Inside the compartment, the air was thick with the scent of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and the low hum of the train. Andrew looked at Harry and Ron, then slowly slid the history book across the seat. He pointed to the moving photograph of the aristocratic, dark-haired boy—the one who looked like his own twin.
"I should probably address the elephant in the room," Andrew said, his voice smooth but tinged with a dry, self-deprecating irony. "I spent my morning wondering why every adult in Diagon Alley looked at me like I was a walking plague. Then I found this."
Ron leaned in, squinting at the page. His face went from pale to beet-red in three seconds. "Blimey! That's... that's Him! That's You-Know-Who before he... well, before he turned into a monster!"
Harry pushed his glasses up, staring between the book and Andrew. "You really do have his face. Exactly."
"It's a bit of a cosmic joke, isn't it?" Andrew sighed, leaning back. "I want to be a jeweler and a blacksmith, and I'm cursed with the face of the man who tried to burn the world down. I don't even know his real name—the book just calls him a title."
Ron let out a sudden, hearty bark of a laugh, slapping his knee. "Mate, talk about bad luck! You're probably the only person in Britain who has to apologize for being too handsome!"
Harry chuckled too, scratching his messy hair. "I thought having a scar was bad, but having that face? You're definitely unluckier than me, Andrew."
The tension broke, replaced by a budding camaraderie. But the peace didn't last. The compartment door slid open with a sharp clack.
A pale boy with slicked-back blond hair stood there, flanked by two thick-set, mean-looking cronies. Draco Malfoy sneered, his eyes landing on Harry. "Is it true? They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter is in this compartment."
Ron stiffened, whispering a warning to Harry about the Malfoy family's dark reputation. Draco's eyes flicked to Ron's hand-me-down robes. "Red hair and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley."
As Draco stepped forward to insult Ron further, Andrew stood up. He moved with a grace that was both fluid and commanding, placing himself directly between the blond boy and his new friends.
"That's quite enough," Andrew said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant tone that sounded like steel striking stone. "We were having a perfectly pleasant conversation about books and metalwork. I don't believe we invited a critic."
Draco squinted, looking Andrew up and down. "And who are you? Some—"
He stopped. His breath hitched in his throat. Draco's grey eyes went wide, tracing the sharp jawline and the dark, wavy hair of the boy standing before him. As a Malfoy, he had seen private family portraits—sketches of the "Dark Lord" in his youth that most of the world had forgotten.
Draco looked behind him. His two cronies, Crabbe and Goyle, weren't even standing anymore; they had literally fainted from pure, instinctive terror at the sight of the "Dark Lord's Ghost," slumped against the corridor walls.
"You..." Draco stammered, his face turning a sickly shade of green. "I... I have to... my father... I forgot something!"
In a blind panic, Draco grabbed the handle and slammed the door shut so hard the glass rattled. He didn't even look back for his unconscious friends.
Harry and Ron erupted into fits of uncontrollable laughter, doubling over in their seats. "Did you see his face?" Ron wheezed. "He looked like he'd seen a Dementor!"
Andrew stood there for a moment, then slowly brought his hand to his forehead in a massive facepalm.
"I can't even stand up for my friends without causing a localized heart attack," Andrew muttered into his hand. "I'm going to have to wear a bag over my head just to get through the Opening Feast, aren't I?"
"Don't you dare," Harry said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. "It's the best defense we've got. You don't even need a wand, Andrew. You just need to look at them."
The laughter in the compartment had just begun to settle when the door slid open for the third time. This time, it wasn't a threat, but a girl with thick, bushy brown hair and a bossy, hurried voice.
"Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one," she said, her words tripping over each other.
She stopped mid-sentence as her gaze landed on Andrew. Unlike the others, she didn't scream or faint. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, her brain visibly whirring like the gears of a clock. She looked at the book on the seat—the one showing the "Dark Lord" at sixteen—and then back at the eleven-year-old Andrew.
"Well," she said, crossing her arms. "That is a statistically improbable coincidence. You're a dead ringer for the young You-Know-Who. Honestly, I've read Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, and the resemblance is uncanny."
She stepped closer, peering at his jawline as if inspecting a museum exhibit. "Did you have some sort of magical plastic surgery? Or perhaps a permanent Polyjuice complication? Logically, the Dark Lord cannot be an eleven-year-old boy sitting on a train eating Chocolate Frogs."
Andrew gave a weary, charismatic half-smile. "It's entirely natural, I'm afraid. And it's been a massive pain in the neck since I stepped onto the platform. I'm Andrew."
"Hermione Granger," she said, satisfied with his answer. "Well, natural or not, we have a mission. Poor Neville is a wreck."
"A smith doesn't just make things, Hermione," Andrew said, standing up and drawing his Blackthorn and Thestral-hair wand. "He finds the missing pieces. Let's see if the 'Core of Perspective' lives up to its name."
Andrew stepped into the corridor. Instead of shouting, he closed his eyes and tapped his wand against the iron floor of the train. He felt the vibrations—the rhythmic thrum of the engine, the movement of the students, and a small, frantic heartbeat beneath a seat three carriages down.
"Found him," Andrew said.
He led Hermione to a compartment near the front. He reached under a seat and gently scooped up a very damp, very startled toad. When they returned to the corridor, a round-faced, tearful boy was waiting.
Neville Longbottom looked up at Andrew. He froze, his breath hitching. He knew the stories better than most; his family had suffered more than most. But as he looked into Andrew's eyes, he didn't see the cold cruelty of the Lestranges or the Dark Lord. He saw a boy who held a toad with a gentle, calloused hand—a hand that knew the value of life.
"Here you go, Neville," Andrew said, his voice sweet and steady. "He was just trying to get a better view of the Scottish Highlands."
Neville took the toad, his hands trembling slightly, but he didn't run. "T-thank you," he whispered. "You... you aren't him. My gran says the eyes always tell the truth. Yours are... nice."
Andrew beamed, a flash of genuine light that made even Hermione blink. "Thank you, Neville. That means more than you know."
As the train rounded a bend, the first glimpse of Hogwarts Castle appeared through the mist—a sprawling fortress of stone and magic.
"Look at those battlements," Andrew whispered, his smith's heart racing. "Imagine the forge they must have in the basement of a place like that."