A/N: Hi… I'm back. Though really, I never left, I just took a break because I wasn't in the mood to write. It wasn't writer's block or anything dramatic. I just didn't feel like it.
Now then. Read your shitty chapter. With love, obviously. 👀👀
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── HADRIEN P.O.V ── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
The alarm wakes me up.
I open my eyes.
Gray light coming in through the window.
The sun cuts through the curtain… yeah, sure. In Scotland. Good joke. Like always, there's no sun out there, just a cloudy sky with a vocation for punishment.
I reach out without looking and turn off the alarm.
Silence… relative silence.
There's already movement in the dormitory. Curtains being pulled. Wood creaking. Someone grumbling like waking up is a personal insult.
I stay in bed one second longer, staring at the ceiling. Thinking about nothing. Just letting my body start up.
Then I get up.
The floor is cold.
I grab my things and head to the bathroom.
Cold water. Face. Eyes. Breathe.
The mirror gives me back the usual. Nothing new. Good.
Quick routine. No wasting time.
When I come back to the dorm, there's more life in it already.
Curtains open. Beds half-made. Clothes thrown around with questionable intent. Seamus is sitting on his bed, still looking like he doesn't understand why the world exists. Dean is already changing, much more awake. Neville moves carefully, like any sudden motion might break something.
Ron's curtains are still closed.
Perfect.
"Somebody get that idiot up," I say, without much emotion, while pulling back my own curtain.
I don't wait for an answer.
I get changed calmly. Shirt. Trousers. Tie. Today I grab the cloak because I feel like it.
By the time I'm done, the dorm is almost ready.
Except for the specimen behind the closed curtains.
Ron.
Hasn't moved.
Not a sign of life.
Incredible.
Ron wasn't lying yesterday when he said he might not wake up.
He has a gift. Useless, but consistent.
I walk to his bed and, without thinking too much about it, yank the curtains open.
Direct light.
Right after that, I grab the blanket and the pillow at the same time… and pull.
All of it.
Ron reacts like someone just hit him with an attack spell.
"What happened?! WHAT HAPPENED?!" he says, jerking upright, his voice half asleep but his panic fully operational.
He stays there for a second, processing. Looking around. Understanding nothing.
Then he sees me.
The danger vanishes.
"Oh…" he mutters, dropping back down again. "Why did you do that? Let me sleep…"
He closes his eyes instantly, like he can turn his brain off at will.
Impressive.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," I tell him.
I don't wait for an answer.
"Get up or you're going to get lost in the castle on the first day… unless you remember the way to the Great Hall."
I leave him there.
I turn around and walk out of the dorm.
••
Hermione is already in the common room.
Of course she is.
Sitting right in the middle of everything like the castle put a spotlight on her, a book open in her hands and looking like she's been awake for half an hour. I don't think there's a universe where that girl willingly takes a break. Unless someone points a gun at her, and even then she'd probably ask for five minutes to finish the book.
I walk over, but I don't sit down yet.
"Morning, Mione."
She lowers the book a little and looks at me over the edge.
"Morning."
I look at the cover.
Third-Year Charms.
Of course.
"Any news or messages from the prefects?" I ask.
Hermione shakes her head.
"Nope."
I look at her for a second.
"That answer came out very British."
She ignores me with absolute professionalism and looks back at the book.
"Imogen still hasn't shown up," she adds after a moment. "Percy neither. I assume they'll come get us before breakfast."
I nod and finally sit down beside her.
"Ron's still dead, in case you're interested in the patient's condition."
That gets her to lower the book all the way.
"That bad?"
"Worse. I ripped away his blanket, his pillow, and part of his dignity. Didn't do much."
Hermione snorts through her nose.
"That was unnecessary."
"No."
"Let's go to the Great Hall. I'm hungry," I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the common room exit.
"But what about the prefects?" she protests, following me anyway. "What if they have something important to say? And do you even know the way?"
"We'll see them in the Great Hall anyway. Ask there if you're so worried. And yes, I already know the way." I tap my temple with one finger. "I've got one of these. I use it sometimes."
"And what if we miss something?" she insists.
She doesn't look convinced, so I have to do my thing again. Again.
"It's not the end of the world. And if they say something important…" I pause. "We ask them or our classmates. It's not that complicated."
I glance at her and tighten my hand around hers just a little so she'll walk faster.
"Walk, come on."
"Okay," she says in the tone of someone who has just signed a dangerous and badly advised treaty.
We leave the common room, and the castle feels different at this hour. Quieter, but not fully asleep. Distant footsteps. A door closing somewhere a floor below. Muffled voices coming from corridors I still don't know. The portraits are awake already, unfortunately. Some of them watch us pass with interest.
"You're sure it was this way?" Hermione asks when we turn the second corner.
"Fairly."
Hermione huffs, but she doesn't let go of my hand. Good.
We go down one staircase, cross a wide corridor with useless suits of armor and a tall window that shows nothing but gray sky. Of course. Scotland doing its job. We reach another moving staircase and wait for it to settle into place.
"This still doesn't feel normal," Hermione mutters.
"Nothing here is normal. We might as well accept it."
"I don't want to get used to all the madness that quickly."
"I do, and I suggest you try it too, for your mental health."
The staircase locks into place with a dull thud and we keep going down. Farther below, a group of Ravenclaws walks past talking among themselves with perfect calm, like they've been here for years instead of one night.
And then I get the sound first.
Then the smell.
Food.
I grin without hiding it.
"See? Hunger properly directed. The best compass in the world."
Hermione is about to say something, but we turn the last corridor and the entrance to the Great Hall opens up in front of us.
There are already students seated inside. Some first-years. Some older. And, just like I predicted because I am always right and no one appreciates it enough, the prefects are there too.
Imogen is standing near the Gryffindor table, talking to people in her year. Percy is a little farther off, stiff as ever, looking like he's organizing a military evacuation even though he's only handing out schedules to the few students who arrived before us.
Hermione slowly turns her head toward me.
"Oh."
