The remaining weeks of summer passed in a blur of continued training. Echo's days were a rigorous dance between Cleen's sterile, potion-scented classroom and the vibrant, untamed heart of the Forbidden Forest. It was much harder to accomplish now that he felt like he did when he was stuck to a hospital bed in his old world. Once again, he had to learn how to feel warmth and enjoy himself in the cold pit that was now his soul and emotions.
With Cleen, he pushed the boundaries of his understanding and production of positions, considering it was his worst-graded class and the several dozen detentions he served under him during the year. And Cleen absolutely does not want to repeat. He delved deeper into the intricacies of countering curses, realizing that true mastery lay not just in casting, but in understanding the flow of magic to disrupt or absorb it. His mental shields grew stronger, able to deflect not just verbal taunts but subtle magical intrusions.
In the forest, under Hagrid's watchful eye, he continued to refine his unique "dragon language." He learned to communicate complex directional commands to Wick with a thought, a projected intention, guiding her through intricate aerial maneuvers that left Hagrid roaring with delighted laughter. He even experimented with minor enchantments on other creatures, not bending their will, but subtly influencing their perceptions – making a grumpy Grindylow feel momentarily calm, or encouraging a stray gnome to dig in a particular direction. Once again, something like this was smooch harder as he had to relearn emotions.
He spent more time with Firenze, learning the Centaur's preferred paths through the grove, listening to Ronan's philosophical musings on the stars and the folly of humans. Firenze, still a foal, would often nuzzle Echo's hand, a silent acknowledgment of their burgeoning friendship. Even Ronan, who heard about his plight with the dementor, came by more frequently to check up or search the forest near the school, just in case. And would slowly help Echo regain and re-remember the magic he once projected and used, helping him as they had been helped. Returning a favor for a friend.
The knowledge gained from the Griffin incident, though muffled, resonated deeply within him. He now understood that his unique magic wasn't solely about creation, but also about transformation – the ability to take corrupted magic and return it to its pure state, or to reshape raw energy for benevolent purposes, even though he was essentially learning it all over again. The phoenix tear, still a warm memory in the past, felt like a long-gone blessing, a constant reminder of the purest form of healing. He momentarily wondered if Fawks would give him another tear, but something inside of him said no, whether it was the dementor's curse or just his moral code…whatever that looked like.
As August gave way to September, the castle slowly began to awaken. House-elves bustled, cleaning and polishing. Prefects, arriving early, bustled through the corridors, preparing for the influx of students. The quiet solitude of summer was fading, replaced by the excited murmur of anticipation. Echo felt a familiar knot of apprehension twist in his stomach. The Marauders would be back. James Potter would be back. And while he had grown, matured, and honed his powers, the memory of their relentless torment still pricked at him. He knew he had a plan, a strategy, but the thought of facing them again, of having to deny them the satisfaction of his reaction, was daunting.
Despite all the good memories and feelings that the dementor took, only the bad ones remained, and in the coldness of his pale body, which had lost its color from all his time outdoors, those thoughts and feelings were amplified. For some time, Echo thought he wouldn't be able to truly feel positive gain; he thought he might have to fake it. And part of him really hoped that wouldn't be the case.
One afternoon, just a few days before the official start of term, Echo was in the deserted Great Hall, meticulously polishing his new set of pewter potion scales, a gift from Cleen that had come with a stern lecture on precision. Sniffles, true to form, was attempting to liberate a gleaming silver goblet from the head table.
"Sniffles, no!" Echo whispered, snatching the goblet away. "That's Dumbledore's!"
The Niffler chirped indignantly, batting at the air.
Just then, the massive oak doors of the Great Hall swung open with a resounding thud. Echo looked up, expecting a house-elf or perhaps an early-arriving professor. Instead, framed in the doorway, stood a figure he had only seen from a distance, a figure that embodied everything he had come to loathe in the wizarding world.
Lucius Malfoy.
