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Chapter 14: Pandora Rosermary
🕑 Added 2025-08-29 02:21:57 +0000 UTC“May I sit here?”
Ryan turned his head with the same slowness of someone waking from a dream that had been too vivid.
His eyes, still hidden behind dark sunglasses, met a girl with porcelain-pale skin. Long hair, so blonde it was almost white, fell in messy braids that looked hastily done. Her eyes were wide, light blue, without a trace of hostility or arrogance.
She wore a robe with the Ravenclaw crest, decorated with several strange accessories. Nothing matched, but Ryan had to admit the girl had style.
'Pandora Rosemary,' Ryan thought, recognizing her.
Fifth year, same age as him, but in Ravenclaw.
The old Ryan’s memory barely held fragments about this girl, mostly that she was eccentric in how she walked, dressed, and spoke. A loner who wandered the corridors muttering to herself about things nobody else understood.
“Yes, sit. I don’t own the train,” Ryan answered calmly.
A loner, yes. Like him, though for different reasons.
Ryan was anti-establishment, ironic, irritating on purpose.
Pandora was simply… different. Different from the rest.
And people never knew what to do with “different,” so they either ignored it or mocked it.
Pandora nodded with a faint smile, a small but genuine gesture of gratitude, and began stepping into the compartment.
Only then did Ryan notice how loaded down she was.
She pushed an old trunk with wheels that squeaked like they were begging for mercy.
On top of the trunk rested a cage with a gray cat whose mismatched eyes glared at him with instant suspicion.
And she also carried another cage with a small owl. Pets weren’t unusual for students. There were three key ones: owls, cats, and toads.
Most chose owls. They were useful, delivered letters neatly, and required little care, hence their popularity.
Cats… well, they were cats. More maintenance, less practical use, beyond the emotional side.
And toads… only useful if you wanted a living subject for spell practice. Questionable, but still practical.
While Ryan mused about the hidden economy of the magical pet market, he noticed Pandora struggling to cross the threshold without spilling everything onto the floor.
Out of sheer courtesy, he stood up to help.
“Let me give you a hand,” he said, reaching for the trunk that looked the heaviest.
Pandora glanced sideways at him, her composure unshaken though a flicker of surprise showed.
“That’s not necessary. I can manage,” she said softly.
“I don’t doubt your ability…” Ryan replied, not sarcastic, but not overly kind either. “But my mother taught me manners, or at least she tried. I’m not going to ruin her legacy by letting someone break their back in front of me.”
There was no immediate answer.
Pandora simply looked at him for a second that felt slightly longer than usual.
Then she nodded, accepting the help without another word.
Ryan wedged the trunk beside the seat, fitting it in with a final thump, then stepped aside to let her through.
Now with both hands free, Pandora first placed the cat’s cage on the seat opposite Ryan, as if the feline deserved the place of honor.
Then, with great care, she set the owl’s cage beside it, making sure it sat comfortably.
Pandora sat down between them as though it were the most natural scene in the world: a girl, a cat that judged everything, an owl in a diplomatic pose… and a Gryffindor with sunglasses watching from the other seat.
Ryan calmly settled back into his place.
…
[Pandora’s POV]
I arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters with five minutes to spare.
Not a great idea. It was packed. Too packed.
People rushing, parents hugging their children as if it were the last time, trolleys colliding, owls screeching inside their cages.
I pushed mine through the chaos, struggling. My trunk, one cage with my cat, another with my owl.
It wasn’t easy to maneuver all that on my own, but it wasn’t new either.
I came alone.
My mother hadn’t thought it necessary to accompany me this year.
“You’re in fifth year already, dear. Besides, we live fifteen minutes away. No sense in making a scene.”
It didn’t bother me. She’d said the same thing every September since my second year.
I slipped between hurried families, reached the train, and climbed up with difficulty through one of the middle carriages.
The first ones were hopeless. First-years everywhere, tripping, shouting, sticking their heads out the windows. A nightmare.
The corridor was narrow.
And with my load, it was like pushing a storm through the crowd.
I could barely move forward.
Students shifted around me, some glancing at the cages, others avoiding me altogether as if I were carrying explosives.
I reached the first seemingly empty compartment. Or so I thought.
I slid the door open. Three girls. They looked at me.
They said nothing. But one frowned. The others lowered their voices.
No need to be a Seer to read the scene.
I gave a quick nod, as if apologizing for intruding, and shut the door.
Second attempt. Full.
Third attempt. Full.
Fourth attempt. Two Slytherin boys. They grimaced when they saw the cat.
One even wrinkled his nose.
“Why the fuss?” I muttered to myself as I walked away. “It’s just a cat.”
I was running out of options.
Every door was a “no,” even though there was space for one or two more.
But it wasn’t new. I was used to it. Even though I didn’t talk much, I somehow still managed to make people uncomfortable.
Maybe it was the accessories I wore. Or the way I walked or spoke.
I opened another door, and there was only one person inside.
Ryan Ollivander. Hard not to recognize. Golden-blond hair, slightly tousled.
He wasn’t wearing his Gryffindor robe. Instead, a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, dark formal trousers, and sunglasses in a place where there was, for the moment, no sun.
He had a relaxed posture, as if the train were his private lounge.
