The silence spread like a wave down the corridor.
"That's him—"
"—youngest finalist—"
"—silver medal—"
"I heard he used Dark magic—"
"—interviewed in the Prophet—"
The whispers followed him as he made his way toward Ravenclaw Tower. Students stopped walking to stare. Second years gaped openly. Older students muttered to each other, some admiring, others hostile.
Rowan kept his expression neutral and his pace steady. He'd expected this. Had prepared for it. Knowing something intellectually and experiencing it directly were different things, though.
By the time he reached Ravenclaw Tower, answered the bronze knocker's riddle, and stepped into the common room, his shoulders were tight with tension.
The Ravenclaw common room was already filling with returning students. Conversations stopped when he entered. All eyes turned toward him.
Iris broke the silence, crossing the room quickly to pull him into a hug. "You're back. Finally. I've been going mad waiting."
The gesture broke the tension. Other students returned to their conversations, though Rowan caught many still glancing his way.
"How was France?" Iris asked quietly, steering him toward the fireplace and away from the crowd.
"It was educational, but exhausting. The Flamels are..." He searched for words. "Extraordinary. They taught me more in two months than I could have learned in two years anywhere else."
"The letters slowed down after you left Britain?"
"Eventually. The wards I set up before leaving helped. Anything genuinely important got through, the rest went to a holding area. I still received about twenty letters a day, though." He shook his head. "The Flamels said they dealt with the same thing centuries ago. At least I had a system in place."
"The Prophet ran three more articles about you over the summer," Iris said. "Two were neutral. One was..." She grimaced. "Less charitable."
"I saw that one. Nicholas showed me." The hostile article had accused him of arrogance, of disrespecting wizarding traditions, of being a dangerous influence on young Muggleborns who might think they could rise above their station. It had stung more than Rowan wanted to admit.
They talked until it was nearly time for the feast. Other Ravenclaws approached throughout the hour. Some to congratulate him, others simply curious, a few openly skeptical. Rowan answered questions patiently, kept his responses brief, and tried not to let exhaustion show.
"I should unpack quickly before the feast," he finally said to Iris.
"I'll save you a seat at dinner."
Rowan carried his trunk up to the second-year boys' dormitory. Empty. His roommates were still settling in elsewhere or talking in the common room.
He opened his trunk and found a note tucked between his new books. Perenelle's handwriting, precise as always:
Rowan,
Transformation takes time. Patience. Willingness to fail repeatedly before success. True for transmuting metals, creating innovations, and changing society.
You have knowledge, skills, and vision. Now you need patience and wisdom to use them sustainably.
We're proud of you—for who you're becoming, rather than what you've achieved.
P & N
Rowan read it twice, then filed it in the front of his journal where he'd see it regularly. The summer had given him more than alchemical knowledge. It had given him perspective on the long work ahead, mentors who understood what he was attempting, and the reminder that even world-changers needed to remember they were human.
He quickly organized his belongings. New alchemical texts on the shelf, clothes in the wardrobe, supplies in his trunk. When he descended back to the common room, Hector Fawley caught his eye.
"Ashcroft! We saw you come in earlier but you disappeared. How was France?"
"Worth every minute," Rowan replied.
When the time came to head to the Great Hall, Rowan descended the stairs with the rest of Ravenclaw House, Iris at his side.
The entrance to the Great Hall loomed ahead. Through the open doors, he could see students already seated at the four house tables, the ceiling enchanted to show the clear September evening sky.
"Ready?" Iris asked quietly.
"No choice but to be."
They stepped through the doors.
The effect was immediate and absolute.
Conversation died. A wave of silence spread through the Great Hall like ripples on water, starting from the entrance and expanding outward until hundreds of students sat in complete quiet, all staring at him.
Rowan felt the weight of every eye in the room. The pressure of it was almost physical. Hundreds of faces turned toward him, expressions ranging from awe to resentment to naked curiosity.
Someone whispered. The sound carried in the silence.
"That's him. The Mudblood finalist."
Someone else: "He's smaller than I expected."
"Did you see his interview?"
"My father says he's dangerous—"
"—youngest finalist ever—"
The whispers built like rising water, hundreds of conversations starting simultaneously, all centered on him.
Rowan stood frozen for a heartbeat, suddenly understanding what Harry Potter must have felt in his original timeline. The crushing burden of being watched, judged, discussed like a curiosity rather than a person.
Then Iris's hand found his elbow, steadying him. "Walk," she murmured. "Head up. You've done nothing wrong."
He walked.