He was impeccably dressed, as always, in robes of expensive, dark silk, his long, pale blonde hair pulled back neatly. His aristocratic features were set in a sneer that seemed permanently etched on his face, a sneer Echo remembered all too well from the Ministry. He held a gleaming silver-topped cane, which he tapped idly against the stone floor, the sound echoing ominously in the vast hall. Beside him stood a shorter, heavier man with a scowl that matched Malfoy's own, and two menacing-looking figures cloaked in dark, hooded robes, their faces obscured by shadows. Death Eaters.
Echo froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. What was Malfoy doing here, at Hogwarts, before term even started?
Lucius's cold, grey eyes swept over the empty tables, then fixed on Echo, a look of chilling recognition crossing his face. A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips.
"Well, well, what have we here?" Lucius drawled, his voice a silken purr that sent a shiver down Echo's spine. "The little monster himself. Alone, it seems. And playing with shiny things. Just like his… pet." His gaze flickered to Sniffles, who, sensing the danger, had instantly burrowed back into Echo's robe.
Echo felt a wave of icy dread, but he forced himself to stand tall, his hand instinctively going to his wand. He remembered Snape's words: Never show fear. Never give them the satisfaction.
"Becky with the good hair. I'd say it's good to see you again, but it's not," Echo said, his voice steady, though his palms felt clammy. "What are you doing here? The term hasn't started. And the show running for the newest L'Oréal Paris line of products is a few countries over in Europe."
Lucius chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Oh, but it has, little wizard. For some of us, at least. And as for my presence… let's just say I'm here to ensure that certain… anomalies… are appropriately dealt with before they can cause further disruption to the natural order of things." His eyes narrowed, and a distinct current of dark magic emanated from him, subtle but unmistakably menacing. "I believe we have some unfinished business, don't we? Something about a rather dramatic display at the Ministry? Something about a… gargoyle?"
Echo felt a cold fury begin to simmer beneath his carefully constructed composure. He had healed a corrupted griffin, befriended Centaurs, and mastered dark magic within himself. He was not the same terrified child Malfoy had taunted at the Ministry.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Femboy monthly," Echo lied, his voice flat, not at all pretending he had the emotions to hide.
Lucius laughed, a short, sharp bark. "Oh, I think you do. The Ministry is very interested in unique magical manifestations, especially those that defy conventional understanding. And the Headmaster… he has a regrettable tendency to shelter those who are… unconventional. But some of us believe that such power should be… contained. Or, perhaps, channeled appropriately." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the other figures shifting subtly behind him. "And I believe your unique gift, little monster, could be very useful indeed. Under the right guidance, of course." Echo narrowed his eyes at the older boy while Sniffles hissed beside Echo. Lucius smugly smiled and huffed a laugh. "The Dementor should have finished you. Should have drained you dry before things came to… this!"
Echo stared, his acting mask falling to the wayside, replaced by a cold, penetrating horror. "The Dementor?" he whispered, his voice trembling not with fear, but with a dawning, terrible realization. "You… you sent it?"
Lucius looked at Echo with a twisted smile. "Of course, I did. It was a small… diversion, a little nudge to accelerate you toward the darker parts of this world. It's a pity it failed. It's a great pity. Dumbledore's pet projects always prove so… resilient." He chuffed another dry laugh.
Echo knew what he meant. Malfoy wanted to control him, to harness his power for his own dark purposes. The same kind of dark power that had corrupted the griffin had almost made Echo cast the Killing Curse. "I won't let you," Echo said, his voice low, a tremor of the beast within stirring, not in destructive rage, but in fierce defiance. "My magic is mine. It's not for you, or for anyone like you."
Lucius's sneer deepened. "Such defiance. Predictable. But charming in its naiveté. Perhaps a demonstration is in order. A reminder of what happens when little monsters refuse to cooperate." He raised his silver-topped cane, and a chilling crackle of dark magic emanated from its tip. "Consider this a lesson, little wizard. A lesson in obedience."
Echo gripped his wand, his heart pounding. He was alone. Dumbledore was away. Snape was nowhere to be seen. There was a faint whoosh as the two cloaked figures, the Death Eaters, moved with unsettling speed, flanking Lucius Malfoy. The heavier man, whom Echo now recognized as Crabbe Sr., lumbered forward, his wand already drawn.
