The Fifth Marauder

A blast of ice-cold water shocked William awake. He bolted upright, gasping and sputtering, his thin pajamas clinging to his skin.

Robert's cackling filled the room. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

William blinked water from his eyes, his heart hammering. For a moment, he'd forgotten where - when - he was. The sight of his brother wielding an empty water glass brought him crashing back to 1971.

"You absolute wanker!" William scrambled out of his soaked bed, lunging for Robert, who danced away with the practiced ease of someone who'd pulled this stunt before.

"Better hurry up before the hot water's gone!" Robert called over his shoulder as he darted into the hallway.

William grabbed fresh clothes and stumbled to the bathroom, only to find Michael leaning against the doorframe, shoulders shaking with poorly suppressed laughter.

"Enjoyed the show, did you?" William tried to push past him.

Michael's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Rob's getting more creative. Last time it was just a feather up your nose."

William glared at Michael, about to retort, when Thomas's voice boomed from downstairs.

"Oi! Get your arses down here before breakfast goes cold!"

Michael's grin faded. He pushed off the doorframe and jerked his head toward the stairs. "Better hurry up. Tom's made eggs."

"Where's dad?" William's question slipped out before he could stop himself. The memories of this life were still patchy, fragments that surfaced at random.

"Where do you think?" Michael's smile turned slightly bitter. "Mum's off on another contract in Bristol. Seven days this time. Dad's… well."

"Probably passed out at the pub again," Robert's voice drifted up from the bottom of the stairs. The playfulness from moments ago had evaporated.

William's stomach twisted. In his old life, his father had been steady, reliable. The kind who wore sweater vests and read the Sunday paper. This new reality - a father who abandoned his children whenever their mother worked away - sat like lead in his gut.

"Move it!" Thomas called again. The clatter of plates punctuated his words. "And someone wake Will- oh, never mind. Rob's handled that."

William shivered in his wet clothes. "Let me change first."

"Two minutes," Michael said, already heading downstairs. "Or Tom'll have both our heads."

The casual way his brothers accepted their father's absence struck William harder than the ice water had. This wasn't just a one-off occurrence - this was their normal. Their mother taking nursing contracts to make ends meet, their father drinking away his responsibilities, and Thomas, only fourteen, stepping into the role of parent.

William peeled off his soaked pajamas, his mind racing. He'd spent so much time worrying about Hogwarts and Voldemort that he'd missed what was right in front of him: his new family was broken in ways his old one never was.

"Where do you think?" Michael's smile turned slightly bitter. "Mum's off on another contract in Bristol. Seven days this time. So Dad's probably face-down at the Red Lion again."

"Already?" The word slipped out before William could stop it.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "You know how he gets when she's away. Though usually he waits till at least noon before starting in."

The casual way Michael discussed their father's drinking sent a chill through William that had nothing to do with his wet clothes. This wasn't just a one-off occurrence. This was normal for them.

"Hurry up and change," Michael said. "Jake actually made breakfast instead of just pouring cereal, and you know how tetchy he gets when his cooking goes cold."

William had just pulled on fresh clothes when three sharp knocks echoed through the house. The sound carried an odd formality that seemed out of place in their working-class neighborhood.

The front door creaked open to reveal a witch in deep blue robes, her hawk-like eyes scanning the entrance hall. "I'm looking for William Keating."

"That's me," William said, stepping forward. Despite knowing this moment would come, his voice wavered.

"Madam Ylonda Hooch." Her gaze swept over the brothers, lingering on Thomas. "Where are your parents?"

"Dad's out," Thomas said, straightening his shoulders. "And Mum's working."

"Muggles," she muttered under her breath, her nose wrinkling. "Always leaving their children to fend for themselves."

"Excuse me?" Robert stepped forward, but Michael grabbed his arm.

"William Keating?" Her gaze fixed on William. "I'm here about your Hogwarts letter."

"The joke mail?" Thomas frowned. "Look, we don't appreciate-"

"This is no joke." Professor Hooch strode into their living room uninvited. "William is a wizard, and I'm here to prove it." She extended her hand. "May I?"

William hesitated, then nodded. Her fingers clasped his wrist, and suddenly warmth flooded through him - like sunshine breaking through clouds, like static electricity but pleasant. Magic. Real, actual magic.

"What are you doing to him?!" Thomas moved to intervene.

"Showing him what he is." Professor Hooch released William's hand and drew her wand. "Perhaps a more visible demonstration for the rest of you?"

