The Hogwarts Gaijin

The shafts of sunlight piercing the dusty windows of the carriage were perhaps the only pleasant thing about this endless trek down the corridor. September sun flooded the passageway with warm, thick amber, making Ron’s ginger hair flare like fire every time he turned his head. 'This is just ridiculous,' Ron grumbled yet again, yanking hard at the heavy trunk. 'We’re prefects, Harry! Pre-fects! We’re supposed to get some sort of perk, some respect… And instead we’re traipsing the length of the train like first-years and can’t even find a manky little corner.' 'Stop whinging, Ron,' Hermione huffed, walking a little way ahead. She skilfully dodged between the chattering students while somehow managing to keep her back ramrod straight. 'The badge on your robes doesn’t give you the right to turf people out of their seats. And anyway, if you hadn’t dawdled so long on the platform…' 'I wasn’t dawdling! I was helping Ginny!' Harry silently readjusted his grip on the trunk handle, feeling his T-shirt sticking to his back. He was hot, the noise was deafening, and all he wanted was to collapse onto any seat going. A gaggle of second-years dashed past, nearly knocking him off his feet, and Harry merely sighed. 'In here!' Hermione suddenly commanded, halting beside one of the doors nearer the end of the carriage. 'It’s free… almost.' She peered inside, and the determined expression on her face shifted to something faintly puzzled. Harry and Ron came up behind her, looking over her shoulder. The compartment was indeed not empty, but there was only one person inside. He was asleep — or at any rate pretending to be. Their would-be companion was a tall boy Harry was absolutely certain he had never seen at Hogwarts before. He sat with long, thin legs stretched out in battered Converse trainers into the aisle, head tipped back against the seat. Thick dark hair falling to his shoulders partly hid his face, but Harry caught the sharp cheekbones and the tightly compressed lips. What was most incongruous, though, was that the boy wore large, well-worn headphones connected to a cassette player resting on his lap. Even through the plastic and the rumble of the train, Harry could make out muffled but ferocious sounds — heavy, sawing guitar riffs and a hoarse, aggressive vocal. It was unmistakably Muggle music, the sort Dudley might have played at top volume just to wind up Uncle Vernon, yet to encounter it here, on the Hogwarts Express? 'Well, we haven’t got much choice,' Ron whispered, glancing sideways at the stranger. 'Just let’s keep it quiet. Looks like the bloke hasn’t slept properly in weeks.' They slipped inside, trying not to clatter their belongings. Harry heaved his trunk onto the overhead rack with some difficulty, moving as smoothly as he could, while for a second the guitar solo leaking from the headphones grew louder — evidently the song had reached its c****x. The boy didn’t stir; his chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm. Harry dropped onto the seat opposite the sleeper, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. Ron sat down beside him, still looking disgruntled but finally stretching his legs out with relief. The sun now struck straight through the window, flooding the compartment and setting dust motes dancing in the light. Suddenly Ron froze. He leant forward, eyes narrowing, then jabbed Harry sharply — and painfully — in the ribs with his elbow. 'Oi,' he mouthed. 'Look.' 'What?' Harry whispered back, rubbing his side. Ron nodded towards the luggage rack above the stranger’s head. There lay a suitcase — dark, clearly expensive leather. It looked old, travel-worn, sides scratched, yet it still exuded solidity and a wealth that age could not disguise. But Ron wasn’t staring at the leather. He was pointing at a small metal plate fixed beside the handle. The silver had tarnished with time, but the engraving remained crisp: a black raven clutching a dagger in its talons, the point directed downwards. 'See that?' Ron breathed, eyes widening. 'Yeah, I see it,' Harry shrugged, not understanding the excitement. 'Just a crest. Plenty of people have odd fancies.' 'Just a crest?' Ron echoed, dropping his voice to a hissing whisper and casting a wary glance at the sleeping boy in the headphones. 'Harry, that’s not just a picture. That’s the Morgan clan crest.' 'Morgans?' Harry repeated, looking again at the battered leather side of the suitcase. 'Never heard of them.' 'Course you haven’t,' Ron snorted, lowering his voice to a properly conspiratorial hiss and shooting another nervous look at the sleeper. 