"Expelliarmus!" Echo yelled, instinctively firing a Disarming Charm at Crabbe Sr.
The spell hit Crabbe Sr. squarely, but instead of sending his wand flying, it merely staggered him, making him grunt in annoyance. His wand, though it wobbled, remained firmly in his grasp. Echo's eyes widened. He had forgotten; Death Eaters often used powerful counter-charms or wore enchanted robes that weakened offensive spells. His first-year Disarming Charm, even with his burgeoning power, wasn't enough against them.
"Pathetic," Lucius sneered, raising his cane higher. "Such crude magic for one so… gifted. Perhaps a more direct approach is needed."
The cane glowed with a sickly green light. Echo felt a chilling wave of magic wash over him, a familiar, insidious pressure on his mind. The Imperius Curse. Lucius was trying to control him. He immediately slammed his mental shields up, picturing them as solid, impenetrable walls of obsidian. The pressure hit the walls, causing them to buckle slightly, but they held. He staggered back a step, gritting his teeth.
"Resilient, are we?" Lucius mused, a flicker of genuine surprise in his cold eyes. "Impressive for a child. But we have all night." He pushed harder, the green light intensifying, and Echo felt his very will being strained, a desperate battle for control raging within his mind.
But Echo had spent weeks training, learning to identify and redirect the currents of dark magic. He remembered the griffin, the knot of dark thorns, the way he had dissolved and transformed it. He wouldn't let this be a battle of wills; he would make it a battle of intent. He focused on the influx of Malfoy's magic, not fighting it head-on, but trying to understand its essence. The Imperius Curse was about control, about bending another's will. Echo responded not with defiance, but with a sudden, devastating release.
He channeled his unique magic, not to push back but to pull, drawing Malfoy's dark magical intent into himself, absorbing it, and then twisting it. He didn't just resist; he transformed the invasive magic, subtly reversing its flow.
Lucius gasped, his eyes widening in shock. The green light around his cane flickered wildly, then vanished. He stumbled back, clutching his head, a look of profound disorientation on his face. "What in Merlin's name—" he began, his voice laced with uncharacteristic fear.
Echo didn't wait. He snapped his wand, pointing it at the ornate chandelier hanging precariously above the Great Hall. "Accio!"
The ancient, heavy chandelier shuddered, then began to swing wildly, groaning on its chains. Lucius, Crabbe Sr., and the two Death Eaters looked up in alarm, their carefully composed sneers replaced by expressions of sudden panic.
"Stupefy!" Echo yelled, aiming at Crabbe Sr., who was still recovering from the weakened Disarming Charm.
This time, the Stunning Spell, imbued with Echo's surge of desperate power, hit its mark. Crabbe Sr. collapsed with a loud thud, unconscious.
"Confringo!" Echo cried, aiming at the legs of the nearest Death Eater.
A burst of raw, concussive force exploded, sending the cloaked figure flying backward, slamming into the wall with a grunt of pain. The other Death Eater instinctively raised a shield, but Echo was already moving.
"Incendio!" he roared, not a directed jet of flame, but a wide, sweeping arc, aiming at the rows of tables between himself and the remaining attackers.
Flames erupted along the polished wood, creating a blazing barrier. The last Death Eater recoiled, distracted.
Lucius Malfoy, however, had recovered. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his eyes glinted with malicious intent. "You insolent brat! You will regret this!" He raised his cane again, and a blinding flash of crimson light shot towards Echo.
"Crucio!" Lucius snarled, letting loose the Torture Curse.
Echo felt a searing pain, as if white-hot needles were being driven into every nerve ending in his body. He screamed, a raw, involuntary sound, dropping his wand. He collapsed to his knees, writhing, the agony absolute and consuming. This was the Unforgivable Curse, the pain Echo had glimpsed, the suffering he had learned to understand. But this was no theoretical exercise. This was real.
Even still, with a spell that caused unbridled pain, it still felt so dull. Would he have to learn pain all over? Wouldn't pain hurt more with negativity taking the place of positivity? Whatever the case, it doesn't matter now.