She flicked her wrist, and their worn sofa lifted three feet off the ground.

"Bloody hell!" Robert stumbled backward while Michael, beside him, just stared.

Thomas' usual composure vanished. "That's... that's impossible."

The sofa settled back down with a gentle thump.

"Now then." Professor Hooch turned to William. "Get your supplies list. We have a busy day ahead at Diagon Alley. You're my first appointment of many this month."

William started toward the stairs, but Thomas caught his arm.

"Wait." Thomas's face had gone pale. "You're not seriously considering going with her?"

"I have to," William said softly. "This is real, Tom."

"But-" Thomas ran a hand through his hair, looking lost. "We don't even know her!"

"I assure you, Mr. Keating, your brother will be perfectly safe," Professor Hooch said, her tone softening slightly. "This is standard procedure for muggle-born wizards."

William retrieved his letter from under his mattress, his hands shaking slightly. When he returned downstairs, his brothers were still staring at Professor Hooch like she might vanish in a puff of smoke.

Thomas pulled him aside. "Be careful," he whispered, his eyes serious. "I mean it, Will. This is... this is mental."

William nodded, understanding the weight behind his brother's words. Even in this magical moment, Thomas couldn't help being protective.

"Right then." Hooch clapped her hands. "Shall we?"

***

William hurried to keep pace with Madam Hooch's brisk strides. His mind raced - in all his readings of Harry Potter, he'd never encountered her name before. Was this another divergence from the story he knew, or had the books simply glossed over her existance? He supposed it was ignorant to assume he'd recognize every person working at Hogwarts.

She walked in silence, her blue robes swishing against the London pavement. Her rigid posture and tight-lipped expression suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. William couldn't blame her - escorting wide-eyed Muggle-borns through London probably wasn't the most thrilling assignment.

As they walked, the Leaky Cauldron materialized between a bookshop and record store. William's heart skipped—he'd read about this moment countless times, but experiencing it sent electricity through his veins. The pub's worn wooden sign creaked as they walked under it.

Inside the smoky pub, William froze. Witches in pointed hats used magic to stir their tea while a wizard entertained a child with floating sparks. At the bar, goblins argued with Tom about firewhisky temperatures.

Two elderly wizards at a corner table caught William's attention as they hunched over what looked like moving photographs.

"Did you see that Cannons match last week? Absolute disaster. Their new Keeper couldn't block a Quaffle if it was enchanted to fly straight into his hands."

"Aye, but what'd you expect after they traded MacMillan to the Wasps? Ministry's got their fingers in it, mark my words. My cousin works in Magical Games and Sports, says-"

A witch in emerald robes cut through William's view. "Tom, love, could you send an owl to the Department of Magical Transportation? My Floo's acting up again, spitting people out in all sorts of wrong places. Mrs. Higgs ended up in my pantry instead of the sitting room!"

The barkeeper nodded, reaching under the counter. "Third complaint this week. Mercury's in retrograde, playing havoc with the network."

William's legs felt like lead. The conversations swirled around him - mentions of dragons in Romania, debates about cauldron bottom thickness regulations, complaints about pixie infestations in Cornwall. His fingers found the edge of a nearby table, gripping the worn wood. The room tilted slightly as his eyes darted between a self-stirring soup bowl and a newspaper with moving pictures.

A soft prod between his shoulder blades snapped him back.

Madam Hooch's expression softened as she watched William take it all in. Her hawk-like eyes held something almost gentle as she guided him through the crowd.

"First time's always overwhelming," she said, tapping the brick wall behind the pub. "Even for those who think they're prepared."

The bricks shifted and folded away, revealing Diagon Alley in all its glory. Shops stretched into the distance, their windows filled with floating objects and flashing lights. Owls soared overhead, weaving between the colorful awnings. A group of children pressed their faces against Quality Quidditch Supplies' window, pointing at the latest racing broom.

William's chest tightened. This wasn't words on a page anymore. This was real - wonderfully, terrifyingly real.

William's eyes darted from storefront to storefront, each one exactly as he'd imagined from his previous life's readings. Flourish and Blotts' windows overflowed with stacks of leather-bound books, some chained shut, others floating lazily in mid-air. A steady stream of witches and wizards climbed the white marble steps of Gringotts, its bronze doors gleaming in the morning sun.

"This way," Madam Hooch directed, steering him toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "We'll start with your uniform."

