The Hogwarts Express bucked once—hard—like the floor tried to bolt without them. Lights stuttered. Glass hummed in their frames. Then the temperature crashed, a wet-knifed cold that went marrow-deep.
Ron pressed his cheek to the fogged window. "There's something out there."
The carriage shivered again. Not footsteps—pressure. A weight moving down the corridor, stealing heat as it passed. Through the small pane in the compartment door, Harry caught a silhouette: tall, robed, wrong. A blistered, cracked hand closed on the handle.
The door creaked open.
Harry's breath frosted. The thing in the doorway wore rotted black; where skin peeked through, it was all sores and scabbed ruin. The cold didn't just touch him—it tugged, dragging at every memory that hurt.
The Dementor paused.
It smelled two things at once: the boy it had been warned never to touch…and its master, sleeping in this very compartment.
That second scent almost snapped it into panic. The last time it crossed that presence there had been mock-angel feathers and a heat that burned through spirit. Even a creature past weather felt the crack of fear like thin ice.
On the bench by the window, a coat twitched. Li Ming shoved it off his head, blinking awake as the chill stabbed straight through his nap. He squinted at the doorway. "Great. Summer to Arctic in five seconds."
Irritation beat out confusion. "Door. Shut. Then roll your round self right out," he said, flat and sharp.
The Dementor froze, as if its thoughts had slid on the same ice as its feet.
Opposite, Professor Lupin jerked upright at the shout. He took in the scene—three students, one Dementor—and rose in a single smooth motion, wand lifting for a Patronus.
Li Ming caught his sleeve. "Easy. Talk first, hex later."
Right—Dementors didn't do "talk." He shifted gears, voice rasping like wind through reeds, words cut from grave-cold. "Leave," he ordered—in the language the dead obeyed.
Relief broke across the Dementor like a door unlocking. No punishment. Just go.
It slammed the compartment door and fled, gliding down the corridor faster than anything with no feet should move. A ripple followed in its wake. In minutes, the whole train knew: their master was aboard, sleeping. New order—withdraw.
Warmth returned by grudging degrees. Harry flexed his fingers until the pins and needles ebbed. He and Ron traded a look; both had clocked Li Ming the moment he'd shrugged off the coat. After last night—Dumbledore praising the time magic, Pettigrew unmasked—Li Ming felt less like a stranger and more like a last-minute guard rail.
"What were those?" Harry asked, rubbing his arms as the darkness retreated down the corridor.
"Dementors," Lupin said, eyes still on the door. "Azkaban's guards. They're hunting Sirius Black."
The name tightened something in Harry's chest. Dumbledore's late-night explanation was still raw, like skin under peeled bandage. "But—Sirius is innocent. The real murderer is—"
He cut himself off. Truth without proof was just noise. If Dumbledore didn't have the evidence yet, what could he say to make a stranger believe?
He looked to Li Ming instead. The one who'd flushed out Pettigrew knew.
Recognition flickered across Lupin's face as he glanced between the boy and Li Ming. James Potter's features on a smaller frame made the rest click. Of course this was Harry Potter. Of course he'd defend Sirius.
Lupin's gaze landed on Li Ming. Li Ming tugged at his rumpled shirt and shrugged. "Why me? I blacked out last night. Ask the redheaded Mr. Weasley—I was face-down and snoring."
Ron, half offended to be rebranded "the redheaded Mr. Weasley," still nodded. "Dumbledore told Harry about Sirius. He arrived after Mr. Austin—er, Li Ming—used time magic on Pettigrew. And, uh…yeah. Mr. Austin was proper out cold by then."
"Mm." Lupin grunted. It fit—enough for now. He dug in his pocket, produced a chocolate square, and handed it to Harry. "Eat. Helps."
Then, to Li Ming, an edged look. "We had an agreement."
Right—the promise that no Dementor would threaten Harry.
Li Ming put up both hands. "I didn't take the money and run. How was I supposed to know Harry's reaction would be this strong? In the timeline I know, he faints every time one of those things shows up. He didn't faint. That means they followed my order—strictly."
There was no clean way to explain that without sounding slippery. Any nuance would read as evasion.