"Yes, 'oh,'" I say, finally letting go of her hand. "What a relief to discover once again that I'm not a complete idiot."
"I never said you were."
"Not with words. Your face does plenty of work."
We head toward the Gryffindor table. Imogen sees us coming and raises one eyebrow just slightly.
"Early. And without help," she says. Then she tilts her head toward the rest of the hall. "If only everyone remembered the way."
"Hungry," I correct.
Her gaze drops for one second to our now-separated hands, then comes back to my face. She says nothing. What a civilized woman.
"Sit down. I'll give you your schedules in a moment," she says. Then she looks at Hermione. "No, Granger, you haven't missed anything vital yet."
Hermione blinks.
"I didn't—"
"Yes, yes," Imogen cuts in with criminal calm. "Your face asked the question before you did."
That gets a laugh out of me through my nose.
Hermione shoots me a quick look, offended by me and by existence in general.
"Sit down," Imogen repeats. "And eat before the stampede starts."
That sounds like wise advice.
I drop onto the nearest bench and look at the empty table in front of me.
Imogen notices immediately.
"Oh, right. Breakfast," she says calmly, like she forgot we're first-years and still don't know how a single piece of toast works in this castle. "You just ask out loud for what you want, and it'll appear on the table."
She pauses briefly before adding:
"But remember: that only works at breakfast, lunch, and dinner."
Then she picks up several parchments from the table and hands them out one by one.
"And here are your schedules for this term… along with basic directions for finding each classroom without dying in the attempt," Imogen says, distributing the parchments one by one. "Try not to lose them on the first day. It would look bad. For you and for me."
I look at the parchment. Then I look at her.
"So what happens if I'm late?" I ask, with the kind of innocence that should clearly be illegal by now. "Do they hang me in the Great Hall as an example?"
Lavender lets out a muffled laugh beside Parvati and covers her mouth. Parvati follows less than a second later. Hermione tugs at my sleeve with aggressive subtlety.
The translation is pretty simple: What are you doing? Shut up.
Imogen watches me for a moment. She doesn't roll her eyes. She doesn't sigh. She doesn't beat me over the head with something. Worse: she decides to play along.
"No," she says calmly. "But it's not a bad idea. Maybe I should suggest it to Mr. Filch."
Parvati is officially entertained. Lavender has that look that says this is about to get good.
I prop one elbow on the table.
"What an honor. I've always wanted to become institutional warning décor."
Imogen tilts her head just slightly. One corner of her mouth curls into a dangerous crescent.
"I'm not who you should be worried about," she says. "If you're late, Percy will give you a sermon. Professor McGonagall will make sure you never want to repeat it with one look."
Hermione stops tugging on my sleeve, but only because now she's busy giving me a face that says this is what happens when you open your mouth.
Imogen continues, her voice dangerously cheerful:
"And honestly, I wouldn't worry that much about the punishment. I'd worry more about what comes after."
I look at her, waiting.
"If you cost Gryffindor points on the first day, nothing dramatic will happen to you," she says very calmly. "You'll just find out how quickly a person can end up with no sympathy. No help. No one wanting to sit next to them."
Lavender's eyes widen a little. Parvati bites back a smile.
Hermione lowers her eyes to the parchment, but it's too late; the amusement is already there on her face.
Oh, great. Now my lady is laughing at my future social isolation. After all my hard work.
I look back at Imogen.
"Not even a little," I answer, with the kind of confidence any sane adult would call a walking red flag. "Give me a spellbook, one hour of practice, and the ones who'll be afraid to provoke me are everyone else."
Parvati laughs more openly. Lavender follows. Hermione huffs through her nose and covers her mouth for half a second, failing to look serious.
Imogen raises an eyebrow.
"Ah, yes. The classic strategy: arrive late, lose points, then compensate by becoming a minor threat."
"I see you understand me," I say.
"I understand you far too well," she replies. "That's the problem."
She folds her arms, still with that calm of hers that's somehow scarier than anger.
"But let me tell you something, little gremlin: bad reputation arrives before competence. And trust me, it's much easier to be isolated for being annoying than respected for being brilliant."
Hermione can't quite hide it anymore. A small smile escapes while she keeps pretending to read.
Right. Laugh at my selective solitude. After I'm the one who helped drag you out of your shell.
I straighten a little on the bench.
"What a healthy environment you have here. Very formative."
"We do what we can," Imogen says.
And that time, a short little laugh slips out of her.
Without fully looking up, Hermione murmurs:
"Please don't encourage him."
Imogen looks at Hermione first and then at me.
"Too late," she says with almost gentle calm. "Now I want to see how far he goes."
"That's academic support," I mutter.
"That's just curiosity," she corrects.
Then she straightens, satisfied, and walks away. I like her quite a bit.
Hermione lets out a breath through her nose and finally looks up from the parchment.
"Why are you so complicated, Hadrien? Ugh. You become insufferable sometimes."
Lavender laughs like she's watching an 11/10 comedy.
She really doesn't seem to have very good taste.
"Leave me to my methods," I say, leaning back against the bench with whatever dignity I still possess. "That's how people become lifelong friends. But you wouldn't know much about that, because in your past life you weren't exactly a likable person."
That makes her frown, but she doesn't answer.
Parvati, of course, spots the chance to annoy me and glues herself dramatically to Hermione's side. She throws an arm around her shoulders like she's rescuing a war victim.
"Don't be mean to her," she says, making a fake pout at me. "Somebody has to defend her from her overbearing brother."
I look at her.
"'Overbearing,' she says. Look how they repay community service."
Lavender laughs again. Hermione tries to stay serious for two whole seconds and fails through her nose. (A/N: What exactly do you find so funny, Lavender?)
"What a hostile environment," I mutter.
"You brought it on yourself," Hermione says at last, with less frown and more life in her face.
"False. I was punished for being charming."
"You were punished for opening your mouth," she corrects.
Parvati nods, very satisfied.
"Exactly."
I look at the empty table in front of me.
Well. Priorities.