'They’re… well, dark. Not like the Malfoys, mind. They didn’t support You-Know-Who, at least that’s what people say. But the reputation’s still murky. You don’t usually see their kids at Hogwarts — they mostly send them to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons. Somewhere the rules are stricter and they’re a bit more relaxed about the Dark Arts.' Hermione, who had already pulled out a book and opened it on her lap, turned a page with deliberate loudness, making it abundantly clear she had no interest in yet another round of gossip. Ron ignored her. He leant closer to Harry, eyes alight with a mixture of fear and boyish glee. 'They say they don’t even live in a manor like normal wizards — they live in a proper medieval castle. Moat, drawbridge, the lot. And Dad told me they’re obsessed with old traditions. Apparently before a Morgan child gets a wand they have to learn to swing a sword or a rapier. Or even fight Muggle-style, with their fists.' Harry couldn’t help it; he snorted, picturing Malfoy trying to brandish a sword that probably weighed more than he did. 'Sounds like rubbish, Ron. Swords? Seriously? We’re wizards. Why would they need swords when you can just Stun someone?' 'Dunno,' Ron shrugged, looking a little hurt by his friend’s scepticism. 'Maybe they just like carving people up the old-fashioned way. Fred and George reckon the Morgans are direct descendants of some Danish invaders. The ones who kept raiding Britain centuries ago. Somehow they put down roots here and they’ve been holed up in their fortress ever since.' 'Danish invaders?' Harry repeated, grinning. 'Ron, are you sure Fred and George weren’t having you on? It sounds… well, a bit too grim. And a bit daft.' 'Dad backed it up!' Ron whispered hotly, his ears turning pink. 'Well, the castle and the ancient lineage bit anyway. He said you’re better off not getting mixed up with the Morgans — they’re a law unto themselves…' Hermione suddenly stopped tracing the lines of text with her finger. She didn’t lift her head, but Harry saw her go still, as though the words had finally penetrated the textbook. 'Eleanor Morgan…' she murmured, almost inaudibly, more to herself than anyone else. Slowly she raised her eyes from the page. The sun had shifted; a beam now fell directly across the sleeping boy’s face, sharply delineating his profile: strong nose, determined chin. Long dark hair spilled across his shoulders, half-concealing one cheek, but what was visible was enough. Hermione’s face went slack. She narrowed her eyes, as though trying to match the features before her to something buried in memory. Disbelief gave way to recognition, and then to utter, stunned shock. 'It can’t be…' she breathed. The book slid from her lap and hit the floor with a dull thud. Harry blinked in surprise — Hermione never dropped books. But she didn’t even glance down. With startling decisiveness she shot to her feet. There was barely room between Harry’s and Ron’s knees, yet she stepped forward regardless, straight towards the sleeping stranger. 'Hermione, what’re you doing?' Ron squeaked in alarm, pressing himself back against the seat. 'Don’t touch him — he’s a Morgan, he’ll curse you!' But Hermione wasn’t listening. She reached out and, with one sharp, peremptory movement, pulled the large headphones off the boy’s head. The hoarse roar of guitars immediately filled the compartment. The sleeper’s reaction was instantaneous — and rather alarming. The moment the headphones came away he jerked as though he’d been electrocuted. His eyes snapped open; Harry saw the look of a cornered animal rather than someone merely waking up. His left hand shot up, seizing Hermione’s wrist, while his right slid towards the waistband of his jeans — where the handle of a wand protruded from a wooden holster. 'Oi!' Ron barked, fumbling clumsily for his own wand in the folds of his robes and getting tangled in the fabric. Harry leapt up too, heart hammering, but before he could do anything the boy in the seat froze. His gaze cleared, focusing on Hermione’s face. The hostility in his posture dissolved into complete bewilderment. Hermione, for her part, appeared entirely unafraid, though Harry could see the knuckles whitening where the boy gripped her wrist. She planted her free hand on her hip, suppressing a smile and regarding him with that exact schoolmistress severity that usually made Ron’s eye twitch. 'Kieran Kai Morgan,' she said in a tone that brooked no argument. 