Li Ming glanced at the rain-dark window. So much for the scenic route. "Right. I'm off. Come by my place when you've got time."
Before anyone could answer, he traced a neat circle in the air. A portal irised open—light bending at its rim—and he stepped through. The circle snapped shut with a soft sound like a book closing.
Nights later, in a townhouse that smelled of damp stone and older secrets, Sirius Black stared at a half-finished letter, sighed, signed, and sent.
Li Ming read it and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sirius wanted a portal straight into Li Ming's "secret room," luggage and all. He wanted to move in—keep Li Ming company, avoid moldering alone in the ancestral mausoleum, and, most of all, give Harry somewhere warm to visit for tea, conversation, and guided practice.
Sirius also addressed the Dementors: he understood, he wrote. He'd already spoken to Lupin. Twelve years in Azkaban made him an expert; whatever happened on the train, none had harmed Harry.
Li Ming ignored the first letter.
The ledger between them wasn't exactly friendly. After siphoned Galleons, a copied Black library, and walking off with the house-elf that embodied centuries of Black snobbery, "neighborly" didn't spring to mind.
But Sirius was persistent. By Li Ming's count: eight letters a day. Then Lupin delivered the ask in person. When it started to sound like Sirius might escalate to Dumbledore, peace and quiet lost.
Fine. Silver linings. Company in the secret room. Shared lessons. If Sirius tutored Harry, Li Ming might learn a trick or two on the side. He could live with that.
He opened a portal to the Black townhouse. Before stepping through, he caught Sirius perched atop a mountain of luggage, wearing the put-upon look of a man who'd packed, repacked, and regretted it twice.
The instant the circle stabilized, Sirius stood, hauled a trunk, and marched through. He tossed a couple of bags to Kreacher on instinct and shot Li Ming a crooked grin. "Thought you'd never show. Have your house-elf pitch a tent, will you? Looks like we're neighbors."
Li Ming told himself he'd caved because Sirius nagged him into it. When the quiet settled, a different shape emerged.
"Moving in for Harry" sounded noble. "Keeping an eye on Li Ming" sounded accurate. If all Sirius wanted was visits, a portal on request would do. Relocating screamed supervision.
Follow the threads and the silhouette behind it all was obvious: Dumbledore.
The read on him was probably already in the Headmaster's desk—affinity shaded dark, portals that shrugged at Hogwarts' wards, and a grab-bag of magic stripped from Death Eater homes, much of it midnight black.
What sane headmaster lets that sort of man wander the halls?
Kicking him out wouldn't help. Dumbledore had watched him portal. Throw him out in the morning, he'd be back by night, tucked into some forgotten seam, soaking Hogwarts' fat magic like a cat on a radiator.
Better to keep him where you could see him. With Sirius as the bell on the collar, anything loud would hit Dumbledore's desk in minutes.
Li Ming got it. He didn't argue. Watch, don't watch—he wasn't doing anything wrong. And if he ever chose to? Sirius wouldn't be the stopgap. Honestly, neither would Dumbledore.
First weekend as neighbors, Sirius shocked the sunrise by meeting it. He borrowed Kreacher to tidy a battered tent, then turned up in full dress robes—checking the time, fidgeting, grinning—while Li Ming stirred a simmering cauldron.
Li Ming raised a brow. "What's with the outfit? Auditioning for Most Dashing Godfather?"
Sirius grinned, giving away nothing.
When the man kept cycling between nervous and goofy, Li Ming chalked it up to Sirius being Sirius—or hormones. Either way, he kept stirring.
Near noon, the reason stepped through a portal: Lupin, with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "Ah," Li Ming muttered. "A meeting about Harry is a meeting with Harry. Do we get fireworks?"
Harry paused on the threshold, shoulders tight. He'd never had a godfather. If this one turned out like the Dursleys—another adult wishing he didn't exist—he wasn't sure what he'd do except drown in chocolate.
Sirius saw the nerves—he had plenty of his own—and crouched, arms open.
It worked. The relief on Harry's face said it all. This wasn't an aunt-and-uncle rerun.
Li Ming looked, allowed himself the one warm beat, and went back to work. Potions didn't stir themselves.