I look at the empty table in front of me.
"Coffee and a full sandwich," I say out loud.
Hermione turns her head just slightly toward me.
"What exactly does 'full' mean to you?"
"It means I don't want just ham and cheese between two slices of bread."
That gets a small sigh out of her, more resigned than annoyed. Then she looks at the table, thinks for a second, and orders with far more dignity than I do:
"Tea, toast with butter, a bit of fruit… and yogurt."
I look at her sideways.
"What a disappointingly sensible breakfast."
"What an unnecessarily unhealthy breakfast yours is," she replies without even blinking.
The food appears on the table almost instantly.
My coffee arrives first: black, hot, glorious. Beside it, a pretty decent sandwich with ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and enough substance to justify its existence.
Hermione's, on the other hand, looks like an illustration from a schoolbook about healthy habits. Steaming tea. Two neat slices of toast. A bowl of yogurt. Apple slices and grapes arranged so perfectly that apparently even the fruit here has more discipline than I do.
Parvati, beside us, looks at my plate first and then Hermione's.
"You two eat breakfast like you belong to different species."
"That's because we do," I say, grabbing the coffee.
I take the first sip and close my eyes for one second.
Yes.
Now I can finally pretend I'm a reasonable human being.
Hermione spreads butter on a slice of toast with the precision of someone who would probably divide a battlefield into equal sections.
"I don't understand how you can drink coffee this early."
"I don't understand how you can live without it."
"Very easily."
"How sad."
She bites into her toast like my opinion doesn't deserve a reply, which in her system of thought is probably true.
While we eat, I unfold the schedule again and take a better look at it.
Hm. First class: Charms with Ravenclaw.
Well, it could be worse. It could be Potions with Snape first thing in the morning and with murder in his heart.
I take another bite of the sandwich while Hermione reviews her copy. Parvati, meanwhile, somehow manages to eat and talk at the same time with a social efficiency that borders on supernatural.
"Charms doesn't sound that bad," she says, cutting off a piece of toast. "Flitwick seems nice."
"That doesn't mean easy," Hermione answers, not taking her eyes off the schedule. "Nice teachers can still be demanding."
"What a surprise," I mutter. "The girl who would read an instruction manual on breathing has a cautious opinion about classes."
Hermione throws me a quick look over the parchment.
Parvati snorts softly.
"Sometimes I can't tell if you two are adorable or exhausting."
"Both," Hermione answers without hesitation.
That makes me look at her from the side.
Good. She's getting used to having good judgment.
I keep eating while she goes back to the schedule. Parvati asks me something about shared classes, Hermione answers her, I add a comment because why not, and that's how a few fairly civilized minutes go by.
Until the Great Hall doors open again.
I look toward the entrance.
Here comes Imogen again, herding the rest of the stragglers like troublesome children with borrowed patience. Behind her are Harry, Ron, Dean, Seamus, Neville, and several other first-years I still don't recognize properly. Harry, Ron, and Seamus talk quite a bit as they come over; Dean listens and laughs now and then. Neville trails behind, quiet.
Imogen lets them reach the table and, before anyone can ask anything, hands out the missing schedules with the efficiency of a civil servant who has already accepted that her life was ruined the moment someone gave her a prefect badge.
"Schedules," she says, passing them out one by one. "Don't lose them. And food works by asking out loud."
Neville ends up sitting across from me with almost ceremonial caution. Harry and Ron sit next to each other; Seamus drops down near them, and Dean too.
Lavender, Parvati, and Hermione immediately launch into talking about… well, things that probably exist and matter to them.
Ron doesn't even finish sitting down before he's staring at the table like it's an altar.
"Sausages, eggs, toast, bacon, juice, more toast, and… uh… that," Ron says, pointing at something random on another student's plate.
The table obeys like it's afraid of disappointing him.
Harry, being much more normal, asks for pancakes with honey. Neville murmurs something shy that turns into toast with jam. Dean orders a reasonable breakfast. So does Seamus, from the sound of it.
Ron is already attacking his plate like he owes food money.
I watch him for a second.
"Did they feed you hopes and dreams at home?" I ask.
Ron doesn't even look up.
"Shut up."
Harry lets out a laugh through his nose while pouring honey over the pancakes.
"I did try to wake him up," I say, looking at Harry.
"Liar," Ron says around a mouthful of food. "You tried to murder me."
Neville drops his gaze to hide his laugh.
And just when breakfast has reached a reasonable level of peace, two taller redheads appear with the energy of an announced problem.
The Weasley twins.
They drop into the seats near the table like the space belongs to them by genetic right.
"Ronnie!" they both say, far too happy to exist.
One of them leans toward Ron's plate.
"Look at that."
"The family miracle learned how to summon food," the other finishes.
Ron reacts instantly, hunching protectively over his breakfast like it's war treasure.
"Don't you dare."
Mistake.
The twins have already decided yes.
One steals a slice of toast. The other snatches a sausage with criminal precision. Ron tries to form some kind of shield with his arms and torso, but that only makes them laugh harder.
"Steal his bacon, Fred," one says.
"Already doing it, George," the other replies, snatching half a strip of bacon.
"Give that back!"
Trying to defend the plate, Ron gets shoved sideways so hard he nearly slides off the bench. He recovers, offended, and one of them takes the chance to ruffle his hair with fraternal violence.
"Much better," the twin declares, admiring the damage.
They laugh and settle nearby, perfectly pleased with the chaos they've just caused.
Harry is laughing openly now. Seamus too. Dean tries to hold it in and fails. Even Neville lets out a quick little smile before hiding behind his cup again.
Ron, red with rage, tries to recover at least one slice of toast.
He fails.
Aha. They're like the final boss of older siblings.
"What great brothers you have, Ron," I say, sighing like I envy the experience.
"They are not great!" he snaps. "Look what they do to me!"
He points at himself.
Mistake.
He leaves the plate undefended for half a second and another slice of toast gets stolen.
Ron hunches over his food again and drags the plate farther away like distance is going to save it.
