Sunlight bathed the room in a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows that danced across the hardwood floor. A young boy, Nicholas, sat perched on the windowsill, his head resting lazily against the cool glass. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and steady, completely unaware of the strict figure that stood before him. Cressida Blume, an elderly woman with an air of severe discipline, continued her lesson despite her inattentive student. She wore a pair of thin, circular glasses perched on her sharp nose, and her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Every wrinkle on her face seemed etched with years of exacting experience, her natural expression one of disapproval, as though life itself rarely met her standards.
She held herself with an unwavering posture, her back as straight as her moral compass, and her sharp, piercing eyes scanned the room with the precision of a hawk. Her robes were dark, nearly black, but meticulously clean, flowing around her in elegant lines that only served to further her commanding presence. A silver brooch, bearing the emblem of a dragon entwined with a quill, glistened on her chest, hinting at her distinguished lineage and her penchant for sharp words and sharper discipline.
Cressida had been deeply engrossed in her teaching, her voice cutting through the room like a sharp quill on parchment. "The Levitation Charm," she continued, as though lecturing an entire classroom of students rather than just one inattentive boy, "is among the first spells you will master during your first year at Hogwarts. It is fundamental to your magical foundation and requires precision—" she paused, glancing up from her notes, her voice trailing off when she noticed the lack of response from her supposed pupil.
Her eyebrows furrowed even more deeply, if that were possible, as she caught sight of Nicholas, slumped against the window, utterly oblivious to the world. His lips curled into a faint smile, clearly lost in some pleasant dream. Her frown deepened, her stern gaze now a stormy sea of disapproval. How dare he fall asleep during one of her lessons?
With an indignant sniff, she straightened her already impossibly rigid posture and raised her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa," she muttered sharply, her voice cold and controlled, the flick of her wand precise.
In an instant, Nicholas was lifted into the air, his body slowly rising toward the ceiling, as though the magic itself was pulling him from his dreams. For a moment, he floated gently, his body weightless and serene. Then his eyes fluttered open.
"Oh no!" Nicholas gasped, his hands instinctively reaching out to stop himself as he realized he was mere inches from the ceiling. His fingers grazed the wooden beams, and he twisted awkwardly in midair, trying to make sense of his sudden altitude. He peered down, and there stood Cressida, wand in hand, her expression unreadable but clearly unimpressed.
"I—I'm very sorry, Miss Blume!" Nicholas stammered, his voice rising in panic as he continued to hover helplessly in the air. His heart raced as he glanced down at the floor below, which seemed far too distant for comfort.
Cressida Blume, however, was in no hurry to release him. She watched him dangle for a few agonizing moments, her eyes narrowed in stern contemplation. Finally, she lowered her wand with deliberate slowness, and Nicholas began to descend just as gradually, as though she were giving him time to reflect on his poor behavior. He floated downward, eventually landing—not on the windowsill where he had been, but in a chair at the very center of the room, directly under her watchful gaze.
"Well then," she said, her voice as crisp as a winter's breeze. "I trust you are now prepared to give me your undivided attention, Mr. Gryff?" Her wand twirled subtly in her fingers, a silent but unmistakable threat. "I assure you, I am fully capable of keeping you suspended until the end of the lesson, if necessary."
Nicholas, who had experienced the sharp end of his grandfather's expectations before, straightened himself immediately. His hands clenched the sides of the chair as if anchoring himself to reality. "Yes, Miss Blume," he replied, his tone repentant and filled with sincerity. "I promise, it won't happen again. Please… please don't tell my grandfather."
Cressida raised an eyebrow at his plea, her eyes flickering with something resembling amusement, though it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "Godfrey has high expectations of you, as you well know." Her voice softened slightly, but not by much. "He values discipline above all else. Falling asleep during a lesson would not sit well with him."