Hermione took the cue and tugged Ron out of Sirius's space, drifting with Lupin to the worktable. Her eyes mapped the ingredients and the leavings—the way roots were shaved, pods scored, leaves bruised instead of chopped.
For a subject that preached exactitude, Li Ming's technique ignored the textbook—and yet the potion gleamed, clean as cut glass.
From Ron, she already knew Li Ming excelled in…certain magics. Her mind hopped tracks. Hidden potions master? If so, why under Hogwarts?
Li Ming caught the puzzled look and smirked. Smart kid. Endearingly earnest.
His gaze slid to the freckled boy beside her. Cute, clever Hermione and Ron Weasley. He still couldn't quite parse that pairing. Some mysteries resisted even time magic.
Lupin noticed Li Ming staring a fraction too long with a postcard-bad expression. He cleared his throat, trimming off whatever foolishness was forming. "Mr. Austin—about the train. Sirius explained. I misjudged you. I owe you an apology."
Li Ming eyed his empty hands. "Not feeling a lot of sincerity here."
Anyone who knew Li Ming knew what came next. Lupin's eyelid twitched. "What do you want? For the record, I'm not exactly rolling in valuables."
Li Ming's grin tipped. "Keep the heirlooms. I want books. Borrow from the Hogwarts Library. You're a professor—should be as easy as drinking water."
Lupin hesitated. He already knew Li Ming slipped in at night to copy tomes. "Not satisfied with transcribing on-site? Planning a weekend bender with the Restricted Section?"
Li Ming read the doubt. "Filch and his cat are making rounds. He's checking the library every half hour. I'm burning a mirror-space just to keep copying."
A thousand nights of dodging Filch flared behind Lupin's eyes. He winced. "Fine. I'll borrow a few each day. Owl drop at midnight, or will you just stroll into my quarters?"
"I'll come by," Li Ming said. "Raid your pantry while I'm at it."
Lupin: …Of course.
Hermione, still assembling the picture, blurted, "Mr. Austin, does Professor Dumbledore know you're living under Hogwarts?"
"He does," Li Ming said, casual as rain. "He got plenty out of the deal to keep quiet." He hooked his chin toward Sirius. "And he sent that one to keep an eye on me."
Lupin rolled his eyes. "Don't let him spin you. Given the tally, Dumbledore's come out ahead more than once."
Something sparked behind Lupin's gaze. "And now three students know you're here. Perhaps…a few gifts, to keep their lips buttoned?"
Hermione and Ron traded a look. They knew he meant it kindly, but taking favors from someone they barely knew felt…awkward.
Lupin chuckled. "I'm teasing. Mostly. But he does own interesting things. You might want to see before you decide."
Li Ming knew Lupin was half-joking. And even if the kids talked, then what? He could vanish to a new hideout with a lazy wave. In a backward way, Dumbledore had more reason than anyone to keep Li Ming comfortable right here.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, thought a beat, then called toward the tent, "Kreacher, bring the annotated Potions text—the Prince's notes."
Kreacher shuffled out, placed a battered, heavily annotated Sixth-Year Potions book in Li Ming's hands, and disappeared again. Lupin's brow furrowed; the elf did feel…different.
Li Ming passed the book to Hermione. "Your hush gift. Advanced Potions notes—meticulous corrections and one spell that's genuinely useful. You like books; this fits."
Hermione had meant to refuse anything too generous. But a textbook? Her willpower wobbled. And if Li Ming—an outlier—flagged a single spell as "worth it," curiosity steamrolled the rest. She hugged the book. "Thank you."
Li Ming turned to Ron, who wore hope like a sign. "You like wizard chess and Quidditch. I'm not sure—"
He broke off, spotting his own owl on a beam. He'd bought it for mail, then realized portals were faster. It mostly ate, napped, and delivered maybe three letters in its entire career.
He pointed. "How about that? Like it? Yours."
The bird's ears had a bat-sharp line—alert, a touch fierce. Ron glanced at Hermione, already peeling through pages, then back at the owl. A personal owl. "Thank you, Mr. Austin. I—yeah. I really like it."
When the gifting was done, Lupin nodded toward the tent flap. "Kreacher seems…changed."
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