"Finally got on this train."
Solim glanced at the little wizard rushing by outside the window with mixed feelings. "Compared to that dreadful school, Hogwarts feels almost comfortable," he muttered.
He knew Hogwarts had its share of accidents every year—but that was still better than enduring the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses every month at the other place. Solim couldn't help but recall fragments of his past eleven years.
According to his grandfather, he had been cut from the womb of his poor mother, who'd been struck down by the Killing Curse—a miracle that had caused a great stir in certain circles.
Everyone had been shocked: even if two adults were holding hands and one was hit by Avada Kedavra, the other would die instantly. Yet somehow, the unborn child—Solim—had survived.
But Solim knew the truth: the real Solim was dead.
He, the soul now living in this body, had inherited not only Solim's name but also his many troubles.
Solim Oglebashir Selwyn—though, strictly speaking, he wasn't even qualified to use the name Selwyn. It was said he was the illegitimate son of the current Selwyn patriarch and some unknown witch. No one knew anything about his mother; even those who had known her had conveniently forgotten her existence.
He was allowed to use the Selwyn surname only because of his grandfather—an old man obsessed with the family's continuation.
Truth be told, Solim had no burning desire to avenge this body's mother. But gratitude was another matter. Without her, there would be no Solim.
He might not crave revenge, but he did want to know the truth. A pregnant witch killed by the Killing Curse—a witch carrying the illegitimate child of a pure-blood patriarch—anyone with half a brain could guess who had the most motive.
Solim had never imagined that such a melodramatic story would be his own.
He had two older brothers and one younger sister, the legitimate children of Lady Selwyn. His eldest brother, Dax, was a violent hothead; the second, Sabiantis, a lifeless recluse. His youngest sister, Sirna, was sweet, kind, and bright—but at nine years old, she still hadn't shown any sign of a magical outburst. In a pure-blood family, that meant only one thing: she was likely a Squib.
It was no wonder pure-blood families obsessed over blood purity. Solim knew firsthand how the timing of a magical outburst could shape a wizard's life. Take Neville Longbottom, for example—his uncle had been so desperate to prove Neville wasn't a Squib that he'd thrown the boy out a window, hoping fear would trigger his magic.
Among Lady Selwyn's children, Sirna was the only one who treated Solim kindly. His brothers? Both had been warped long ago—through no fault of their own. They'd attended Schuyler, the same grim institution Solim had escaped from.
In families like theirs, talented children were sent to Schuyler within a week of their first magic surge. There, starting at age seven, they endured the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses once a month—cast by masters who knew exactly how much pain a child could survive.
The older they grew, the stronger the curses became. Failure to resist the Imperius or recover from the Cruciatus in time brought additional punishment.
Schuyler's students knew the reason behind the torture—it was to prepare them for "future careers." Solim knew it too. But he didn't want any career that required learning to resist the Unforgivables.
He had only been at Schuyler thanks to his grandfather's insistence that he receive the "training of a true Selwyn." But since he wasn't truly part of the direct line, he'd been allowed to transfer to Hogwarts. He would lose the advanced magical theories taught there—but freedom was worth the price.
Compared to the cold, cruel halls of Schuyler, Hogwarts felt full of light and life.
Solim glanced up at the luggage rack above him. If no one teaches me, I'll just teach myself, he thought.
"S–Solim, I—I…" A round-faced boy appeared at the doorway, struggling under the weight of a heavy suitcase and clutching a toad.
"Come on, Neville," Solim sighed, pointing at the luggage rack. "Put your suitcase up there. And relax— I'm not going to eat you. You're squeezing that poor toad to death."
He wasn't surprised to see Neville Longbottom—they were distant relatives. Solim's grandmother and Neville's grandfather's brother's wife were sisters. If he tried tracing all his family connections, half of Hogwarts would probably turn out to be related to him.
As Neville wrestled his suitcase onto the shelf, Solim noticed a tangle of brown hair and freckles behind him.
"Hurry up, Neville—someone's waiting," Solim said, gesturing at the girl outside.
"Solim, c-could you—" Neville began, but Solim cut him off.