Nicholas shuddered visibly as he recalled his last lapse in judgment. A fleeting moment of carelessness during a transfiguration lesson had earned him more than just a reprimand from his grandfather—it had been a stern reminder of the family's stringent expectations. The punishment, though not physically severe, had left a lasting impression, one that lingered in his mind like a cold shadow whenever the word 'discipline' was spoken. Discipline was the cornerstone of the Gryff family, and lapses were not tolerated lightly.
Yet, there was something else that nagged at Nicholas—something he hadn't been able to shake. The way Cressida spoke of his grandfather, with a tone of quiet familiarity, hinted at a relationship that extended far beyond the boundaries of tutor and employer. It wasn't the first time she had mentioned his grandfather with such a knowing air, and it unsettled Nicholas. He had asked his grandfather once about Cressida's connection to their family, but the old man had deflected the question with an air of indifference, leaving Nicholas none the wiser. The mystery gnawed at him, but it was clear he wouldn't get answers by pressing the matter further. His grandfather wasn't the type to indulge idle curiosity.
"I understand, Miss Blume," Nicholas said quickly, his head bowed in shame, his voice carrying the weight of his apology. "It won't happen again, I swear."
Cressida's sharp eyes, which had been fixed on him with cold disapproval, softened ever so slightly. For just a fleeting moment, her features relaxed, though not enough to betray any real warmth. "See that it doesn't, Mr. Gryff," she said, her voice steady and measured. "You are a young man of considerable potential, and it would be a pity—no, a waste—for that promise to be tarnished by carelessness or laziness. You are of a house that demands the best, and I will expect no less from you."
She straightened her immaculate robes, the silver brooch on her chest glinting in the light as if to underscore her finality. The tension in the air began to dissipate, though Nicholas could still feel the weight of her words pressing down on him. She was right—his family expected greatness from him, and greatness required focus, discipline, and above all, dedication.
"Now," Miss Blume continued, her tone shifting back to the business at hand. "Let us return to our lesson. The Levitation Charm, as I have mentioned, is only the first in a series of charms you must master before you can call yourself proficient. Its simplicity does not negate its importance. Mastery over the smallest of spells is the foundation upon which greater magic is built."
Nicholas listened intently, all traces of sleepiness having vanished under the weight of Cressida's pointed gaze.
"The incantation, as you know, is 'Wingardium Leviosa,'" she said, drawing out her wand once more. "It is not merely about uttering the words. It is the way you command the magic within you. Feel the power, direct it, but do not force it. It is an extension of your will, not a tool to be used carelessly."
She gestured to a small feather lying on the desk beside him, her wand poised in the air. "Now, Mr. Gryff, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate."
Nicholas swallowed nervously, but his hands were steady as he raised his wand. He had practiced the Levitation Charm before, but under Cressida's scrutinizing gaze, it felt as though the stakes were far higher than they had ever been.
Taking a deep breath, he focused on the feather, envisioning it lifting gently into the air. "Wingardium Leviosa," he said, his voice calm and steady, his wand making the correct swish-and-flick motion.
To his relief—and slight surprise—the feather began to rise, floating gracefully into the air as though carried by an invisible breeze. Nicholas watched it, his heart swelling with pride as he realized he had succeeded on the first try. The feather hovered for a moment, then slowly drifted down again under his control.
Cressida raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed, though she would never say so outright. "Well done, Mr. Gryff," she said, her tone measured but not unkind. "A flawless execution. It seems your potential, when properly focused, is considerable."
Nicholas couldn't help but smile at the praise, though he knew better than to let it go to his head. Cressida was not one to offer compliments lightly, and he knew she would expect even more from him moving forward.
As Miss Cressida Blume began pacing the room, her wand still gripped firmly in her hand, she cast Nicholas a sharp glance, her tone unyielding but full of wisdom. "Remember, Mr. Gryff," she began, her voice deliberate and stern, "magic is as much about precision and control as it is about power. Never forget that. Many a wizard, more powerful than you or I, has failed because they neglected the discipline that magic demands."
