Yesterday Arven Fisk had been hiking the Pontic Mountains along the edge of the Black Sea, pausing to watch a pack of wild wolves roam the sun-scorched crags. Today he was at a railway station in Sussex, watching a seagull attempt to fly off with an abandoned pork sausage. But Arven thrived on a clash of cultures, and flashed the seagull a lopsided smile before heading out of the station and beneath the grey British sky.

He’d sent his luggage ahead to his rooms in Hogsmeade, so he arrived unburdened — a long coat further elongating his towering height, his appearance weather-beaten and rugged, but relatively well turned out. He had even shaved. It was not Arven’s way to put effort into his appearance, but he was here for family. Bit of a black sheep, but not all baa-d.

Winifred Fudge