Through the haze of pain, a cold, clear thought pierced his mind: control the dark magic. Redirect it. Dissolve the knot. He remembered the griffin, the pain he had taken from it, and the transformation he had wrought. He focused not on stopping the pain but on understanding it, absorbing it, and transmuting it. He reached deep within himself, finding the source of his dark magic, the ancient power that had awakened Wick and allowed him to comprehend the Unforgivables.
He pulled the pain into himself, not letting it overwhelm him, but consuming it, transforming its destructive energy into raw power. The agony lessened, replaced by a surge of cold, focused energy. The beast within roared, but it was a roar of control, not chaos. Echo lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a terrible, consuming fire. His black wand, which had fallen from his grasp, trembled and then, defying gravity, rose into his outstretched hand. He looked at Lucius Malfoy, who was still pouring magic into the Cruciatus Curse, a look of utter bewilderment and dawning fear on his face as he realized his curse was no longer working.
"You want pain, Malfoy?" Echo whispered, his voice low and guttural, resonating with a power that shook the very air. "I will show you pain!"
He pointed his wand at Lucius. He felt the familiar, terrible surge of the Cruciatus Curse forming on his lips, the raw, agonizing power that could twist a mind into torment. But then, another image flashed in his mind: Lilly's face, her honest eyes; Snape's grim, unyielding demand for control; Hagrid's gentle wisdom about life. He fought the beast, not to deny its power, but to redefine its purpose. This would be his test, to see if he truly had lost all he had gained.
He would not inflict pain. He would reflect it.
"Bombarda!" Echo roared, his voice amplified, echoing through the Great Hall.
But it was not a simple blasting curse. It was a transformed Confringo, infused with the essence of the pain he had just absorbed, the power he had just mastered. It was directed not at Lucius's body, but at his magic, at the very core of his intent. A wave of pure, concentrated magical force, imbued with the raw, agonizing sensation of the Cruciatus Curse, slammed into Lucius Malfoy. He shrieked, a sound of absolute, unadulterated pain, as his own twisted magic, amplified and reflected, turned back upon him. He clutched his head, collapsing to the floor, writhing and screaming, consumed by an invisible torment that mirrored the one he had just tried to inflict.
The last Death Eater, seeing his master collapse, let out a strangled cry of fear. He pointed his wand at Echo, but before he could utter a spell, a massive, shadowy form launched itself from the ceiling rafters, moving with impossible speed.
It was Wick. Enormous enough to be ridden but not enough so that she couldn't move through the school with some ease, especially the doors, her scales rippling with an iridescent black, her emerald eyes blazing. She had burst through the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, drawn by the desperate magical battle, by the call of her wizard's pain. She landed with a bone-shaking thud, her massive wings unfurling, sending gusts of wind through the hall. She let out a guttural roar, a sound that vibrated through the very stones of Hogwarts.
The Death Eater froze, his face paling to a sickly white. He screamed, a pathetic sound, and tried to Apparate away. But Wick was too fast. With a swift, powerful lunge, she snapped her jaws, not at the Death Eater, but at the ground directly in front of him, sending up a shower of sparks and stone. The Death Eater, terrified, stumbled backward, right into the burning tables. He shrieked as the flames licked at his robes, forcing him to roll on the ground to extinguish them. Wick then turned her gaze to Lucius, who was still writhing in agony on the floor. She let out a low, rumbling growl, her emerald eyes narrowing, a thin wisp of smoke curling from her nostrils.
Echo, still gasping for breath, struggled to stand. He clutched his wand, his body trembling, but the pain had vanished, leaving only a profound exhaustion and a cold, terrible satisfaction. He had won. He had faced them alone, and he had not only survived but also mastered a new, terrifying aspect of his power.
"Wick," Echo said, his voice weak but firm. "Enough. Don't hurt him. Not like this."
Wick whined, a low, frustrated sound, but obeyed, her massive head lowering, though her eyes remained fixed on the suffering Lucius.
Suddenly, the grand doors of the Great Hall burst open again, this time with a frantic, echoing bang. Professor McGonagall, her severe expression twisted with alarm, stood framed in the doorway, her wand drawn and pointed. Behind her was a disheveled Professor Flitwick, whose face was pale, and he peered around her shoulder. Their gazes swept the chaotic scene: the smoldering tables, the unconscious Crabbe Sr., the groaning Death Eater attempting to douse himself, the writhing Lucius Malfoy, and in the center of it all, a massive, iridescent black dragon and a trembling, exhausted Echo.