Nicholas sat attentively, absorbing her every word. The weight of her statement settled over him like a heavy cloak, and though the lesson was challenging, he was determined not to disappoint her—or his grandfather. Miss Blume continued, her wand moving gracefully through the air, the glint in her eye showing her mastery over the subject she was teaching.
"Now," she said briskly, "we shall move on to a more advanced charm. The Lumos spell. While it may seem elementary, Mr. Gryff, never underestimate its value. In dark and perilous places, it is often the simplest of spells that can save a life."
She demonstrated with an elegant flick of her wand. "Lumos!" she intoned clearly, and the tip of her wand immediately glowed with a soft, bright light, illuminating the room in a gentle hue. "You must understand," she continued, "it's not the force you exert, but the precision of your intention. Focus your will, and the light shall follow."
Nicholas nodded seriously, raising his wand. "Lumos," he said, his voice confident. However, his wand only flickered weakly. The light sparked, but it quickly fizzled out, much to his frustration.
Cressida raised a discerning brow but did not scold him. "Try again," she instructed calmly. "It is the will that fuels the magic."
Nicholas took a deep breath, focusing more intently this time. "Lumos," he repeated, his brow furrowed in concentration. This time, the light appeared, brighter and steadier than before, though it still wavered slightly.
"Better," Cressida remarked with a nod. "But there is room for improvement. Magic responds not to brute force, but to focus. Remember that. Now, extinguish it. Nox."
"Nox," Nicholas echoed, watching as the light at the tip of his wand disappeared. His heart raced, a mixture of excitement and frustration brewing within him.
They moved on to another spell, the Alohomora charm, meant to unlock doors. Nicholas struggled at first; the incantation rolled awkwardly off his tongue, and it took several attempts before the doorknob before him clicked open. Miss Blume's patience never wavered, though her critiques grew sharper.
"Concentrate," she said after his third failed attempt. "Magic will not bend to a careless mind."
With renewed determination, Nicholas cast the spell once more, and at last, the doorknob unlocked with a soft click. He smiled, but Miss Blume's eyes remained calculating. "Adequate," she said coolly. "Though with more focus, it could have been flawless."
The lesson continued, each spell varying in difficulty. Some, like Lumos and Alohomora, Nicholas managed to perform after a few tries. Others, like Expelliarmus, took much longer. His wand flicked awkwardly at first, and instead of disarming the practice dummy, he ended up stumbling back as though the spell had misfired. Cressida watched silently, her eyes like sharp daggers, though she said nothing.
By the time the session drew to a close, Nicholas felt both mentally and physically drained. His successes, though numerous, were marred by his failures and the steady critiques that followed.
"That will do for today," Cressida finally said, lowering her wand and stepping back. Her critical gaze softened ever so slightly. "You have shown some promise today, Mr. Gryff," she admitted, "though you must understand that raw talent will only take you so far. You must refine it, shape it, and above all, respect it. Discipline is the key to mastery. Complacency will ruin even the brightest of minds."
Nicholas bowed his head respectfully. "I understand, Miss Blume. I will work harder," he promised, though his mind was still swirling with the earlier missteps.
Cressida gave a brief nod, satisfied, before gathering her belongings. As she prepared to leave, the creaking of the door drew their attention. Godfrey Gryff, Nicholas's grandfather, entered the room, his usual stern demeanor to others softened by an unmistakable warmth in his eyes.
"Cressida," Godfrey greeted, his voice full of an unexpected familiarity. Nicholas was taken aback as he watched his grandfather approach Miss Blume with a smile—a sight rarely seen on the patriarch.
Cressida's sharpness seemed to melt as well. She turned toward Godfrey with a genuine smile of her own, a warmth that Nicholas had never witnessed before in their lessons. When Godfrey embraced her, Nicholas stared, mouth slightly agape. What surprised him even more was that Miss Blume reciprocated the hug without hesitation.
"Why don't we take tea at the veranda, Cressida?" Godfrey suggested, his tone almost light. "But first, I must share some delightful news with my grandson."