The shop's bell tinkled as they entered. Inside, measuring tapes whizzed through the air like deranged snakes, wrapping around various students while Madam Malkin and her assistants pinned and hemmed with practiced efficiency.

"Hogwarts, dear?" Madam Malkin barely looked up from her current customer. "Stand on that platform there."

William stepped up, and immediately a tape measure sprang to life, taking measurements of its own accord.

"Your address?" Madam Malkin called out, pins held between her teeth.

"27 Maple Ridge, London," William replied, watching fascinated as the numbers floating beside him adjusted themselves.

"So, Madam," William turned to Hooch, who'd settled into a waiting chair, "what exactly should I expect at Hogwarts?"

"You'll be sorted into one of four houses," she explained, her hawk-like eyes softening slightly. "Each with its own noble history. Classes begin in September - Charms, Transfiguration, Potions-"

"What about flying?" William asked, excited to try his hand at seeing the world from a new angle. "Do we really learn on broomsticks?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "Indeed. That would be my department. Though I must warn you, some students take to it more naturally than others."

The tape measure wrapped around his head, then his wrist. "And the houses - they're based on personality traits?"

"Quite right. Gryffindor values bravery, Ravenclaw wisdom, Hufflepuff loyalty, and Slytherin ambition. Though it's more complex than that, of course."

William nodded, careful not to disturb the measurements. "And the castle itself - is it really as magnificent as they say?"

"More so," Hooch replied, her expression warming further at his genuine curiosity. "Moving staircases, hidden passages, portraits that talk - though mind you don't get lost your first week. Happens more often than you'd think."

William followed Madam Hooch through the winding streets of Diagon Alley, his new robes wrapped in brown paper under his arm. They stopped at various shops, picking up brass scales that gleamed in the sunlight, crystal phials that clinked softly in their velvet-lined box, and a telescope that collapsed to pocket size.

At Flourish and Blotts, William's fingers trembled as he ran them along the spines of his required textbooks. The smell of parchment and leather bindings reminded him of his previous life's university library, but these volumes whispered with magic. He added extra parchment, quills, and bottles of ink to his growing collection.

Finally, they stood before a narrow shop with peeling gold letters that read "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." William's heart raced as they entered. Dust motes danced in the dim light, and thousands of narrow boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

Mr. Ollivander emerged from the shadows, his silver eyes fixing on William with an unsettling intensity. "Ah," he said softly, "how curious. You carry old knowledge in young eyes, Mr. Keating."

William's mouth went dry as he stared into those knowing silver eyes. The wandmaker's words about old knowledge sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Beside him, Madam Hooch shifted uncomfortably, her usual confident demeanor wavering slightly in the dusty shop's strange atmosphere.

Ollivander moved with surprising agility for his age, pulling down box after narrow box from the towering shelves. The wandmaker's movements became increasingly animated as each wand failed to respond to William's touch. Some felt dead in his hand, mere pieces of wood, while others produced weak sparks or puffs of smoke that made Ollivander shake his head in disappointment.

"Oak and dragon heartstring, ten and three-quarter inches, quite rigid," Ollivander muttered, snatching it away almost before William could grasp it properly. "No, no, that won't do at all." He disappeared behind another shelf, emerging with three more boxes. "Perhaps maple and unicorn hair, eleven inches, surprisingly swishy..." But that too was quickly dismissed with a small tut. William could feel his palms growing sweaty as box after box was opened and discarded. The pile of rejected wands grew steadily larger on the spindly chair beside him.

Ollivander's excitement seemed to grow with each rejection, his silver eyes gleaming brighter in the dim light. The wandmaker moved faster now, muttering to himself as he climbed his ladder to reach the highest shelves, pulling down boxes that looked as though they hadn't been touched in decades. Dust swirled through the air, catching the weak sunlight that filtered through the grimy window. William noticed that even the usually restless Madam Hooch stood perfectly still, watching the proceedings with growing fascination.

"Interesting, very interesting," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to his customers. He disappeared into the depths of his shop, the sound of shuffling boxes and creaking floorboards the only indication of his whereabouts. When he emerged, he carried a single box, different from the others. This one was covered in dark green velvet, faded with age but still elegant. His long fingers trembled slightly as he lifted the lid.