McGonagall's jaw dropped. "Merlin's beard! Echo! What in the name of all that is magical is going on here? And where did that… that creature come from?!" Her voice, usually sharp and authoritative, was laced with genuine shock.
Wick let out a low rumble, her eyes still on Malfoy, but she didn't make any aggressive moves. Echo, swaying on his feet, raised a hand weakly. "Professor… it's… It's a long story."
Flitwick, ever the pragmatist, was already assessing the situation. "That's a Hebridean Black, Minerva! Nearly fully grown, by the looks of it! And it appears to be… defending young Echo?"
"Yes, Professor," Echo managed, his voice raspy. "She's Wick. And they… they attacked me." He pointed a trembling finger at Lucius and the singed Death Eater. Only to find all three of them gone. Echo rapidly scanned the room while Minerva looked around with equal confusion. Realizing he looked like a madman, he exclaimed, "Death Eaters, Professor." Echo tried to confirm, wiping a hand across his forehead. "They came with him. He wanted… he wanted to control my magic."
"Who?" Minerva asked.
"Lucius Malfoy. He used the Cruciatus Curse. He tried to control me." Echo said quickly.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed dangerously, a cold fury replacing her shock. "The Cruciatus Curse?! In my school?!" She looked at him again and pressed, "And are you sure it was him?"
"Professor, please, you have to believe me! I know I have no evidence besides my words, but Im telling the truth! What reason would I have to lie?" Echo stressed.
"Im not saying I don't believe you, but we have several layers of magical security. If Lucious and his death eaters had attacked, they should have been sensed, but they weren't. Also, we have confirmation that Lucious and Hois aren't still on holiday in the Maldives. Im sorry, but without proper evidence, the Ministry won't take your word, especially seeing how powerful and influential the Malfoys are," Minerva told him.
Echo just looked at the ground in defeat. McGonagall's face hardened into a mask of grim determination. "Flitwick, check the security charms. We must have been breached! I'll send a Patronus to the Ministry. This is an outrage of the highest order."
Flitwick nodded, his small frame moving with surprising speed as he ran off to check on the protective measures around the school.
McGonagall then turned her attention back to Echo, her gaze softening slightly, though concern still creased her brow. "Echo, are you hurt? What happened to the ceiling?" She looked up at the gaping hole above them, from which a few loose stones were still falling.
Echo looked up, too, wincing. "Oh. Right. Wick kind of… burst through. She sensed I was in danger." He gave a weak, tired smile. "She's very loyal."
McGonagall stared at the massive dragon, which was now nudging Echo gently with its snout, a soft purr rumbling in its chest. "Loyal is an understatement, Mr. Echo. I've never seen a dragon behave in such a manner. And to burst through the Great Hall ceiling… that will certainly require some explanation for the Headmaster." She sighed, running a hand through her stern bun. "But first, let's get you to the Hospital Wing."
Echo shook his head. "I'm fine, Professor. Just… tired. I healed myself. The Cruciatus Curse… it didn't last." He remembered the terrible transformation, the reflection of pain, and a shiver ran down his spine. "I'm just… glad it's over." Then, as if his mouth had a mind of its own, Echo blabbered out, "But professor, why are you suddenly so worried about me?"
McGonagall's gaze softened further. "Mr. Echo, why would you ask such a thing? Of course I'm worried about you! That was a terrifying ordeal. No student should ever have to face something like that, let alone in the safety of Hogwarts."
Echo looked at her, then down at his feet, scuffing a worn shoe against the stone floor. "Because… because you're always so strict with me, Professor. In class. I thought you didn't… I thought you didn't like me." He hesitated, then blurted out, "I really wanted you to like me, Professor. I really wanted to learn from you, but I was always too scared to ask, or even to try, because you seemed so… stern."