The twins look at me while chewing, wearing smiles of pure criminal satisfaction.
"Good diagnosis, Hadrien."
"Thanks. I do it by vocation."
Hermione, without even trying to soften it, declares:
"Your brothers are a plague."
Lavender and Parvati nod at once. The others, more or less, too.
"I know," Ron answers, still trying to protect his breakfast cautiously.
And the twins, satisfied with the chaos they've caused, eat the loot right there, laughing like they've just won a low-scale war against a very easy enemy.
Before leaving, Fred turns a little toward us.
"If you have problems with someone…"
George continues, like they're one person split in two.
"Or if someone gets on your nerves…"
They smile at the same time. Bad sign.
"Come to us," they say together.
Fred raises an eyebrow.
"And maybe…"
George finishes with a dangerously cheerful smile.
"We'll give them what they deserve."
And they leave as fast as they came, leaving Ron messy-haired, partially looted, and looking like he just survived a domestic ambush.
Harry finally decides to talk instead of just eating.
"I like your brothers, Ron," he says, then adds with a slightly confused little grimace, "Though I still can't tell which is which."
"Great!" Ron answers, indignant. "You can have them. I don't want them. They make my life impossible and they're always pulling pranks on me."
Dean shrugs.
"It's not that bad," he says. "I mean… it's pretty normal between brothers. I've got some too, and I do more or less the same with mine."
Ron looks at him like he has just committed personal betrayal.
"No. No, no, no. They give me trauma, nightmares, and never let me sleep in peace."
Seamus laughs.
"Sounds like you're exaggerating a bit."
"I am not exaggerating!" Ron protests, pointing at his mutilated plate. "Look at this! They stole half my food, shoved me, messed up my hair, and then left happy!"
I look at the plate.
"Yes. It was a pretty clean operation," I declare. "I approve as an older brother."
Ron turns to me.
"You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help."
Harry looks back down at his pancakes, clearly holding back laughter.
From his place, Neville murmurs so quietly it almost gets lost:
"I thought they were… funny."
Ron looks at him, offended all over again, like the whole world has decided to abandon him this morning.
"You too?"
Neville shrinks a little into the bench.
"I didn't say I'd want to live with them…"
That gets a laugh out of me through my nose.
Dean smiles.
"Besides, it's obvious they're fond of you."
"Yes," I add. "In their sick language, that probably counts as affection."
Ron grimaces.
"I'd rather have hatred."
"Too late," Seamus says. "You got the family you got."
Ron huffs and goes back to shielding his plate with both arms like the twins might reappear by magic at any moment.
In the end, some people finish eating, we keep laughing a little, we talk about whatever nonsense comes up. Harry nods here and there and throws in a short comment now and then. The girls drift a little apart to continue their own conversations, and time starts moving without asking permission.
Imogen appears exactly behind me so quietly that when she claps once, sharp and dry, it scares the life out of me.
"SHIT!" I blurt, whipping around.
She's already smiling.
"Yes, very brave until a prefect startles you," she says, crossing her arms.
"So?" she says, raising her voice just slightly and clapping once more. "Move, move. I'm not carrying you to the classroom."
The overall reaction is pretty pathetic.
Ron nearly spills his juice getting up. Neville stands so fast that for a second I think he's about to launch himself. Dean chokes on his last bite. Seamus laughs while trying to grab his things at the same time. Lavender gives a little jump and clutches at her chest like Imogen just materialized from another dimension. Parvati opens her eyes wide, laughs immediately, and starts gathering her things with surprising speed. A couple more first-year girls do that awkward, rushed movement of someone who doesn't want to be late but also doesn't want to look desperate.
Hermione and I, on the other hand, get up without rushing.
Not because of inner calm or emotional maturity. Just because panicking doesn't make your legs move faster.
Hermione finishes putting away her schedule carefully, straightens her robes, and smooths one sleeve like we still live in an organized reality.
Imogen looks at the contrast between us and the rest of the group, who are already tripping over the benches morally and physically.
"Look at that," she says, one hand on her hip. "Two who still have their dignity. Statistical miracle."
"I've always been an elegant person," I say.
"You're many things. 'Elegant' isn't in the top ten."
Parvati, already beside Hermione, lets out a small laugh.
"She's right."
"Thank you for the overwhelming female support," I mutter.
"You're welcome," Hermione and Parvati answer at the same time.
Traitors.
Imogen claps again just to hurry the slower ones.
"Move, move!" she says, clearly enjoying herself too much while watching half the group stumble out of the hall. "And try to arrive in the classroom with a little composure, if that's not too much to ask."
Ron goes out first, still chewing. Harry follows. Dean and Seamus almost crash into each other at the door. Neville steps aside to let Lavender and another girl pass before following them, because even in a panic the poor guy still has manners.
Hermione starts walking beside me. Parvati and Lavender stick to us right away, already talking as if they hadn't just been herded.
"What a rude way to start the day," Lavender complains, still adjusting her skirt like Imogen personally offended her inner peace.
Parvati, meanwhile, is practically floating on good mood.
"I liked it," she says, smiling. "It gave things energy."
Hermione turns her head slightly toward her.
"Parvati, everything excites you."
"That's not true," Parvati protests.
Hermione raises an eyebrow.
"Ten minutes ago you were enjoying watching Imogen threaten Hadrien like it was entertainment."
Lavender lets out a little laugh. Parvati presses a hand to her chest, fake-offended.
"Because it was entertainment," she defends herself. "Sorry for knowing how to appreciate the good things in life."
I glance at Hermione from the side.
"You'd say that exact same thing."
Hermione gives me a look of complete calm.
"Yes," she says. "But with me it would sound reasonable."
"How convenient."
"How accurate," she corrects.
Lavender looks between the two of us and sighs.
"I honestly don't know how you two manage to argue about everything without actually fighting."
"Practice," I say.
"Years of mutual wear and tear," Hermione says at the exact same time.
Parvati laughs.
"Adorable. Exhausting. But adorable."
