The platform at King's Cross Station was a fading echo of chaos as Charles and Euphemia Potter stood side by side, watching the scarlet Hogwarts Express vanish into the steam-wreathed distance. The air was heavy with the scent of coal and damp stone, the clamor of voices and footsteps now softened to a murmur as parents dispersed, their children carried off to another year of magic and uncertainty. Euphemia's hand rested lightly in the crook of Charles's arm, her fingers tightening briefly as the train's final whistle faded. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, caught the faint light filtering through the station's arched roof, and her eyes—hazel, like Alexander's—glistened with unshed tears.
Charles, broad-shouldered and steady, stood with the quiet strength of a man accustomed to anchoring his family through storms. His own hazel eyes, warmer than his younger son's, lingered on the empty tracks, his jaw set in a way that betrayed the weight of his thoughts. Their sons—twins, yet so unalike—were gone again, bound for Hogwarts, and the air between Charles and Euphemia was thick with unspoken hopes and fears.
"He's changed," Euphemia said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might unravel the fragile calm she clung to. "Alexander. He's… sharper, somehow. Like a blade."
Charles nodded, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Uagadou's done that to him," he said, his tone measured but heavy with something deeper—pride, yes, but laced with unease. "Five years of wandless magic, living halfway across the world. It's made him… self-contained."
Euphemia's lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers tightening on his arm. "Self-contained," she echoed, the word tasting bitter. "He's always been that way, hasn't he? Even as a boy. But now…" She trailed off, her eyes distant, searching for the child who used to cling to her skirts, his laughter bright and unguarded. That boy was gone, replaced by a young man whose elegance and composure felt like a wall she could neither scale nor breach.They turned from the platform, moving through the thinning crowd with the ease of long practice, their steps synchronized despite the turmoil in their hearts. The barrier to the Muggle world loomed ahead, and as they passed through, the magical hum of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters gave way to the mundane clamor of King's Cross. The shift was jarring, a reminder of the dual lives they led, and Euphemia's hand slipped from Charles's arm as they emerged into the gray light of the station.
"Do you think we did right by him?" she asked, her voice low as they navigated the Muggle crowds. "Letting him go to Uagadou, I mean. He was so young, Charles. Eleven years old, halfway across the world."
Charles's jaw tightened, and he adjusted the collar of his coat, a gesture that bought him a moment to think. "It was his choice," he said finally, though the words carried a trace of doubt. "He was adamant. Said wands were a crutch, that magic should come from within. You saw the fire in him, Effie. We couldn't have stopped him."
"But we could have tried," she countered, her voice sharp with a mother's regret. "James was furious. He felt abandoned, you know that. And now Alexander's back, transferring to Hogwarts, and I can't shake the feeling that we've lost something. That we've lost him."
Charles stopped, turning to face her, his broad hands settling gently on her shoulders. "We haven't lost him," he said, his voice firm but kind. "He's still our son. Different, yes, but he's ours. And he's chosen to come back, to be with James, with us. That means something."Euphemia looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for the certainty she couldn't find within herself. "Does it?" she asked. "He's so… controlled, Charles. The way he speaks, the way he moves. It's like he's playing a part. And those eyes…" She shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself. "They see everything, don't they? Like he's weighing us all, even us."
Charles's expression softened, though a shadow lingered in his gaze. "He's always been observant," he said. "Even as a boy, he'd watch people, study them. But his time away honed that, made it sharper. But he loves us, Effie. I saw it when he looked at you, when he hugged you. It's there, even if he keeps it locked away."
They resumed walking, the rhythm of their steps a quiet comfort as they made their way to the car park where their enchanted vehicle waited. The silence between them was heavy but familiar, the kind that came from decades of marriage, of raising two boys who were as different as fire and ice. Charles drove, his hands steady on the wheel, while Euphemia stared out the window, the passing city a blur of gray and glass.
"James will be fine," Charles said after a time, breaking the silence. "He's got his friends, his Quidditch, his… mischief. But Alexander…" He hesitated, choosing his words with care. "He's walking a different path. Hogwarts will test him in ways Uagadou never could. The politics, the houses, the rivalries. He's brilliant, but brilliance can be a burden."
Euphemia nodded, her fingers twisting the hem of her scarf. "He's chosen Hogwarts for a reason," she said. "Not just the OWLs, not just James. There's something else, isn't there? Something he's not telling us."
Charles's grip on the wheel tightened, his knuckles whitening briefly. "He's always been ten steps ahead," he admitted. "Even as a child, he'd plan things out, move people like pieces on a chessboard. I don't think he means harm, but…" He trailed off, his voice catching on the edge of something he couldn't name.