'I must have told you a hundred times: if you keep wearing those headphones all the time you’ll ruin your hearing. And then I’ll have to shout just to make you hear me.' The boy blinked slowly. His fingers loosened on Hermione’s wrist; he snatched his hand back as though burnt. 'Hermione?' His voice was rough with sleep and disbelief, as if he were seeing a ghost. 'Granger? Is that really you?' 'Of course it’s me,' she snorted, though the pretended sternness evaporated. She suddenly broke into a wide smile, leant down and hugged him tightly. Kieran went rigid for a second, still looking dazed, but then the tension drained from his shoulders and he returned the embrace — tentatively, carefully. 'Merlin’s beard,' he exhaled, drawing back to study her face. 'I thought… I didn’t expect to see you here.' 'Ditto,' Hermione beamed. She dropped onto the seat beside him, gesturing for the boys to sit back down. 'Everyone, this is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Boys, this is Kieran Morgan. We… we were friends when we were little. Our parents got on well.' Kieran seemed to have fully come back to himself. He shook his head to toss the hair from his face and offered his hand first to Harry, then to Ron. 'Nice to meet you,' he said. His voice was level and polite. Harry took the offered hand and nearly winced. Kieran’s grip was firm, dry and hard. Harry noticed that the knuckles were criss-crossed with a fine net of small white scars and older calluses. Pale, serpentine lines of scar tissue continued up under the sleeve of his robes. 'We lived on neighbouring streets,' Hermione rattled on, eyes sparkling with excitement. 'We built dens, rode bikes… And then when we were eight he just vanished! Mrs Morgan told my parents he’d been sent to Japan, to some posh lycée with a maths specialism. I was so upset — I wrote you letters, but they all came back…' She gave him a light punch on the shoulder. 'And now I see there wasn’t actually much maths involved, was there?' Kieran gave a rueful smile, rubbing the back of his neck. 'Well, there was some maths,' he admitted. 'But yes, you’re right. I really was in Japan. At Mahoutokoro.' 'Mahoutokoro?' Ron echoed. He was still eyeing the raven-emblazoned suitcase with caution, but curiosity was winning. 'That’s the Japanese magic school? The one made of jade?' 'Yeah,' Kieran nodded. 'On Minami Iwo Jima.' 'And what’s it like?' Ron pressed. 'They say the robes change colour if you start studying the Dark Arts?' 'They do,' Kieran shrugged, sidestepping details. 'I’ve got nothing to compare it to — I never went anywhere else. But it’s a good school. Strict discipline, Potions, Quidditch.' 'So why’ve you come back?' Ron asked, a patriotic note creeping into his voice. 'Hogwarts is obviously the best school in the world. But why up sticks in fourth year?' Harry watched the new boy closely and saw, for the barest fraction of a second, Kieran’s face freeze. Something heavy and raw flickered in his eyes, as though Ron had accidentally prodded an unhealed wound. It was gone in an instant — a shadow of memory swiftly concealed behind a courteous mask. 'Family reasons,' Kieran replied evenly. 'Grandfather and Father decided it was time I got an education on home soil. Tradition and all that.' 'What about the Sorting?' Hermione asked, suddenly alert. 'Will you have to put on the Hat in front of the whole school? Oh, I remember how nerve-racking that was…' 'No, they spared me that,' Kieran gave a faint smile. 'It was all arranged beforehand by letter with Dumbledore. Given my temperament… and the family history, they’ve put me in Gryffindor.' 'Gryffindor!' Hermione clapped her hands in delight. 'That’s brilliant! We’re all Gryffindors! You'll love it with us, won’t he, Harry?' Harry nodded, still thoughtfully studying the scars on Morgan’s hands. 'Yeah,' he said, meeting Kieran’s eyes. The other boy looked straight back, without the fawning deference or veiled malice Harry was used to from some pure-bloods. 'We’re all right.' After all, Harry thought, recalling Ron’s tales of dark clans and moated castles, not every ancient family is the same. If there are Malfoys, there must also be ones like Sirius or the Weasleys. I hope this bloke is closer to the latter. Kieran relaxed again, leant back against the seat and — seemingly for the first time in a long while — gave Hermione a genuinely warm smile as she began peppering him with questions about Japanese spells. The train rattled steadily onwards, carrying them further north towards Hogwarts.