"Don't give us ideas," I mutter.
Imogen passes by us just then and points down the corridor with two fingers without slowing down.
"Chat while walking, chicks. Charms isn't going to come looking for you."
"What a shame," I say. "That would be more efficient."
Imogen doesn't even look at me when she answers.
"And you'd be more tolerable in silence."
Hermione lowers her head for a second. I can't see her smile, but her shoulder trembles.
Good. Excellent. Fantastic. Everyone woke up with answers for everything today.
We walk following the instructions on the parchment, turning where it says to turn and going down staircases that, luckily, don't decide to ruin anyone's life this time. Some portraits talk to us as we pass; others talk to each other like we're just background noise. Older students cross our path too, some running like they're already late and others walking fast with that face that says don't talk to me, I'm not a person yet.
Imogen follows us closely from behind, keeping an eye on us so no one wanders off, gets distracted, or ends up on the wrong floor. Which is interesting, because less than ten minutes ago she made it pretty clear that getting lost wasn't her problem.
Ah, tsunderes. Who understands them.
At the end, after a few more turns and another corridor full of identical doors just to be annoying, we finally reach the Charms classroom.
"This is as far as I go," Imogen says, stopping in front of the door. Then she looks at all of us calmly. "Behave yourselves. And don't be disrespectful to Professor Flitwick. He's an excellent professor."
She leaves us there and heads back down the corridor without looking behind her, like she has already done enough charity for one day.
We enter the classroom.
It's much smaller than I expected, but it doesn't feel cramped. It looks more like a miniature amphitheater: dark wood everywhere, double desks in stepped rows, and a low platform at the front. The tall windows let in that clean gray light that seems to come factory-installed with Scotland. Behind the desk there are books piled up everywhere. Real piles. Stacks. Towers. Honestly, I'm not sure whether that's class material or a passive murder attempt by collapse.
And in the middle of all that chaos is Professor Flitwick.
Tiny. Immaculate. White hair and beard. And still more presence than several tall adults put together. He's standing on a sort of improvised table made of books and more books, just enough to stay visible without losing any authority. For half a second he looks ridiculous. Only half. Then he stops, because he moves and speaks with the confidence of someone who has already seen whole generations do stupid things with a wand and survive to tell the tale.
"Good morning! Come in, come in, sit in pairs," he says, moving his hands enthusiastically.
Some Ravenclaws are already there. Padma, of course, is sitting perfectly straight like she arrived half an hour early and has already silently judged the general academic level of the room just by looking at how the desks are arranged.
Parvati decides that's her row and sits down beside her. So Padma ends up with Parvati on her left and, on the other side, a Ravenclaw girl I don't recognize: light brown curly hair, curious green eyes, and the face of someone thinking about something strange that probably has nothing to do with the lesson.
Harry looks around, spots a space with several empty seats, and then looks at Hermione.
"Hermione, here," he says, pointing to the seat.
She turns her head toward me.
No need to talk. I give her a small nod.
Go.
Hermione barely nods back and goes with them. Harry ends up in the middle, with Ron on his left and Seamus on his right. Hermione sits beside Ron. Dean and Neville settle nearby.
I, meanwhile, do something intelligent by accident and walk toward the Ravenclaw row.
I take the empty seat next to Padma.
Perfect. Surrounded by Ravenclaws. What could possibly go wrong.
I lean slightly toward her, not making a big deal of it.
"I didn't pay attention to half the Sorting," I murmur. "What's her name?" I ask, subtly indicating the girl on the other side of Parvati.
Padma doesn't fully turn.
"Mira Hawthorne."
Why didn't you whisper, Padma?! WHY ARE YOU EXPOSING ME LIKE THIS?!
The girl hears her. She leans forward a bit, curious, with absolutely no real embarrassment.
"And you're Hadrien Granger," she says, like she's confirming a strange little theory.
"That's right," I answer, trying to look casual and not affected by Padma's absolute betrayal.
Behind us, Lisa Turpin and Terry Boot take their seats.
Then Flitwick gives a light clap, pleased to have all of us more or less in place.
"Very good, very good. Now we can begin," he says in that bright, springy voice of his.
He makes a quick motion with his wand.
The board changes instantly, and written there in clear, neat letters appears:
Professor Filius Flitwick
Charms — First Year
"Now, take out your notebooks and books. Get your quills ready for notes. And remember: if you have any questions, you may ask me. I prefer an honest question to a creative magical mistake."
A few people laugh quietly. Flitwick rubs his hands together, delighted with himself and with us.
"Very good, very good… let's see where to begin. Tell me: why do you think this subject is called Charms and not simply Spells?"
He pauses briefly, letting his gaze travel around the room.
"And better yet… does anyone know the difference between the two?"
He smiles, almost amused before anyone answers.
"Don't be afraid of being wrong. Incorrect answers are useful too… sometimes even more useful than correct ones. Come now, be brave. What do you think?"
I decide to take both questions off everyone else's hands before Hermione shifts into full "complete academic answer" mode.
I raise my hand.
"It's called Charms because it focuses on giving magical properties or effects to things, people, or creatures," I say. "Whereas 'spells' would be the more general term. It covers many branches of magic, but it isn't a subject by itself. Charms would be one specific category within that… just like jinxes or Transfiguration."
"Very good, Mr. Granger!" he says, giving two quick little claps, genuinely pleased. "Very well explained for a first day."
He paces a little on top of his improvised mountain of books, pointing at me with his wand, not accusingly, but like someone underlining an idea in the air.
"Exactly. 'Spell' is a broad term. A very broad one. It serves to describe a great many manifestations of magic. But Charms, as a subject, deals with one particular branch: adding, altering, or conferring magical properties without completely changing the nature of the thing itself."
He pauses and raises one finger.
"For example: if I make a feather float, I still have a feather. An enchanted feather, yes, but a feather all the same. If I turn that feather into a spoon… that is no longer a Charm. That is Transfiguration."
He nods, pleased with his own example.
"So yes: good answer. Precise. Useful. I like it."