McGonagall blinked, her stern expression crumbling away, replaced by a look of profound shock and a deep, unexpected hurt. Her eyes, usually so sharp, softened with a visible pang. Echo, perhaps emboldened by her softening gaze, or simply unable to hold back the flood of emotions any longer, felt his own eyes sting. A single, hot tear traced a path down his cheek, then another, and another. He tried to blink them back, ashamed of his weakness, but they kept coming, a silent testament to the fear, the loneliness, and the yearning he had kept bottled up for so long.
"Mr. Echo," McGonagall murmured, her voice losing its edge, becoming unexpectedly gentle. She took a step closer, reaching out a hand, then hesitated, unsure of how to offer comfort. When Echo made no move to pull away, she gently placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers surprisingly warm and steady. "Oh, Echo, my boy." She knelt slowly, bringing herself closer to his level, her gaze filled with a genuine, aching sympathy. "To think… to think you believed that."
Her eyes swept over the damaged Great Hall, the still-smoking tables, and the immense, silent dragon staring her down like a potential threat, nostrils flared, and teeth bared in warning. Then they returned to Echo's tear-streaked face. "I am so, so sorry, Echo," she said, her voice husky with emotion. "I truly am. I never… I never meant for you to feel that way. Never. If I seemed stern, if I pushed you hard in class, it was because… because I see potential in you, great potential. And because I care."
She paused, her gaze distant for a moment, as if recalling painful memories. "You must understand, Echo," she continued, her voice gaining a quiet intensity, "the world outside these walls is a dangerous place. Magic, while beautiful, can also be terrifyingly unforgiving. I have seen too many young witches and wizards… too many bright sparks… extinguished before their time. Not always by dark wizards, but sometimes by simple, tragic mistakes. By spells improperly cast, by moments of carelessness, by a lack of discipline."
She looked back at him, her eyes earnest. "My sternness, as you call it, is born from a desire to see you and all my students succeed. To be strong. To be precise. To be safe. It is because I want you to be the very best you can be, to be able to face whatever darkness comes your way, to protect yourselves and others. I believe in discipline, yes, but it is a discipline rooted in care, not in dislike. Never in dislike, Echo." She squeezed his shoulder gently. "I may not always show it well, but I truly… I truly do care for all my lions and for all my students. And I certainly don't dislike you, Echo. Quite the opposite."
Echo, overwhelmed by her words, felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. Without thinking, he leaned into her touch, and McGonagall, with a soft, understanding sigh, pulled him into an awkward but surprisingly comforting hug. His head rested against her starched robes, and for the first time in a long time, Echo felt truly safe, truly seen. He felt the tightness in his chest ease, the knot of loneliness loosening. McGonagall wasn't stern; she was fiercely protective. She wasn't cold; she cared deeply. The embrace, though brief, spoke volumes.
After a moment, McGonagall gently pulled back, her hand still resting on his shoulder. Her eyes were now filled with a softer warmth. Wick, sensing the shift in mood, lowered her head further, her rumbling purr a deep vibration in the Great Hall.
"Now, Echo," McGonagall began, her voice quieter now, "I confess I am still bewildered by some things. Why, my dear boy, were you so seemingly terrified of me, yet you persisted with after-school lessons with Professor Cleen? I thought you struggled in Potions last year."
Echo flinched, pulling away slightly, his gaze dropping to the floor. The relief he'd felt moments before was replaced by a fresh wave of shame. "Because... because I didn't want a repeat of last year, Professor," he mumbled, his voice barely audible. "I... I can't. Not again."
McGonagall frowned, a puzzled expression on her face. "A repeat of last year? What do you mean, Echo? Your grades were certainly not stellar in Potions, but nothing so catastrophic as to warrant this level of distress."
Before Echo could explain, a familiar, high-pitched cackle echoed through the cavernous hall. "Ooh, the little half-blood's spouting secrets now, is he?" a voice shrilled. Peeves the Poltergeist, a chaotic blur of mischief, zipped into view, hovering upside down above them, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Don't you fret, little wizard! Peeves knows all the juicy details! And Professor Minerva, dear old strict Minerva, always so busy with her perfect little lions, never sees the real messes, does she?"