"Why don't we take tea on the veranda, Cressida?" Godfrey suggested, his tone uncharacteristically light, as if there was a weight being lifted from his usually composed demeanor. He turned his gaze toward her with an ease that Nicholas had rarely seen.
Cressida Blume, the ever-stern and formidable tutor, responded with a warm smile that seemed at odds with her strict nature. "I would be most delighted, Godfrey," she said graciously. Her voice softened, yet there was still the ever-present edge of authority that Nicholas had come to associate with her. Turning toward him, she gave a subtle nod. "Your potential is undeniable, Nicholas, but remember this—magic is not simply learned; it is earned through diligence and respect. There is much yet for you to master. Until next time."
Nicholas, though still recovering from the shock of witnessing such an exchange between his tutor and grandfather, managed a respectful nod in return. "Thank you, Miss Blume," he murmured, his voice low. He watched in silence as she gathered her belongings and swept out of the room with the quiet grace that always accompanied her.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Godfrey placed a hand firmly on Nicholas's shoulder, his touch both reassuring and commanding. His piercing eyes, which often seemed distant and calculating, now gleamed with a rare spark of excitement.
"My child," Godfrey began, his voice deep and filled with purpose. "There is something of significance I wish to share with you. We are expecting an important guest shortly. It would please me greatly if you were the one to welcome them upon their arrival at the entrance."
Nicholas's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "An important guest, Grandfather?" he asked, uncertain what to make of this new responsibility. Although he was often involved in entertaining visitors alongside Godfrey, this was the first time he had been entrusted to greet someone of such apparent importance entirely on his own.
Godfrey's hand, still resting on his grandson's shoulder, gave a reassuring tap. "Indeed, Nicholas. It is a matter of some consequence, and I trust you will handle it with the dignity and grace befitting our name. The guest may arrive at any moment, so I suggest you make haste."
Nicholas bowed his head obediently. "Of course, Grandfather. I shall see to it immediately." Though he spoke with practiced politeness, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of nerves and curiosity stir within him. What news had his grandfather hinted at earlier? And who was this guest, significant enough to warrant such attention?
As he left the room, his mind raced. Should he feel honored, being entrusted with such a task? It had, after all, become quite a familiar occurrence to play host alongside his grandfather, especially in recent years, when the Gryff name had seen a resurgence of influence and prominence. Yet, this time was different. There was an unfamiliar weight behind Godfrey's words—one that suggested this guest was no ordinary visitor.
The grandeur of the manor stretched before him as Nicholas made his way through the corridors, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished stone floors. The afternoon light streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows across the walls adorned with portraits of his ancestors. Their watchful eyes seemed to follow him, reminding him of the legacy he carried—a legacy that demanded both decorum and excellence.
Arriving in the grand entrance hall, Nicholas took a moment to compose himself. He smoothed down the folds of his robes, ensuring they were immaculate, and drew in a deep breath. The air felt heavier here, under the gaze of the ancient portraits that lined the walls, as if generations of the Gryff family were silently watching, measuring him against the standards of their proud lineage. He had been trained for moments like this—trained to carry the dignity of the family name with poise and elegance. Yet, despite his preparations, a sense of uncertainty gnawed at him. This was no ordinary guest, and for his grandfather to entrust him with the task of welcoming them alone only added to the gravity of the moment.
The towering windows at the front of the hall allowed the afternoon sunlight to filter in, casting a golden glow over the stone floors and polished wood panels. As Nicholas stood waiting, his thoughts drifted to the mysterious nature of the visitor. Who could this be? And why was he, specifically, chosen to greet them?
His wandering thoughts were interrupted when he spotted movement in the distance. Through the estate's grand iron gates, a vehicle slowly approached. At first, it was little more than a distant blur, but as it came into view, recognition dawned upon him. The sleek, white outline of the approaching car could only belong to one person—his uncle Mark's prized Fairlady Z.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. It was highly unusual for Mark to be the one driving a guest. Typically, such tasks were handled by the estate's drivers, or guests arrived discreetly via the Floo Network, which had a designated stop at a nearby house. The fact that Mark himself had gone to retrieve this guest from the airport spoke volumes about their importance. Whoever was in that car was someone special—someone who demanded the personal attention of his uncle.
