The wind whipped around Echo, tugging at his robes and sending strands of his black hair dancing. He was perched precariously on Godric, the magnificent griffin, whose powerful wings beat a steady rhythm against the morning air. Below them, the hybrid Quidditch team, a motley collection of students from all four houses, zipped and dove through the practice pitch. Their upcoming game against the formidable Ravenclaw team required intense focus, and Echo, their newly appointed (and highly reluctant) strategic advisor, was supposed to provide critical aerial observations.
"Echo! Keep an eye on Longbottom's positioning!" shouted Amos from below.
"And Fingerlys's feints! He's too predictable!" yelled another.
Echo, however, was not observing. His gaze was fixed not on the players but on a small, enchanted hand mirror he held in one hand. His black hair, usually so stoic, flickered with a faint, questioning violet. He was attempting, with all his might, to master the art of facial expressions.
"A simple smile," he mumbled to his reflection, his lips twisting into a contorted, almost painful grimace. "Geeze, I'm trying to look amused, not like I'm having stomach problems." He tried again, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Frown. Come on, look like I'm unhappy. Not like I'm completely confused about my own teeth."
Godric, sensing Echo's distraction, let out a low, rumbling growl of exasperation. The Griffin banked sharply, sending a jolt through Echo's body. He barely noticed, too busy with his self-imposed lesson. His hair flared with a frustrated crimson as he tried a look of "thinking hard," which instead made him appear as if he were trying to solve a super tough math problem while also having a bad headache.
"Maybe just a little eyebrow raise," he thought, trying to move only that muscle. "Work with me, face, don't make it look like half my face just stopped working."
Suddenly, Godric let out a much louder, more insistent squawk. The griffin did a sharp barrel roll, a move usually for dodging Bludgers. Echo, completely surprised, yelped, and the mirror flew from his hand. He clung to Godric's thick, feathery mane, his legs kicking wildly in the air. His hair, now a frantic, panicked white, pulsed with real fear.
"Whoa there, Echo!" came a familiar, stern voice from below.
Godric righted himself, circling back to the ground. Madame Hooch, the Quidditch instructor, stood with her hands on her hips, her expression a mix of concern and annoyance. "Mr. Echo," she said, her voice cutting through the air like a Bludger. "I appreciate you wanting to improve yourself, but Quidditch practice isn't the time for it. You almost fell off, Godric! And what, exactly, were you doing with that mirror?"
Echo, still shaking a little, slid off Godric's back, his white hair slowly fading to a dull, embarrassed grey. He picked up his mirror, which, amazingly, was still in one piece. "Madame Hooch," Echo said, his voice flat, though a faint, almost invisible blush crept up his pale cheeks. "I was just trying to fix a big problem with how I show emotions. My facial expressions, I've figured out, aren't very good despite the fact that I can feel emotions and emote them with my voice."
Madame Hooch stared at him for a long moment, then let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years of dealing with strange wizards. "Good or not, Mr. Echo, your job right now is to help the Quidditch team. Not to practice your angry glares." Madame Hooch, however, wasn't quite finished. She fixed Echo with a shrewd look and inquired. "Just how bad are these 'suboptimal' expressions, Mr. Echo? Give us a demonstration. A happy face, for instance."
Echo blinked, his grey hair flickering back to its natural black with a brief, analytical blue. He raised the mirror again, studying his reflection intently. He took a deep breath, then slowly, deliberately, attempted to form a smile. His lips stretched wide, his cheeks pulled taut, but his eyes remained hollow and unblinking.
Amos Diggory, who had been watching with keen interest, burst out laughing. "Echo! You look like you're trying to eat your own nose!"
Echo's attempted smile faltered, his black hair pulsing with a hint of exasperation. He tried again, this time attempting a more subtle upturn of the corners of his mouth. The result was a strange, lopsided grimace that seemed to pull one side of his face higher than the other.
"Now you look like you want to bite my head off!" Amos exclaimed, clutching his stomach with laughter.
Echo sighed, a long, weary sound. His black hair shifted to a deep, frustrated violet. He made one last attempt, a complex contortion of his facial muscles that seemed to involve every part of his face except his eyes.
Amos stared, his laughter dying down to a bewildered chuckle. "I'm not even sure how to describe that one, Echo. It's… a choice."
Echo lowered the mirror, his face a mask of profound weariness. "I really wish there was a way to fix this," he said, his voice flat. "I've tried magic, and it didn't help. It's actually kind of scary. I'll wake up in a good mood, go to the mirror, and see this deadpan expression staring back instead of a smile."
Madame Hooch stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, perhaps your facial muscles are just a bit stiff. They might need a way to soften them up."
One of the Quidditch players, a burly Gryffindor Beater, piped up, "I got hit in the face with a Bludger a few times, and my worry lines smoothed right out."
Echo's black hair flickered with a spark of desperate curiosity. "Under normal circumstances, I'd say that was stupid," he admitted, "but at this point, I'm willing to throw anything at the wall to see if it sticks. Whack my face!"
"Absolutely not!" Madame Hooch interjected, her voice firm. "It's one thing to get hit with a Bludger in a game, but to do it on purpose? No, Mr. Echo."
"But Madame Hooch," Echo argued, his black hair pulsing with a determined green. "If it works, it's efficient. How about three times? Or twelve?"
The Beater grinned. "Make it a baker's dozen!"
"Agreed," Echo said, nodding.
"No!" Madame Hooch roared, her voice echoing across the pitch. "Mr. Echo, you will find another way to fix your face! That is final!"
Madame Hooch then clapped her hands sharply. "Alright, everyone! Back to practice! Longbottom, I want to see more aggressive blocking! Snape, less predictable feints! And Mr. Echo, I expect you to be observing this time, not admiring your reflection!"
As the team reluctantly mounted their brooms and Godric took to the air once more, Echo lingered for a moment beside the burly Gryffindor Beater. He leaned in, his voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Meet me after dinner, by the Whomping Willow. We'll try that Bludger idea. Three times, as I said."
The Gryffindor boy's eyes lit up. "Deal!" he whispered back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "I've always wanted to hit someone with a Bludger on purpose."
A few hours later, the hallways of Hogwarts were quieter, and the afternoon classes were in full swing. Echo stood with Severus and Lily in a secluded corridor, his grey hair dull with exhaustion. He had just finished explaining the bizarre events of the Quidditch practice and his even more bizarre attempt to "fix" his facial expressions.
Severus, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. "So, the Bludger idea," he drawled, a hint of his usual sneer returning. "Did it truly work?"
Echo blinked slowly. His black hair pulsed with a faint, troubled violet. "It did something," he stated, his voice flat. "But it was more of a concussion." He paused, his hollow eyes scanning their faces, a flicker of confusion in their depths. "Who… who are you two?"
Lily sighed, a long, weary sound. She reached out and gently took Echo's hand. "Come on, Echo," she said softly, her voice laced with concern. "I'm taking you to Madam Pomfrey."
Echo allowed himself to be led, his gaze still unfocused. "Where… where am I?" he mumbled, his black hair flickering with a lost, bewildered hue.