"Try this - elm wood and thestral tail hair core." Ollivander's voice carried an odd note as he presented the wand, somewhere between reverence and uncertainty. The way he held the box out to William suggested this was no ordinary wand, even by magical standards. William could feel something different about this one before he even touched it, a sort of humming in the air between his fingers and the wand's smooth surface.

The wandmaker's pale eyes seemed to bore into William's soul as he reached for the wand, as if searching for something beyond the surface of this eleven-year-old boy who stood before him. The tension in the small shop was palpable, dust motes hanging suspended in the air as if time itself held its breath in anticipation.

The moment William's fingers closed around it, warmth spread through his arm. Silver sparks erupted from the tip, dancing across the dusty shelves.

The wandmaker's words sent a peculiar chill down William's spine, and he found himself gripping the wand more tightly, as if afraid it might be snatched away. The silver sparks had faded now, leaving behind a lingering warmth that pulsed gently against his palm, like a second heartbeat.

"Most unusual," Ollivander murmured, his silvery eyes reflecting the dim light of the dusty shop in an almost otherworldly manner. "Elm typically favors those of pureblood lineage, yet here we are. And thestral tail hair - a temperamental core, drawn to those intimate with death's touch. I've only crafted three such wands in my lifetime."

William's breath caught in his throat at the mention of death's touch. The wandmaker's words seemed to carry a weight beyond their surface meaning, stirring memories he'd rather keep buried. He studied the wand in his hand more carefully now, noting the subtle grain patterns in the pale wood, the way it seemed both delicate and impossibly strong at the same time. The elm felt smooth beneath his fingers, but there was something else there too - a sort of resonance that made his skin tingle.

Ollivander continued to watch him with that unnerving, penetrating gaze, as if peeling back layers of William's very being. The old wandmaker moved closer, his feet making no sound on the wooden floor, and gently touched the wand with one long, pale finger. "Thirteen and a quarter inches," he whispered, more to himself than to William. "Unusually precise length. Rigid, yet not inflexible. A contradiction, much like its choice of owner, I suspect."

The air in the shop felt heavier now, thick with unspoken questions. Boxes upon boxes of wands surrounded them on towering shelves, but William could have sworn they'd grown quieter, as if listening. Dust motes continued to dance in the weak sunlight that filtered through the shop's grimy window, creating halos around Ollivander's silver hair.

"Sir?" William finally managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper. "What does it mean - about death's touch?"

Ollivander's expression softened slightly, though his gaze remained intense. "Thestral hair cores are exceedingly rare, young man. The creatures themselves are visible only to those who have witnessed and understood death. Their tail hairs possess a unique affinity for magic that deals with the deeper mysteries of life and death, transformation and change." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Such wands are neither light nor dark by nature, but they require a wielder of exceptional emotional depth and understanding. They resist those who would deny or fear death's reality."

William swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the wandmaker's words settle around him like a cloak. The wand seemed to pulse again in his hand, as if in response to his racing thoughts. He remembered death all too well - not just from his previous life, but from the moment of transition itself, that impossible space between what was and what now is.

"The elm wood is equally fascinating in this combination," Ollivander continued, beginning to pace in a small circle around William. "Traditionally, elm wands have shown a marked preference for those of ancient magical bloodlines. Yet here you stand, Mr. William, with no such heritage that I'm aware of, and the wand has chosen you most decisively." He stopped his pacing, coming to rest directly in front of William once more. "It suggests that you possess qualities that transcend mere ancestry - presence, dignity, and perhaps a natural nobility of spirit that the elm recognizes as worthy."

The wandmaker fell silent then, leaving William to absorb the weight of everything he'd just learned. The shop seemed to hold its breath around them, the thousands of boxed wands watching from their shelves like silent witnesses to this moment of revelation. Through the window, William could see other shoppers passing by, going about their business in Diagon Alley, completely unaware of the profound conversation taking place within Ollivander's shop.

The wand felt right in his hand, despite - or perhaps because of - its unusual nature. It was as if some part of him had recognized it even before Ollivander's explanation, known instinctively that this combination of elm and thestral hair would resonate with the complexity of his existence. He was, after all, someone who had already lived one life, someone who understood death not as an abstract concept but as a threshold he had already crossed.

William's grip tightened on the wand as Ollivander leaned closer, those silvery eyes seeming to peer straight through him. "The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Keating. I wonder what it sees in you that I do not... or perhaps, what it sees that I do."

***

The sun had begun its descent when William stepped through his front door, arms laden with packages and a white cat carrier. Madam Hooch paused at the threshold.