A sense of anticipation swelled within him as the vehicle drew closer to the porte-cochère, its engine purring softly as it pulled up to the entrance. Nicholas straightened his posture once more, his hands clasped behind his back, adopting the formal stance his grandfather had drilled into him since childhood. His mind raced, going over every possible scenario and every guest of import who might merit such treatment.
The Fairlady Z glided to a stop just outside the grand entrance, its engine purring before falling silent. The afternoon sun caught the car's sleek surface, making it gleam like polished ivory. Nicholas's heart raced, though he maintained his composed demeanor—calm, collected, and dignified, as befitted a young heir of the Gryff family. Yet, beneath the surface, his curiosity and excitement simmered. Who could this special guest be?
The driver's door swung open, and Mark stepped out, his movements unhurried but purposeful. He wore a wide, knowing grin, as if he could see right through Nicholas's carefully crafted mask of confidence. There was always an air of amusement about Mark, as though he enjoyed watching others try to decipher the secrets he carried. He strode around to the passenger side, pausing briefly in front of Nicholas. The young boy, standing tall, wished he could see through the heavily tinted windows, the mystery gnawing at him with each passing second.
Without a word, Mark reached for the passenger door, and with a smooth motion, he pulled it open. Nicholas's heart leapt into his throat as the figure inside came into view—a cascade of perfectly styled blonde pin-curls, gleaming in the sunlight like spun gold. She stepped out, tall and elegant, wearing a striking power dress—a fitted jacket with sharp, structured shoulders, paired with a matching skirt that fell just below her knees. The outfit, bold in its design, exuded both authority and grace, the kind of ensemble worn by someone used to commanding attention both on and off the screen.
Her eyes, a brilliant shade of blue, sparkled with a mix of amusement and deep affection as they settled on Nicholas. There was a timeless beauty about her, a radiance that seemed to defy the years.
"Mother!" Nicholas's voice broke through his practiced composure, all sense of decorum forgotten in an instant. He ran toward her, arms outstretched, his heart soaring. The formality he had been so carefully upholding dissolved at the sight of her. She had always been his greatest source of comfort, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.
Marilyn Gryff, the renowned actress, enveloped her son in a tight embrace, her laughter rich and warm as she held him close. "Oh, darling, I missed you too!" she said, her voice laced with tenderness. "Why didn't you tell me you'd be coming?" Nicholas asked, looking up at her with a mixture of joy and surprise, still holding on tightly as if afraid she might disappear.
Marilyn smiled, brushing a stray curl from his forehead as she replied, "Your grandfather and I conspired to keep it a surprise. He thought you deserved a special reward for being so exemplary in your studies and duties." Her eyes sparkled as she spoke, her hands never leaving his shoulders. "I must say, though, you're growing taller by the day. I hardly recognize my little Nico!"
She placed a series of affectionate kisses on his cheeks, her love for him evident in every gesture. "How I've missed you," she murmured softly, her voice filled with emotion. Marilyn's presence seemed to light up the entire entrance hall, as if the sun itself had stepped inside.
Nicholas, still clinging to her, felt an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. "I've missed you too, Mum," he whispered, his voice slightly muffled as he buried his face against her shoulder.
Mark, watching the reunion with an amused grin, leaned against the car with arms crossed. "Quite the dramatic entrance, wouldn't you say?" he teased lightly, though there was affection in his tone. "Welcome home, Marilyn."
Marilyn chuckled, casting a playful glance at Mark. "Well, I had to make it memorable, didn't I? Besides, my son deserves nothing less than a grand entrance," she remarked, her voice light but full of affection. Nicholas and Mark couldn't help but laugh, the warmth of the moment filling the grand entrance hall.