Hermione, several rows away to my left, says nothing, but I can see her sitting a little straighter. I don't know if that's because she liked the explanation or because she's still annoyed I stole the answer. Probably both.
And then, beside Parvati, the green-eyed girl raises her hand.
Mira Hawthorne.
Flitwick spots her immediately.
"Yes, Miss Hawthorne!"
Mira doesn't lower her hand until he fully points to her. Good. Careful, but not shy.
"If Charms is part of spells… then… what is magic?" she asks. "I mean, what is it exactly?"
There's one second of silence.
Not awkward.
Just the kind where the whole classroom thinks: ah. That kind of question.
Flitwick blinks.
Then he claps. For real. Small, cheerful claps, fascinated.
"Excellent! Excellent question!" he says, beaming. "That, Miss Hawthorne, is a question witches and wizards have spent centuries trying to answer without fully agreeing."
Mira looks pleased with herself for causing that. Parvati, beside her, too. Of course.
Flitwick folds his hands in front of him and takes on a slightly calmer tone, though without losing the sparkle.
"The short answer is this: magic is a real force in the world, but it is also a capacity. It exists, yes… but not everyone can feel it, channel it, or shape it. You can."
He takes a short step atop his platform of books.
"It is not just energy. It is not just talent. And it is not simply Latin words pronounced properly," he adds, looking around the class. "Magic responds to intention, knowledge, discipline… and character as well."
That makes the room quiet down a little more.
"We could spend years talking about what magic 'is' in philosophical terms," he continues. "And indeed, some people do. But for this class, a more practical definition will do: magic is the ability to produce a real change in the world through will, technique, and magical power."
He pauses.
"And learning Charms, specifically, is learning to produce that change with precision."
He nods, satisfied.
"So, in summary: an excellent question. Far too large to solve in one morning… but important enough that we should begin thinking about it today."
Mira lowers her hand. She doesn't look entirely satisfied.
Hermione, of course, doesn't stay still for very long.
She raises her hand.
Flitwick sees her immediately and almost seems pleased before he even hears the question.
"Yes, Miss… Granger, is it?"
"Yes, Professor," Hermione says, sitting very straight. "Then… can magic be measured?"
She pauses briefly, but doesn't lower her hand.
"And… why are some of us born able to use it while others aren't?"
Ah.
Good luck, Professor.
Flitwick opens his eyes a little wider and his smile grows.
"Ah! Another excellent question. And, moreover, quite controversial for some people," he says, folding his hands together with visible enthusiasm.
He thinks for a few seconds, putting his ideas in order.
"Let's see… the most serious modern theories on magical inheritance point to something fairly clear: witches and wizards seem to be born with a small inherited difference that allows them to perceive, channel, and use magic."
Several quills start moving at once.
Hermione's included, of course.
Flitwick starts pacing a little over his mountain of books.
"It isn't a particularly old idea, nor a very popular one outside academic circles. And here in England it isn't usually explained this way, at least not outside very scholarly or investigative minds."
He pauses briefly.
"In other words: from that point of view, witches, wizards, and Muggles would not be 'separate races,' but variants of the same human stock. The difference would lie in that ability to interact with magic."
He smiles faintly.
"Which, naturally, does not please those who prefer explanations that are more poetic… or more useful to their prejudices."
Parvati smiles. Mira too. Hermione doesn't. Hermione is writing like she's about to be tested in five minutes.
Flitwick raises one finger.
"Now then, that does not mean magic lives inside you like water in a bottle. Magic does seem to be an internal capacity, yes, but it also interacts with the environment. That is why we can measure its effects in places, objects, or spells… but not look at a person and tell 'how much magic they have' as if the number were written on their forehead."
I am deeply grateful that does not exist. Hermione would be unbearable with a visible score.
Flitwick continues, happy to have a classroom and an audience.
"We also know that this capacity varies greatly from person to person: not only in ease, but in control, affinity, and sensitivity. The same is true of other magical beings. Not all of them relate to magic in the same way."
Hermione raises her head just a little from the parchment.
That means he's still not finished.
Of course.
"Then, Professor," she asks, "is magic hereditary in all cases?"
Flitwick smiles even wider.
"In many, yes. In all, not predictably," he answers. "There are very clear magical lineages, but there are also children of Muggles with magic, and children born into magical families whose magic does not fully develop. If you expect a neat, simple, orderly rule… I am afraid magical inheritance does not cooperate."
Hermione frowns slightly.
It bothers her that the universe does not come with instructions.
Flitwick looks at her with dangerously encouraging warmth.
"So, Miss Granger, the short answer would be this: yes, magic can be measured in its effects. And yes, it seems to have a hereditary basis. But we still do not fully understand why it appears in some people and not in others."
Hermione lowers her gaze and writes faster.
Flitwick claps once, softly, delighted with himself and with us.
"Very good. Excellent. We have already begun the day with philosophy, biology, and a small academic heresy. We are doing quite well." (A/N: Holy codfish, Batman, look at all the nonsense I just dumped here.)
"Well, well. I hope you've all been enlightened," Flitwick says, chuckling softly at his own joke.
Points for enthusiasm. I forgive him everything.
"Now let us get to the heart of the matter, or we shall run out of time," he adds.
He makes a quick gesture with his wand toward the board. The writing changes at once. Beneath his name appears, neat and proper, the book title and page:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 — page 10
And underneath, two spells.
Lumos.
Nox.
Ah.
Basic. Very basic.
Hermione and I learned to do them a long time ago, and without wands. Which would be a beautiful private satisfaction if I weren't surrounded by Ravenclaws and my face didn't have the bad habit of revealing when something seems too easy.
Flitwick points at the board with the tip of his wand.
"Today we will begin with something small, useful, and above all, safe. More or less," he says cheerfully. "Lumos to produce light. Nox to extinguish it."
Several quills start scratching again.
"Do not underestimate simple spells," he continues, raising one finger. "Simple spells, well executed, are far more valuable than complex ones done badly. And believe me, a poorly cast lighting spell can end in singed eyebrows, burning curtains, or students running in circles because they managed to light up their nose and nothing else."