Peeves spun in a dizzying circle, then, with a flourish, conjured a shimmering, ethereal parchment in his hands. It unfurled, impossibly long, stretching down towards the floor of the Great Hall, covered in an endless, looping script of dates and infractions. "Behold!" Peeves shrieked, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "The record of Echo's many transgressions in Potions! A whole year's worth of after-school torture with poor old Professor Cleen, who thought a thousand lines of 'I must not blow up my cauldron' would teach him manners! Ha! It only taught him to dread the sight of ink and parchment!"
McGonagall stared at the spectral scroll, her eyes widening with each passing line. The dates, the sheer volume of detentions – nearly every single week of the entire school year, marked with various infractions, from "improperly sliced newt eyes" to "accidental cauldron explosion resulting in minor singe to robes and dignity of Professor Cleen." Her face, usually so composed, paled. She hadn't been aware. The daily reports from professors were often just summaries, and Cleen, being a stickler for discipline, would simply mark "detention served." She had assumed a few, occasional infractions. Not this. Not a near-year-long ordeal.
Her gaze swept from the impossibly long detention record to Echo, who stood there, shoulders slumped, his face a mask of weary resignation and shame. The sheer, relentless burden of it hit her, not just the detentions themselves, but the isolation, the constant pressure, the feeling of perpetual failure he must have endured. It wasn't about grades; it was about humiliation, about being constantly singled out and punished.
"Echo..." McGonagall whispered, the anger she usually reserved for Peeves replaced by a deep, heartbreaking understanding. "All this time... you were dealing with this?"
Echo simply nodded, unable to meet her gaze. The weight of his hidden struggle, now exposed, felt unbearable.
Peeves, oblivious or uncaring, continued his gleeful recitation. "Oh, and the best part, Minerva dear! The little half-blood never even told anyone! Not his dear ol' Head of House, not even that grumpy young Snape who probably liked seeing him suffer! Kept it all tucked away, like a little secret, building up that resentment, oh yes!" He let out another cackle, dissolving into a shimmering, mischievous mist.
McGonagall ignored Peeves, her attention solely on Echo. Her eyes, usually so sharp, now held a raw, self-reproachful look. "Echo, why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you come to me? Or Professor Dumbledore? Or anyone else?"
Echo finally looked up, his eyes bleak. "Because... because it felt like it was my fault. Like I deserved it. Cleen always said I was clumsy, that I didn't pay attention, that I was a disruption. And... and my magic... it was so hard to control in Potions. It always felt like it was fighting me, making things worse." He gestured vaguely at his hands. "It just felt like I was broken. And I didn't want to bother anyone, or make more trouble."
McGonagall reached out again, her hand gently tracing the tear streaks on his cheek. "Oh, Echo. You are not broken. Never. And you are never a bother. To think... to think I was so blind, so focused on outward appearances, on academic discipline, that I missed the true struggle you were enduring." Her voice was thick with regret. "Cleen... Cleen is a fine Potions Master, but perhaps he lacks... delicacy. And the ability to recognize magic that operates outside the usual parameters." She looked at Wick, who was still silently observing, then back at Echo. "Your magic is not broken, my boy. It is simply... different. And powerful, as I im sure you've discovered and managed to regain, from what I'm told. And perhaps potions, like your magic, simply require a different approach. An approach that Cleen, for all his brilliance, may not possess."
She rose, her expression hardening not with anger at Echo, but with a quiet, resolute fury directed elsewhere. "This will not stand. Not another day. No student of Hogwarts will endure such… such a relentless and unaddressed burden. This changes now, Echo. Everything changes."
"You don't have to worry about that, Professor," Echo said, interrupting her. "Cleen and I… we actually figured something out this summer. Even sitting on a cactus would've been more comfortable than those detentions." A faint, weary smile touched his lips. "Now, I just have to prepare and stir the cauldron with my wand. It's… weird, but it works."
McGonagall's gaze softened further, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "With your wand, you say? That is certainly unconventional. But if it works, then it works, and I am glad to hear you've found a way. Even so, Mr. Echo, I shall still be having a very stern word with Professor Cleen. This is a matter that should never have been allowed to fester for so long."