"It's certainly memorable, Mum," Nicholas said, his voice filled with gratitude and joy. Before they could continue, an aging figure appeared by the large oak doors—George, the family's long-serving butler. His posture was as straight and dignified as ever, though a rare smile tugged at the corners of his usually stern lips.
"Welcome home, Madam," George greeted, bowing slightly, his voice resonating with respect. Marilyn's eyes widened in surprise, and she covered her mouth with both hands, clearly touched by his warm reception.
"Thank you, George," she replied softly, her voice filled with emotion. "It's wonderful to see you again after all this time."
With a brief nod, George moved to the rear of the car, busying himself with the luggage. He began unloading the trunks, and as he did so, he turned back toward Nicholas. "Young Master, if I may, kindly escort the Madam to the front room. Lord Godfrey is presently occupied with Madam Blume and will join you shortly."
Nicholas gave a small bow of his head in acknowledgment. "Of course, George." He motioned for his mother to follow, leading the way through the wide corridors, with Mark strolling casually beside them. As they entered the front room, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filled the air, the high windows allowing sunlight to spill across the antique furnishings.
They settled into the wooden couch, its dark mahogany frame ornately carved, a testament to the Gryff family's long-standing heritage. Nicholas nestled beside his mother, his affection for her evident in every glance. Marilyn placed an arm around her son, pulling him close, a quiet sigh of contentment escaping her lips.
Mark took a seat across from them, leaning back with a casual elegance that suited him. "So, congratulations are in order, Marilyn," he began, a sly grin on his face. "Your latest film is making waves, as expected."
"Yes," Nicholas chimed in with a proud smile. "Everyone's talking about it, Mum. You're the star of the show."
Marilyn smiled warmly at their praise, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with a graceful ease. "Thank you, both. It was a challenging shoot, but I'm truly proud of how it turned out. I only wish you could've been there to see the premiere, Nicholas. But there will be more opportunities in the future." She paused, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "In fact, I'm hoping you'll accompany me to the Oscars next March. I would love nothing more than to have you by my side for such an occasion."
Nicholas's smile wavered, and he shifted uneasily in his seat, his gaze avoiding hers. The joyful glow in Marilyn's eyes dimmed as she sensed his hesitation. Her brow furrowed, and a shadow of concern crossed her face.
"Nico, darling," she said softly, her voice brimming with motherly intuition. "Is something the matter? You've been unusually quiet. What's troubling you?"
Nicholas glanced at Mark, who offered him a subtle nod of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself before speaking. "Actually, Mum," he began cautiously, his voice quiet, "I won't be able to join you next March... I'll be attending a boarding school starting this September."
Marilyn blinked, her confusion evident as she processed the unexpected news. Her brow knit together in concern. "A boarding school?" she repeated, her tone a mix of surprise and curiosity. "Why didn't you mention this sooner, Nico? What kind of school is it?"
Before Nicholas could answer, Mark leaned forward, his expression betraying a hint of mischief. "Come now, Nico," he interjected smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement. "It's about time your mother knows the truth. She has every right to understand the world you're about to step into."
Nicholas shot Mark a wary glance, his heart thudding in his chest. "Uncle Mark," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "I'm not sure this is the right time..."
Mark chuckled, waving away his nephew's reluctance. "Nonsense. Marilyn deserves to know, and it's not just any ordinary boarding school, sister," he added, his eyes gleaming with intrigue. "Our Nicholas is going to a very special place."
Marilyn's confusion deepened, her gaze shifting between the two men. Her voice took on a sharper edge, laced with growing concern. "What are you talking about?" she demanded softly, her tone pressing for clarity. "What is this school?"
Nicholas fidgeted, his nerves on edge. Before he could find the right words, Mark leaned in, his smile widening. "The school Nicholas will be attending is unlike any other. It's a place for children with... extraordinary talents. Talents that, it seems, our young Nicholas has inherited."