The mental image earns a few laughs around the room.
Flitwick gives a small little hop of enthusiasm on his platform of books.
"First: clear pronunciation. Second: intent. Third: wand movement. Nothing abrupt, nothing theatrical. Magic does not improve because you wave your arm around as though you're fighting a wasp."
"Observe," he says.
He raises his wand with small, precise elegance.
"Lumos."
The tip lights up at once with a clean white glow. Not blinding. Just steady. Clear. Perfect.
Flitwick smiles and then turns his wrist slightly.
"Nox."
The light disappears.
Simple. Exact. No circus.
"You see? No drama. Just control," he says, letting his eyes travel over all of us. "Now you."
Oh, excellent.
The concert begins.
Lumos here.
Lumos there.
Lumos over here and Lumos over there.
Half the class murmurs as though they're trying to persuade the wand politely.
Hermione, however, holds back. She doesn't cast the spell right away. She keeps organizing her thoughts and writing something in the margin of her book, probably the entire lesson, the possible variations, the common mistakes, and Flitwick's full biography too if you give her three more minutes.
All right.
I look at Padma beside me. She's concentrating hard, wrist steady, pronunciation correct… but the tip of her wand is still as dark as the Scottish sky.
I raise mine.
"Lumos."
The tip lights up instantly.
I'm the first in the room.
Flitwick gives two quick claps, delighted.
"Excellent! Perfectly executed, Mr. Granger. Five points to Gryffindor!"
Ah.
That gets half the class looking at me.
How necessary. What peace.
Padma turns her head slightly toward me. Not annoyed, not impressed either. Just evaluating. Like she has mentally written down that yes, sitting next to another Granger was in fact going to be academically irritating.
Across the room, Hermione finally looks up.
She doesn't seem surprised.
Of course not. She and I already knew how to do this ages ago.
What I do see is that little glint on her face that says, good, one of us opened the door, now it's my turn to statistically ruin the rest.
Oh no. No, no. Stay still, woman.
Hermione raises her wand with that calm of someone about to commit an elegant humiliation.
"Lumos."
Light, immediate. Clean. Steady.
Flitwick claps again, as happy as if someone had handed him two desserts in a row.
"Very good! Excellent as well, Miss Granger!"
Yes. It has begun.
And I'm not going to behave perfectly either.
I start playing with the light at the tip of my wand. White. Blue. Green. Red. Violet. Back to white again. I basically turn the tip into a miniature portable disco.
A few people around me stare. One or two widen their eyes like I just summoned a baby dragon instead of doing a first-year spell. Mira, on the other side of Parvati, looks fascinated. Padma says nothing, but her face clearly says this has gone from mildly irritating to very Granger, if that means anything.
Flitwick sees it too.
He looks surprised for a second.
Then he smiles with genuine delight and claps a couple of times.
"Oh, ho, ho!" he laughs, charmed.
Professor, with all due respect, that sound is dangerously close to Santa Claus. Then again, the headmaster looks more like him.
Flitwick raises one hand, still amused.
"It seems, Mr. Granger, that you have quite a knack for this charm," he says, clearly pleased, "but would you do me the favor of lowering the showmanship a little and extinguishing your wand?"
He says it so kindly that disobeying almost feels mean.
Almost.
But not quite.
I decide to obey.
"Nox," I say out loud.
The light vanishes instantly.
I lower my wand with a face of functional innocence, as if I hadn't just turned the first Charms exercise into a traveling fairground because I was bored.
Flitwick nods, satisfied.
"Very good. Control is part of the merit as well."
Of course. That was exactly my plan from the beginning, Professor. Obviously.
Hermione looks at me from her seat with that expression of hers that means you're an idiot and, in her case, also well done, but I'm not going to say it.
I hold her gaze for half a second.
Yes, yes. I know. You would have done the same thing, only with dignity.
I shift a little in my chair, pretending to be unconcerned. My face doesn't move a muscle. As if I hadn't just turned a wand tip into a fairground disco.
Padma turns slightly toward me. She doesn't sound accusatory. She sounds like someone who is genuinely curious.
"How did you do it right away? And how did you change the color like that? You were never supposed to have done magic before. You're Muggle-born."
There is no malice in it. None. Just curiosity. More about understanding the mechanism than judging me.
Out of the corner of my eye I see that Parvati has stopped looking at her sister and is paying attention to me now. Mira too. Fantastic. Unexpected audience.
I decide to give in. A little.
"I hadn't done wand magic before," I clarify quietly. "It's not the same. But I had read a lot… and I'd practiced other things. Control, concentration, intent. The basics."
Padma keeps looking at me, serious.
"Without a wand?"
"Without a wand," I confirm. "Small things. Nothing spectacular."
Parvati raises her brows.
"'Nothing spectacular'? You just made a disco in class."
"That was boredom, not power," I answer.
Mira smiles a little, like she finds that answer more interesting than the full truth.
Padma goes back to the important point.
"And the color?"
I rest the wand on the edge of the desk and lower my voice further.
"I didn't think make light and then change it. I thought of a light of a specific color from the start. As if it already existed that way. If you try to correct it afterward, it feels clumsier."
Padma frowns slightly, processing.
"So the exact idea comes first, not just the spell."
"Yes," I say. "The spell opens the door. The rest decides what comes through."
Parvati makes a face that says that sounded much smarter than she expected.
"You're annoying," she mutters, but without venom.
"Thank you."
Mira leans forward just a little, genuinely interested.
"So it wasn't improvised."
I look at her.
"It was improvised on top of a solid base. Which is an elegant way of saying yes, but not completely."
That earns a small laugh from her.
Padma finally lowers her gaze to her wand.
"Hm."
She doesn't look impressed. She looks worse: like she's already testing the idea in her head.
Excellent. I've just created direct competition.