"No. I only touch frogs when I'm brewing potions. But I'll help you with the suitcase."
He flicked his fingers, and the heavy trunk floated smoothly onto the rack.
"Oh my gosh—how did you do that?" the girl gasped. "That's a Levitation Charm! I've read about it, but I didn't think anyone our age could cast it without a wand!"
Solim smirked. "Need help with your trunk too, Miss Fuss?"
Hermione frowned. "My name is Hermione Granger, not Miss Fuss."
"Alright, I apologize," Solim said without a hint of sincerity. With a flick of his hand, her suitcase joined Neville's on the rack.
"Let's all sit down. I'm Solim Selwyn, this is Neville Longbottom," he said, nodding at each of them. "Your turn."
"Hermione Granger," she said primly, still watching him with curiosity. "How did you manage that? Books say wandless magic takes years of training!"
"Magic. And time," Solim replied, opening a thick tome on his lap.
"What?" Hermione blinked.
"Enough magic power and practice. Varies from person to person." He turned a page. "By the way, Neville, I'll tell you something later."
"Huh? What?" Neville jumped, startled. Solim rolled his eyes.
Neville was a good kid—kindhearted, if a bit timid. Solim knew his fear came from his parents' fate and his grandmother's pressure. Once Neville broke free of that, his courage would shine through. Solim decided he'd help him.
"Um… if it's something private," Hermione said hesitantly, "I can step out."
"You're overthinking, Miss Granger," Solim said without looking up. "I just prefer not to be interrupted. Besides, we'll have another guest soon—a spoiled young master who'll need to be dealt with first."
As if on cue, the compartment door slid open. Three boys stood outside, practically blocking the corridor.
"Ah, Solim! Let me see—and…" The pale-faced blond boy smirked.
"Draco," Solim warned, his eyes narrowing.
Hermione immediately understood—this was the "spoiled young master" he'd mentioned.
Draco Malfoy hesitated, reading the warning in Solim's eyes. "I'm going to find Potter. Want to come?"
"No. And you don't need to." Solim turned a page. "Potter's with a red-haired boy. You'll probably end up arguing, so—"
"What?! Weasley?" Draco's face twisted with disdain. "Ha! I'll show Potter what happens when he befriends that kind of scum! Come on, you two!"
The three boys disappeared down the corridor, and light returned.
Hermione moved to close the door, but Solim stopped her. "Leave it. He'll be back soon enough."
A few moments later, Neville shifted nervously. "He—he hasn't bullied me since last time," he said.
Solim snorted. "Not yet. You still plan to be a Gryffindor like that? Hufflepuff suits you better."
"Gryffindor?" Hermione perked up. "That's the best House!"
"The best?" Solim raised an eyebrow. "There's no 'best,' only what suits you. Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, Herbology—they're all taught the same way. What you learn depends on your own effort."
Hermione frowned. "But Dumbledore was in Gryffindor—the greatest wizard of all time!"
"Miss I-Believe-Whatever-I-Read," Solim said dryly, "besides Headmaster Dumbledore, what else do you know about Hogwarts? The teachers are the same for all Houses. Talent and hard work matter, not your colors."
Hermione bit her lip, searching for a rebuttal, and finally muttered, "My name is Hermione Granger. Stop calling me that."
Just then, an angry voice echoed down the corridor. "Damn Potter! Damn Weasley! I'm telling my father!"
Solim groaned. "Told you," he muttered as Draco stormed back, flanked by his two silent followers.
"Merlin, Solim, you won't believe—Potter—"
"Enough," Solim interrupted. "Didn't I say not to go? Calm down. You'll have plenty of chances to get back at Weasley once we're at school."
Draco huffed. "You're right. He's not worth it. Come on, boys." With that, he stalked off.
The compartment finally quieted. Solim flicked his wand to shut and lock the door, then lowered the curtains.
"Alright," he said, turning to Neville. "Now we can talk properly."
End of Chapter 1 – The Train
✅ Notes on the edit:
Grammar and flow have been corrected throughout.
Redundant words, awkward phrasing, and repetition have been removed.
Dialogue punctuation and paragraph structure are standardized.