Marilyn's eyes widened, her thoughts racing as she turned to her son, waiting for an explanation that never came. Just then, a loud crash echoed through the room, the sudden noise of a door slamming open jolting everyone to attention. The sound reverberated through the hall as a man burst into the room, his face a mixture of panic and determination.
"Father, what happened to Nicholas?!" the man shouted, his voice thick with worry. Arthur Gryff stood at the entrance, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled beyond recognition. His tie hung loosely over his shoulder, and his suit was crumpled as though he had rushed there without a moment to spare.
All eyes in the room turned toward him in stunned silence. Arthur's panicked gaze swept over the occupants of the room, landing first on Mark, then on Nicholas. But when his eyes fell on Marilyn, his expression shifted from shock to something far more conflicted.
"Marilyn," he murmured, his voice low, almost broken with disbelief. The word hung in the air like a secret long buried, filled with a mix of guilt and unspoken emotion.
Marilyn, equally taken aback, could only stare at him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Arthur," she breathed, her tone matching his, heavy with shared history and uncertainty.
For a brief, palpable moment, time seemed to stand still, the weight of unspoken words and years of separation hanging between them like a heavy fog. The tension was thick, memories flickering in their eyes, as if the very air between them was charged with the past.
Arthur broke the silence first, his voice low and tentative, like a man testing fragile waters. "You're here," he said, his tone more a statement than a question, yet laced with disbelief. His hands moved instinctively to smooth out his disheveled appearance. With hurried, almost nervous gestures, he straightened his crumpled tie and brushed off the creases in his jacket. He seemed desperate to compose himself, not wanting Marilyn to see him in such a state—frayed, vulnerable, and unkempt.
As Arthur finally regained some semblance of composure, he opened his mouth to explain why he had rushed in with such urgency, intending to speak of his father's ruse. Godfrey had summoned him under the pretense of an emergency involving Nicholas. But the words caught in his throat as his gaze shifted between Marilyn and the boy they had brought into this world together. His throat tightened as the reality of the moment struck him—his family, the life he had once known, stood before him.
"Welcome... home, Marilyn," he said softly, the words barely audible, but laden with meaning. It was as though the very act of speaking them carried him back to a time when those words had been part of a daily ritual—a time when their home had been filled with warmth, laughter, and love. Back when the shadows of doubt and resentment hadn't yet crept into their lives, when their bond had been untainted by the burdens that would later pull them apart.
Marilyn's eyes softened, and for a fleeting second, the years of separation melted away. She could feel the echo of those simpler days in his voice, that same tenderness that once made her believe they could weather anything together. But time had passed, and the distance between them, both emotional and physical, was undeniable.
"Arthur..." she began, her voice gentle but tinged with caution. She hesitated, as though searching for the right words to address the man who had once been her husband, the father of her child. Her gaze shifted toward Nicholas, who sat awkwardly, caught in the charged atmosphere between his parents, unsure of whether he should intervene or quietly fade into the background.
Mark, sensing the tension, quietly leaned back in his chair, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He always had a flair for enjoying these familial dramas from the sidelines.
Arthur took a tentative step forward, his hand twitching as if he wanted to reach out, but he stopped himself. The gap between them felt wider than it had ever been, despite the close proximity. "I... I didn't expect to see you today," he admitted, his voice low, carrying the weight of everything unsaid.
Marilyn's expression flickered—somewhere between sorrow and understanding. "It was a surprise for Nicholas," she explained, her tone light yet layered with emotion. "Godfrey and I thought it best not to tell him until the moment arrived."
Arthur's eyes flicked toward his father's name, and he couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle, though it carried no real amusement. "Father always did enjoy orchestrating surprises," he said, shaking his head. "He told me there was an emergency with Nicholas... It seems I fell for one of his tricks."
Marilyn gave a small smile, though her eyes were distant, remembering the times when Godfrey had interfered in their lives, for better or worse.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, punctuated only by the soft crackling of the fireplace in the corner. Nicholas, feeling the tension between his parents, shuffled on his feet and spoke up, his voice breaking the heavy atmosphere. "Father, Mother," he said quietly, trying to bridge the chasm between them. "It's good to see both of you here... together."