"Remember, Mr. Keating - magic isn't just about waving wands. It's about understanding your place in a world bigger than yourself." Her hawk-like eyes softened. "I'll see you at Hogwarts."

Inside, Robert bounded down the stairs. "Is that a cat?" He pressed his face against the carrier's mesh front. "Bloody hell, it is!"

"Her name's Bonnie," William said, setting down his packages. The white cat emerged from her carrier with deliberate grace, her green eyes scanning the room as if conducting a royal inspection.

"She's just a kitten!" Robert reached to pet her.

Bonnie's tail puffed up as she shot Robert a look of pure indignation.

"Actually, she's a year old," William corrected, watching as Bonnie stalked past Robert with her nose in the air.

Thomas leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "A cat. Great." His voice carried the weight of someone mentally calculating additional responsibilities. "Who's going to feed her when you're at school?"

"She's pretty independent," William said, noting how Bonnie had already found the highest perch in the living room. "The shop owner said she practically takes care of herself. But still, she won't be staying here—she'll come with me."

Robert sprawled on the floor, dangling a shoelace. "Come here, kitty-"

Bonnie's tail twitched.

"I wouldn't call her that," William warned, but too late. Bonnie leaped down, swatted the shoelace once with surgical precision, then strutted away, leaving Robert laughing.

"She's got attitude," Robert grinned. "I like her already. They're not fun unless they fight back."

William deadpanned. He didn't have the bandwith to unpack that comment right now, not after his long day of shopping.

William watched as Bonnie explored her new domain, marking her territory with subtle head bumps against furniture corners. Despite Thomas's visible concerns, William could tell his eldest brother was fighting a smile as Bonnie investigated his shoelaces with scholarly interest.

Michael perched on the arm of the sofa, his eyes following Bonnie's exploration before fixing on William. "So... magic," he said, drawing out the word like he was testing its reality. "Actual proper magic. Not just tricks and illusions?"

William settled into the worn armchair, running his fingers over his new wand's smooth surface. "It's bigger than that. There's this whole hidden world - right here in London. The shops we went to, they've always been there, just... concealed. Protected by spells so regular people - Muggles, they call them - can't see them."

"Muggles?" Robert snorted. "Bit rude, innit?"

"That's what they call non-magical people," William explained. "I'm what they call Muggle-born - magical, but born to non-magical parents."

Thomas leaned forward, his expression serious. "This school - Hogwarts. It's a boarding school?"

"Yeah. In Scotland somewhere. They teach everything from basic spells to potion-making. There are four houses students get sorted into, based on their personality traits."

"Mum's never going to go for this," Michael said, voicing what they'd all been thinking. "And Dad... well, when he's actually around to have an opinion..."

"That's if they even believe it," William sighed. "It's not like I can prove anything without Madam Hooch here. I'm not allowed to do magic outside school yet."

Thomas's face took on that calculating look William was beginning to recognize. "We'll tell them you got accepted to a prestigious boarding school. Full scholarship. Say you've been working toward it all year but wanted to surprise them when you got in."

"That... could work," Michael nodded slowly. "Mum's always saying Will's too smart for his own good. She'd believe he'd pull something like that."

Robert grinned. "Plus, she's gone most of the time anyway. Not like she'd have noticed you preparing for it."

William felt a wave of gratitude wash over him as he watched his brothers accept this strange new reality. Their casual banter about magic and Hogwarts made the whole situation feel less overwhelming, more manageable.

"Just because you're some fancy wizard now," Michael said, crossing his arms, "don't think you're better than us regular folk."

Robert nodded vigorously. "Yeah, we've still got our own talents. Like..." he paused, thinking. "Well, I'm sure I'll think of something."

"And you're still helping with chores," Thomas added, his tone firm but playful. "For the rest of the month before you leave. Magic or no magic, these floors won't sweep themselves."

"Actually, there might be a spell for that-" William started.

"Don't even think about it," Thomas cut him off. "No copping out of responsibilities just because you've got a magic stick now."

William sighed, but couldn't help smiling. Even with everything changing, some things would stay the same - like Thomas keeping them all in line.

"Speaking of responsibilities," William stood up, stretching, "I should probably shower. All that magic in Diagon Alley's probably tainted me or something."

"Tainted?" Robert snorted. "Mate, you were weird long before the magic showed up."

William snorted. "Whatever, loser."