At the front, Flitwick is still correcting half the class with a patience that should be studied scientifically. I take advantage of the fact that he isn't looking and whisper one last thing:
"Think less about saying the spell and more about how you want it to come out. The wand helps, but if your head is making noise, it shows."
Padma nods once.
Parvati looks at me like she has just discovered that, unfortunately, I do sometimes have a brain.
Mira, meanwhile, keeps smiling a little, curious.
Nothing strange. Nothing dangerous.
I think for a second about how to explain it without sounding like a lunatic, and in the end I lower my voice enough that only they can hear.
"Listen. Close your eyes and imagine a point of light. Not the word 'light.' The light. A small bright point, still and clear. Now focus on your breathing and repeat the spell softly. Try to feel that place in your body where magic wakes up… that strange point, warm and cold at the same time. Like something moving inside you and traveling up your arm into the wand. Take the light you imagined and place it there, at the tip, while you say the spell."
The three of them look at me for a second.
I can't tell whether they're thinking what kind of explanation even is that or well, it's better than nothing.
Then they listen to me.
They close their eyes.
They murmur Lumos once. Then again. Slower. More focused.
Mira is the first one to get it.
The tip of her wand lights up all at once with a bright orange glow, warm, almost golden. More vivid than a simple flame, cleaner too. A laugh of pure delight slips out of her and she turns toward me.
"Thank you!" she whispers, genuinely happy.
Flitwick sees the light from the front and claps, delighted.
"Excellent, Miss Hawthorne! Very good! Five points to Ravenclaw!"
Mira smiles even wider, like she might float out of the room.
Padma and Parvati stay concentrated. They don't open their eyes. They try again. And again.
Until, almost at the same time, the tips of their wands light up.
Two white lights, clear and steady.
Perfect.
Ah.
Well.
Looks like I do know how to explain things when I'm forced to.
I smile a little and lower my voice again.
"Now put it out. Do the same thing as before, but backward. Cut off that flow of magic before it reaches the tip of the wand and the light will go out on its own. You won't even need Nox."
Mira looks down at her orange light, still fascinated. Parvati frowns slightly, focused. Padma, as expected, is already trying to understand the exact logic behind what I just said.
Good.
That means they understood me or they're about to explode something.
The three of them half-close their eyes again.
Mira's light flickers first, like it doesn't want to go. Then it snaps out.
Parvati manages it a second later. Her white tip flickers once and dies cleanly.
Padma takes a little longer, but hers disappears in the end too, without her saying anything.
Ah.
Beautiful.
"You see?" I murmur. "If you can turn it on, you can cut it off too. The wand doesn't think for you."
Mira looks at me like I've just revealed some ancient secret. Parvati seems genuinely pleased she managed it. Padma doesn't smile, but it's obvious from her face that she has already filed all this away to use it better than the rest of us within ten minutes.
Very Ravenclaw of her.
Padma turns slightly toward me, her wand now dark between her fingers and that expression of hers that says something here doesn't add up.
"You lied," she says, without drama, like she's pointing out a calculation error. "You said Hermione was the one who taught you."
Parvati looks up at once.
"That's true!" she says, delighted to join the accusation. "And now it turns out it was you."
Mira says nothing yet, but it is painfully obvious she's listening.
I shift a little in my chair, perfectly calm.
"I didn't lie. You heard what suited you."
Padma frowns slightly.
"That sounds suspiciously like an excuse."
"No. It sounds like precision," I answer. "I said Hermione was the smart one. I never said I was useless."
Parvati laughs through her nose.
"What a snake."
"Wonderful. You understand exactly what you want to understand."
Padma holds my gaze for one second longer.
"You also said you were 'the older and smarter one.'"
"And I stand by both claims."
Parvati props her elbow on the desk.
"How many minutes older?"
"Enough."
"That's not an answer," Padma says dryly.
"It's the only one you're getting."
Mira smiles now, fully entertained.
"So you were serious and we thought it was a joke."
"Exactly," I say, pointing at her lightly with the wand like someone has finally passed the test. "It's not my fault you don't know how to recognize the truth when you hear it."
Padma lowers her eyes to her wand and then looks back at me.
"That still sounds very much like a liar."
"No. It sounds like someone brilliant surrounded by skeptics."
Parvati snorts.
"How humble."
"It's not bragging if it's true," I answer, offended on principle.
Mira lets out a little laugh.
"That is always what people say when they're bragging."
"And I'm still right anyway."
Padma doesn't quite smile, but almost.
"Annoying."
"Precise," I correct.
Parvati looks between Padma and me like she's watching a match.
"So Hermione did know how to do this before coming here."
"Yes," I say, not bothering to deny it.
"And you too," Mira adds.
"So it seems."
Padma tilts her head slightly.
"That makes sense."
I look at her.
"What makes sense?"
"That the two of you answered so quickly. That you weren't nervous. That you seemed… ahead."
"Padma," I murmur, "that was a very polite way of calling us unbearable."
"Yes," she says. "It was."
Mira leans toward me again, curious once more.
"So if you were the one teaching Hermione… who taught you?"
Ah.
Good question.
I hold her gaze for a second.
"Desperation, mostly. And the absolute terror of making a fool of myself in front of other people. I like having everything under control."
That earns a laugh from all three of them.
Good. Better this way. Less suspicion, more controlled chaos.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
9298 Words.
Sorry, but this chapter already ran to 9K words, so the continuation goes into the next one.
And to my dear readers: you have no idea how overwhelming it is to see more than 100 people with this story in their collection and leaving their power stones. I love you 😘😘
This week you're getting two chapters. As soon as I finish this one, I'm starting the next.
I don't know when I'll take a long break, but when it happens I'll let you know. And I'll probably use that time to go back, review the first chapters, and rewrite them.
Also, I finally have a Discord if you want to drop by. Honestly, it's horrible, but it works for me:
di.scord .gg / Yrt88ENvRr[1]
(Delete the dots and spaces.)
I'll also leave the code and the same link in the comment under this paragraph.
I'm watching you.
[1] di.scord .gg / Yrt88ENvRr