Echo had thought that spending the summer at Hogwarts would be a grand adventure, a time of boundless freedom to explore his burgeoning magic without the constant scrutiny of students and professors. And in many ways, it had been. He'd soared on Wick's back, delved into the mysteries of the Forbidden Forest, and even healed a corrupted griffin. He had faced down the beast within himself and found a fragile, yet profound, control over his power. Yet, as the long, sun-drenched days bled into weeks, a new, unexpected feeling began to creep in. A quiet, persistent ache in his chest. Loneliness.
The sprawling castle, usually a vibrant hub of noise and life, was eerily silent. Footsteps echoed hollowly in the vast corridors. The Great Hall, designed to hold hundreds, felt immense and empty, its high ceilings mocking the lack of voices. Echo missed the mundane chatter, the distant shouts from the Quidditch pitch, even the familiar, annoying presence of the Marauders. He missed people. Living people. Even though he was regularly ignored, or if acknowledged, it was often with hushed whispers and mocking glances behind his back. He was used to being an outsider, but the sheer absence of anyone to even ignore him was a different kind of pain.
The ghosts, while plentiful, offered little in the way of genuine companionship. Their conversations were often circuitous, their advice outdated, and their spectral forms offered no warmth or tangible presence. The professors who remained were largely confined to their private quarters or labs, absorbed in their own summer projects, and rarely seen, let alone engaging in casual conversation. The house-elves, efficient as ever, would scurry away silently if he approached, their large eyes wide and wary. Hagrid, his most consistent companion, was off on some vital, undisclosed duty concerning a particularly rare Blast-Ended Skrewt nest, leaving Echo to his own devices for days on end. Even the Centaurs, his newfound allies, had their own herds and responsibilities. While Ronan would occasionally offer a cryptic word or two if Echo sought him out, they were not constant companions.
Echo found himself wandering, aimless, the reassuring weight of Sniffles in his pocket providing his only constant company. "It's just… so quiet, Sniffles," he murmured to the Niffler one afternoon, staring out a high window at the perfectly manicured lawns. Sniffles merely chirped, sensing his unease. "Too quiet."
The silence pressed in on him, a heavy, suffocating blanket. He craved a simple conversation, a shared laugh, the easy camaraderie he had so rarely experienced but now yearned for. He missed Lilly's frank honesty, Snape's grudging tolerance, even Hagrid's booming laugh. Without them, the castle felt less like a home and more like a magnificent, lonely tomb.
With a sigh that felt too large for his small frame, Echo pushed open a discreet side door and made his way towards the Forbidden Forest. The wildness of the woods, its ancient energy, usually offered a sense of escape. Perhaps there, amidst the rustling leaves and the distant calls of creatures, he could outrun this pervasive solitude.
He walked deeper than usual, past Wick's cave, past the Centaur grove, until he reached a part of the forest rarely visited by even the creatures he now considered friends. It was a place of towering, ancient trees, their roots gnarled and thick, their branches interwoven to create a perpetual twilight even at high noon. He slumped against the rough bark of a massive redwood, burying his face in his knees. Sniffles, sensing his despair, poked his head out, his dark eyes wide with concern, and nudged Echo's cheek with his wet nose.
"It's just… hard, Sniffles," Echo mumbled, stroking the Niffler's head. "Even with all the cool magic and the dragons and everything…it's still nice to have people. Living people."
He sat there for a long time, lost in the quiet despair of his own thoughts. The forest, usually a source of comfort, seemed to mirror his mood, its shadows deepening, its whispers growing more mournful.
Then, a soft, ethereal glow caught his eye.
A few yards away, flickering gently in the gloom, was a small, delicate light. And then another. And another. Soon, the glade was filled with a soft, silvery luminescence. Echo lifted his head, his eyes widening.
Emerging from the deepest shadows were unicorns. Not just one or two, but a whole group, their pure white coats shimmering like moonlight, their golden horns spiraling towards the sky. And among them, surprisingly, were many young ones—foals, no bigger than large dogs and colored gold, their horns just tiny nubs, their movements clumsy and endearing. These were the unicorns he had saved, the ones who had hidden from the mad griffin. They were returning, drawn by the renewed purity of the forest and, perhaps, an innate sense of connection to the magic that had healed their sanctuary.
The young ones, drawn by an unspoken curiosity and innocent bravery, approached him cautiously. They were so small, so innocent. One, barely larger than a lamb, nudged his outstretched hand with its velvet muzzle, its dark eyes filled with a gentle inquisitiveness. Another delicately nibbled at the hem of his robes. The pure, benevolent magic emanating from them was almost overwhelming, a stark contrast to the oppressive loneliness that had clung to him moments before.
"Go on," Echo murmured, waving a hand weakly. "Go on, back to your parents. I'm fine." He tried to shoo them away, a pathetic attempt to regain some semblance of solitude. He wanted to wallow, not be observed by a herd of shimmering, empathetic creatures.
But the young unicorns merely cocked their heads, their large eyes blinking slowly. They nudged him again, their tiny horns occasionally brushing his cheek, a gentle, insistent pressure. The pure, inquisitive magic they exuded seemed to permeate his own weary magical core, subtly pushing back against the gloom.
Echo sighed, trying a firmer tone. "Seriously, I'm okay. Go play." He tried to push one particularly persistent foal away with his foot, careful not to hurt it. Still, it simply leaned into his hand, its gentle magic radiating a silent reassurance.
Then, he looked up and saw the adult unicorns, their regal heads held high, their ancient eyes fixed on him. There was no fear, no wariness, even though their kind traditionally preferred the company of women. Only a profound, knowing stillness. They had brought their young to him, perhaps for protection, perhaps for thanks, or perhaps, simply, because they sensed his need. One of the larger unicorns, its horn glowing with an intense, golden light, stepped forward and gently nudged its shoulder with its head. Echo felt a rush of pure, unadulterated comfort wash over him, as if the forest itself were embracing him. It was a wordless acknowledgment, a profound understanding. The foals, seeing their parents' calm acceptance, grew bolder, beginning to nuzzle him, to lean against his legs, their warmth a tangible comfort against his despair.
Echo finally gave in, a soft, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. He stopped trying to shoo them away. Instead, he found himself reaching out, stroking their soft fur, feeling the vibration of their gentle purrs. He wasn't talking, but he was communicating. And in that moment, surrounded by such pristine beauty, Echo felt a flicker of hope. He still longed for human connection, but he knew now that he was not truly alone in this vast, magical world. The loneliness didn't vanish entirely, but it receded, pushed back by the pure, life-affirming presence of the unicorns. The forest no longer felt mournful; it hummed with quiet gratitude. He lay there, surrounded by the shimmering creatures, for a long time, their silent presence a balm to his aching heart.