sideways like leaves in the wind. One Slytherin girl had apparently panicked and was now hanging upside down from her broom, shrieking for help.

But Arthur felt none of their fear or uncertainty. The moment he'd left the ground, something had clicked into place – a deep, instinctive understanding of balance and movement that felt as natural as breathing. It was like finding the racing line through a complex series of corners, that perfect geometric path that allowed for maximum speed and minimum risk.

Without conscious thought, he leaned forward slightly and felt the broom respond, picking up speed as it carried him in a gentle curve around the training area. The wind whipped through his hair, and he could feel the familiar rush of G-force as he banked into a turn, the same sensation he'd chased around karting circuits for years.

This was it. This was what he'd been missing his entire life without knowing it.

He pulled up slightly, climbing higher, and experimented with sharper turns, feeling the broom respond to his every command like an extension of his own body. The physics were different – no tyres to grip the track, no engine note to tell him when he was pushing too hard – but the fundamentals were the same. Speed, balance, the perfect line through three-dimensional space.

Below him, he could see James keeping pace, his own flying smooth and confident. Black was performing what looked like a series of aerobatic maneuvers, clearly trying to impress Madam Hooch. But Arthur wasn't interested in showing off. He was interested in perfection – in finding that ideal path through the air that would let him go faster, turn tighter, push harder than anyone else.

The sharp blast of a whistle cut through his concentration, and Arthur looked down to see Madam Hooch glaring up at him with her hands on her hips.

"Aalto! Potter! Get down here this instant!"

Arthur felt his stomach drop as he realized how far he'd drifted from the designated hover area. He'd been so caught up in the sensation of flight that he'd completely forgotten about following instructions. He angled his broom downward and landed with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary, his knees flexing to absorb the impact.

"What," Madam Hooch said in a voice that could have cut glass, "did I say about showing off?"

"Sorry, Madam," Arthur said, though he found it hard to look properly contrite when his entire body was still buzzing with adrenaline.

James landed beside him with a sheepish expression. "Got carried away, didn't we?"

Madam Hooch studied them both for a long moment, her yellow eyes sharp and assessing. Then her gaze fixed on Arthur with renewed interest.

"Never seen a first-year take to a turn like that, Aalto," she said, her tone shifting from stern to curious. "Where did you learn to fly?"

"I haven't, Madam," Arthur replied, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. "But I've raced karts my whole life. Go-karts, I mean. It's... it felt similar, somehow."

Madam Hooch's eyebrows rose slightly. "Hmmph," she said, a sound that could have meant anything. She continued to study Arthur for a moment longer, then turned her attention to the rest of the class, several of whom were still struggling to achieve anything resembling controlled flight.

The remainder of the lesson passed in a blur of basic instructions and cautious hovering. Arthur followed directions carefully, not wanting to push his luck further, but every fiber of his being was crying out to be back in the air, testing the limits of what the broom could do. By the time Madam Hooch called an end to the session, he was practically vibrating with suppressed energy.

"Right then," she announced. "That's enough for today. Those of you who managed to stay upright have done adequately. Those of you who spent the lesson dangling from your brooms like fruit bats will need extra practice. Dismissed."

Arthur barely heard her. As the other students began collecting their things and heading back toward the castle, he stood transfixed, staring at the distant Quidditch pitch where he could just make out the three golden hoops gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"Brilliant, wasn't it?" Fred said, appearing at his elbow with his hair sticking up at all angles. "Bit different from what I expected, but brilliant all the same."

"That's it," Arthur said, his voice tight with excitement and certainty. "I have to get on the Quidditch team. I have to be a player."

Fred opened his mouth to respond, but James got there first, his expression shifting to something that looked uncomfortably like pity.

"You can't, mate," James said bluntly.

Arthur turned to stare at him, certain he'd misheard. "What do you mean, I can't?"

"First-years aren't allowed on the House teams," James explained, his voice gentler now. "It's a school rule."

"It's been the rule for decades," Fred explained. "My dad told me about it. The only exception anyone can remember was Harry Potter, and that was only because McGonagall saw him catch a Remembrall in a fifty-foot dive."

The words hit Arthur like a physical blow. The exhilaration that had been coursing through his veins since the moment he'd first taken to the air suddenly drained away, leaving him feeling hollow and cold.

"But–" he started, then stopped. There was nothing to argue against. If it was a school rule, it was a school rule.

"The tryouts aren't even until next year," Fred added, clearly trying to soften the blow. "Gives you time to practice, doesn't it? Get even better."

Arthur nodded numbly, but he wasn't really listening anymore. The other first-years were chattering excitedly about their first flying experience as they made their way back toward the castle, but their voices seemed to come from very far away. All Arthur could think about was the feeling of soaring through the air, the perfect harmony of speed and balance and control, and the crushing knowledge that he wouldn't be able to experience it properly for another year.

As they reached the castle doors, Arthur found himself lagging behind the group, his gaze drawn inexorably back toward the Quidditch pitch. Even at this distance, he could see tiny figures moving around the goals – older students, probably, practicing for the coming season. Students who were allowed to play because they'd been born a year or two earlier than him.

He watched a lone figure on a broom, a tiny speck soaring around the golden hoops, and felt a longing so sharp and deep it was a physical ache in his chest.

——————————

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[Trace7187]

Best seeker since HP incoming

 

[MoonyNightShade]

Something like that