He had a reputation: sarcastic, troublesome, cynical. Last year, rumor had it he’d cost his house around thirty points or more for various infractions. Gryffindor would have won the Cup if not for that.
Many in his house had let him know. He didn’t seem to care.
I stopped at the door.
“May I sit here?” I asked flatly.
He turned his head slowly. Looked at me. Not mockingly. Not annoyed.
With curiosity. As if trying to place me.
“Yes, sit. I don’t own the train,” he answered.
I gave a small nod and stepped inside. Not gracefully, unfortunately. The trunk scraped the frame.
The cat’s cage nearly toppled. The owl screeched in protest. Not easy. But I’d done it every year. I shoved the trunk as best I could.
I was struggling with the impossible angle between the seat and the door when I felt someone grab the other end.
“Let me give you a hand,” Ryan said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I looked at him, surprised.
He didn’t seem like the type to help for helping’s sake.
“That’s not necessary. I can manage,” I murmured softly.
“I don’t doubt your ability,” he replied, pushing the trunk with irritating ease, “but my mother taught me manners, or at least she tried. I’m not going to ruin her legacy by letting someone break their back in front of me."
I didn’t know how to answer that. I let out a small exhale. Not quite a laugh. But close.
I nodded.
He took charge of the trunk. For the first time all day, I let go of everything. I set the cat on the seat first, then the owl. And finally, I sat down across from Ryan, who had returned to his place.
I pulled a book from my robe and began to read. But I couldn’t focus. I didn’t see him, but I felt it. His gaze. Or the impression of it.
A faint tingling, like a breeze brushing the back of my neck. Even with the sunglasses on, I knew he was watching me.
Minutes passed. I pretended to keep reading, but my concentration slipped away.
Finally, I looked up. Closed the book with a smooth motion.
“Why are you looking at me?” I asked, not harshly, but directly.
It wasn’t a reproach. I just wanted to know.
Ryan took a few seconds. Then he shifted in his seat, resting his elbow against the window frame.
“Yes, I was looking at you. I admit my crime, judge. What’s the sentence? And can I pay in galleons?”
Sarcasm. Classic.
“There’s no punishment for looking at someone,” I answered calmly. “But I would like to know why.”
He shrugged, with a half-smile that wasn’t quite mockery, but not quite genuine either.
“I was trying to remember you. And then, well… with that hair, those eyes, that pale skin… you stand out, and I remembered.”
Was that a compliment?
I wasn’t sure. It sounded too casual.
“It struck me that we had things in common. Loners. Strange to everyone else. Isn’t that great? We could be friends,” he added with a smile.
I blinked. He said it so naturally I couldn’t tell if he meant it or if he was mocking me. With him, it was hard to know.
I didn’t answer that part. “I’m not like you,” I said simply. “I take my studies seriously. And I didn’t cost my house thirty points and lose the House Cup last year by falling asleep in class, showing up late, and talking back to professors.”
Ryan let out a short laugh through his nose. He wasn’t offended. If anything, he seemed amused at the reminder.
“It wasn’t thirty. It was thirty-five,” he said, raising a finger as if making a historical correction.
“Most of them with McGonagall. Funny, isn’t it? She’s the strictest and the one who gets the angriest about tardiness. In the end, she ended up hurting her own house by being so inflexible.”
I looked at him without expression.
His smile grew just a little.
“It was hilarious how everyone in Gryffindor wanted to tear my head off over a school trophy. Almost made me feel important for once,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Maybe you don’t care about competition,” I said. “Actually, I don’t care either. But that doesn’t mean I scorn those who do, or throw away points stupidly. Many of our classmates work hard, studying, helping others, earning points for their house. And losing them out of sheer indifference… I don’t find that very considerate. Or funny.”
He looked at me for a few seconds. His smile faded. Not completely, but enough. I didn’t know if I had made him think… or if he was about to mock me even harder.
“Oh…” he said in a soft, dramatic voice, dripping with exaggerated guilt. “You’re right… Merlin, you’re absolutely right! What have I done with my life?”
He placed a hand on his chest, as if struck by a moral Avada Kedavra.
“Thirty-five points. Broken dreams. Shattered hopes of glory… I’ll write letters. To every single Gryffindor. Begging forgiveness. Maybe I’ll even compose a poem. Something with rhythm and rhyme, so they’ll never forget the traitor who ruined their year.”
I didn’t reply. I ignored him completely. Because answering would only feed his theatrics. Clearly, he was treating it as a joke.
I opened my book again and stopped looking at him. Immersed myself in the pages, or pretended to.
I read the same paragraph three times without understanding it. Not out of distraction… I realized this was the longest conversation I’d ever had with him. In fact, the first real one.
In over four years. Of course, you can’t interact with every Hogwarts classmate in your year, and it’s even harder with those from other houses, but still, it was a curious fact.
I didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t particularly kind. But he wasn’t cruel either. He didn’t seem malicious. Just permanently compelled to mock everything. I didn’t know what to think of him.
And that in itself was strange.
I sighed and forced my mind back to reading, this time for real. The train vibrated softly as it moved forward.
And when I glanced up, he wasn't looking at me anymore. Ryan was staring out the window, still wearing his sunglasses.