"But he's dangerous," Euphemia finished, her voice barely audible. "Not to us. But to someone."
Charles didn't respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road. The word hung between them, stark and undeniable. Dangerous. It wasn't a word they'd ever spoken aloud about their son, but it had lingered in their minds, a shadow cast by Alexander's quiet intensity, his unshakable control. Even as a child, he'd been a prodigy, mastering wandless magic with a discipline that bordered on obsession. Now, at Hogwarts, he'd be among peers who wielded wands, who played by different rules. The thought of what he might do—what he might become—was a weight neither parent could ignore.
"Do you remember when he was six?" Euphemia said suddenly, her voice softening with memory. "He found that injured sparrow in the garden. He spent hours tending to it, mixing potions with his little hands, whispering to it like it could understand him. When it died, he didn't cry. He just… buried it, carved a tiny rune on a stone for its grave. I thought it was sweet then, but now I wonder if it was something else. That focus, that… detachment."
Charles's lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. "He's always cared, in his own way," he said. "That sparrow, James, us. But his love is… possessive. Like he needs to control it, to shape it. I saw it on the platform, the way he looked at James. There's love there, but it's tangled up in something else."
"Rivalry?" Euphemia asked, her brow furrowing.
"Maybe," Charles said. "Or maybe it's just Alexander. He doesn't just live—he orchestrates. Hogwarts will be his stage now, and James… James is part of that."
They drove in silence for a time, the countryside unfolding beyond the windows, green hills dappled with the last light of summer. The Potter estate in Godric's Hollow was waiting, its ivy-clad walls a sanctuary of memory and warmth. But the thought of their sons—James with his reckless charm, Alexander with his calculated elegance—cast a shadow over the familiar comfort of home.
"Do you think they'll be all right?" Euphemia asked, her voice small, almost childlike in its vulnerability. "Together, I mean. They're so different, Charles. James wears his heart on his sleeve, but Alexander… he keeps his locked away."
Charles reached over, his hand covering hers, warm and steady. "They're brothers," he said, his voice firm despite the doubt that lingered in his chest. "They'll find their way. James will ground Alexander, keep him human. And Alexander… he'll protect James, in his own way. They need each other, even if they don't see it yet."
Euphemia nodded, though her eyes were distant, fixed on a future she couldn't predict. "I just want them to be happy," she said. "Both of them. But Alexander… I don't know if happiness is something he seeks. Not the way James does."
Charles didn't answer, his gaze returning to the road. He thought of Alexander's ring, that silver band with its stag-crowned "A," a symbol of his son's independence, his refusal to bend to convention. He thought of James's wand, a mahogany wood and dragon heartstring core that suited his fiery spirit. Two boys, two paths, bound by blood and yet divided by something deeper. Hogwarts would test them, shape them, perhaps break them. And Charles, for all his strength, could only watch from afar, a father powerless to control the destinies of his sons.
As they neared Godric's Hollow, Euphemia leaned her head against the window, her breath fogging the glass. "He didn't say goodbye the way he used to," she murmured. "When he was little, he'd cling to me, whisper that he'd miss me. Now it's… polite. Perfect. Like he's performing."Charles's heart ached at the words, but he kept his voice steady. "He's grown, Effie. They both have. But they're still ours. They'll come back to us, one way or another."
The car rolled to a stop before the manor, its windows glowing like beacons against the gathering dusk. Euphemia stepped out, her movements slow, as if reluctant to face the quiet of a house without her sons. Charles followed, his hand resting briefly on her back, a silent promise of solidarity. They stood together for a moment, staring at the familiar stone facade, the weight of their love and their fears a shared burden.
Inside, the house was too still, the absence of James's laughter and Alexander's quiet presence a tangible void. Euphemia moved to the dining room, where the remnants of last night's dinner lingered—a half-empty bottle of elf-made wine, a candle burned low. She touched the back of Alexander's chair, her fingers lingering on the polished wood.
"He'll be all right," she said, as much to herself as to Charles. "He's brilliant, our Alexander. And James… James will keep him tethered."Charles nodded, though his eyes were distant, fixed on the fire crackling in the hearth. "They'll keep each other tethered," he said. "Or they'll tear each other apart."
The words hung in the air, stark and heavy, a truth neither wanted to face. The Potter estate, with its warmth and history, felt suddenly fragile, a sanctuary on the edge of a storm. Their sons were gone, carried away by the scarlet train, and Charles and Euphemia could only wait, their hearts bound to two boys who were as different as fire and ice, yet irrevocably entwined.