"Why don't you take a seat, Mr. Shadow Leader?" Mark teased, his tone playful yet edged with mischief. He gestured toward the empty spot beside him, raising an eyebrow. "We were just about to enlighten Marilyn about our family's... shall we say, illustrious heritage. She has the right to know, cousin."
Nicholas shot Mark a sharp glare, his disapproval evident. It was hardly the time for his uncle's flippant remarks. But Mark, ever the provocateur, simply chuckled, thoroughly amused by the tension he had stirred. Arthur, however, responded with a deep, weary sigh, the kind that came from years of bearing the weight of secrets and responsibilities.
Without a word, Arthur crossed the room with a measured grace, his long strides carrying the weight of his hesitation. He seated himself beside Mark, their contrasting demeanors highlighting the difference between them—one carefree and amused, the other burdened and contemplative.
"You're right," Arthur said quietly, his voice steady but laced with resignation. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Marilyn's. There was a certain intensity in his eyes, as if he was trying to decipher how much of the truth she was truly prepared for. The passage of time had left its mark on her, just as it had on him, but beneath that, she was still the woman he had once or maybe still loved.
Marilyn met his gaze, her own eyes filled with curiosity and a touch of concern. She could sense the gravity of what was about to be said, the unspoken history that had lingered between them for far too long. "Arthur," she began cautiously, her voice soft but determined, "what is all this about? You've been hiding something for a long time, haven't you?"
Arthur inhaled deeply, choosing his next words with care. "It's not just me who's been keeping things hidden, Marilyn," he said, his voice calm but tinged with regret. "Our family... the Gryffs, we are not as ordinary as we once appeared to be."
Marilyn frowned, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you talking about?" Her voice had a slight edge now, sensing the gravity of what was to come.
Mark, sensing the gravity of the moment, leaned back in his chair, a knowing grin playing across his lips. "Oh, cousin, you truly are dreadful at this." He turned his gaze to Marilyn, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness, though the mischief in his eyes remained. "What Arthur is struggling to articulate, dear sister, is that the Gryff family is steeped in ancient magical bloodlines. We are not mere ordinary folk with a touch of wealth, as you may have assumed all these years."
Arthur shot Mark a warning glance, his frustration evident, but the damage was already done. Marilyn's eyes widened in disbelief, flicking between her ex-husband and his irreverent cousin. "Magical bloodlines?" she echoed, her voice trembling as if the very words were too extraordinary to comprehend. "You can't be serious."
Nicholas, who had been silently absorbing the conversation, felt a surge of courage. This was his moment. "It's true, Mum," he said softly, stepping closer to her, his heart racing. "I'm the only one able to inherit the magic alongside Grandfather. Since then, I've been training with tutors. Grandfather insisted I learn the old ways." With gentle determination, he freed himself from her embrace, standing tall before her.
Reaching deep into his robes, Nicholas retrieved his wand with a flourish, the weight of it feeling both familiar and empowering. "Let me show you," he urged, the thrill of revealing this hidden part of his life coursing through him. With a steady hand, he pointed his wand at a small coin resting in his palm. "Wingardium Leviosa," he pronounced, the incantation flowing effortlessly from his lips.
The coin shimmered in the air before it lifted gracefully, defying gravity as it danced lightly above his hand.
Marilyn's mouth fell open, her breath hitching as she took in the spectacle before her. "Oh my," she gasped, her wide eyes reflecting a mix of awe and disbelief. In an instant, the enormity of the revelation overwhelmed her. The world around her seemed to spin, and with a dramatic flourish befitting a character in one of her own films, she fainted, collapsing into a swoon.
All three of them rushed to her side, the gravity of their shared secret hanging palpably in the air. As they steadied her, Nicholas felt a mixture of exhilaration and concern wash over him. This was only the beginning of a new chapter in their lives—a chapter woven with the complexities of magic, family, and revelations yet to come.