The Ravenclaw table stretched before him, and he made his way down its length to an empty section near the middle. Students shifted to make room. Some eagerly, others reluctantly. The whispers followed him like ghosts.
By the time he sat down, normal conversation had resumed, though he caught countless glances still directed his way.
"That was unpleasant," he said quietly.
"That was Hogwarts welcoming back their celebrity," Iris corrected. "Get used to it. You're famous now, whether you wanted it or not."
Professor Weasley stood at the staff table and raised her hands for silence. The Sorting would begin shortly. First years were already filing in, looking nervous and small.
The Sorting Hat stirred on its stool, then opened wide and began to sing. The song spoke of the four houses and their qualities, of growth that comes through challenge and wisdom earned through struggle. Rowan caught verses about shortcuts that carry hidden tolls, and how the strongest foundations sometimes crack before they truly hold, before the final chorus reminded them that unity would be tested in the years ahead.
When the song ended, applause echoed through the hall.
Professor Weasley called the first name, and the ceremony proceeded with familiar rhythm. Rowan watched with half his attention, still processing the reception he'd received.
Then a name caught his attention.
"Potter, Henry!"
A small boy with messy black hair and nervous energy approached the stool. The Hat was placed on his head, and after a moment's deliberation: "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers as Henry Potter, likely Harry Potter's great-grandfather, Rowan realized with a jolt, made his way to join his new house.
The reminder of the timeline, of future events he knew were coming, settled over Rowan like a weight. Henry Potter would have children. Those children would have James Potter. And James would have Harry.
A hundred years from now, Voldemort would rise. The wizarding world would tear itself apart in civil war. And before that, forty years from now, Grindelwald would plunge Europe into darkness.
Unless Rowan changed things. Unless he succeeded in the impossible task he'd set himself.
The Sorting concluded. Headmistress Mole stood to give her welcoming remarks. Brief and practical as always. Then food appeared on the tables, and the feast began.
Rowan ate mechanically, aware of eyes still on him, of whispered conversations he couldn't quite hear. Other second-years at the Ravenclaw table made attempts at conversation. Congratulations on the tournament, questions about the Flamels, thinly veiled curiosity about his "methods."
He answered politely but minimally. The exhaustion was catching up with him.
When the feast ended and students began filing out toward their dormitories, Rowan felt relief.
Back in Ravenclaw Tower, the common room was filling rapidly. Rowan's instinct was to head straight for the dormitory, retrieve the Flamels' alchemical texts, and begin working through the advanced theory they'd assigned him.
Then he remembered Perenelle's words. Build a life while you're changing the world. Otherwise the world wins.
He settled into an armchair near the fireplace instead.
Iris joined him a moment later, looking surprised. "You're not heading up to study?"
"The Flamels suggested I should... be twelve sometimes." It felt strange saying it aloud.
"Shocking advice from six-hundred-year-old alchemists." But she smiled. "Edmund should be here soon. He mentioned something about bringing cards."
Edmund arrived ten minutes later with a deck of Exploding Snap cards and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans he'd brought from home. Poppy Sweeting trailed behind him, looking uncertain.
"Rowan's joining us," Edmund announced cheerfully. "See, Poppy? I told you he wasn't always buried in books."
"I never said he was," Poppy protested, though she looked surprised. "I just... well. Everyone's been talking about the tournament and I thought maybe you'd want space."
"I want to play cards," Rowan said. "And eat terrible sweets."
Poppy brightened immediately and settled into the circle. Lawrence Goode and Amit Thakkar drifted over as well.
"You're joining us?" Lawrence asked Rowan, eyebrows raised. "Voluntarily? Edmund, check if he's been Imperiused."
"I can make my own decisions about how to waste an evening, thanks."
"Waste?" Edmund clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me, Ashcroft. This is quality recreational time."
For the next hour, Rowan played cards, ate questionable sweets (Poppy got earwax, Edmund got vomit, Rowan got something that might have been grass), and listened to his housemates talk about nothing important.
Lawrence told an elaborate story about helping his mother at Slug & Jiggers and accidentally knocking over a display of beetle eyes while restocking shelves. "They went everywhere. Under the counter, into other jars, one rolled all the way to the street. A customer stepped on it and it exploded. Mum said she was impressed I'd managed to cause that much chaos with a single sneeze."
"How does sneezing knock over beetle eyes?" Poppy asked.
"Very enthusiastically! The sneeze startled me, I jerked backward, hit the shelf. Chaos."
Edmund complained about his younger sister's new obsession with collecting garden gnomes. "She's got seventeen of them. Seventeen! They bite. One of them bit me three times last week and Mum said it was my fault for 'antagonizing' it."
"Did you antagonize it?" Iris asked.
"I may have called it ugly. In my defense, it was ugly."
Amit showed them a magical puzzle box from India that rearranged itself every time you thought you'd solved it. Poppy spent ten minutes completely absorbed in trying to crack it before declaring, "This is wonderful. I hate it."
"That's the spirit," Amit said approvingly.
Poppy won three rounds of Exploding Snap in a row through what appeared to be pure luck.
"How are you doing this?" Edmund demanded after his cards exploded in his face for the third time.
"I'm not doing anything!"
"You're doing something. Nobody's this lucky."
"Maybe you're just unlucky," Poppy suggested sweetly.
"I can learn! Watch this!" Edmund's next stone went straight down. "See?"
"I saw something," Iris said. "Not sure it was learning."
Edmund threw a Bertie Bott's bean at her. She caught it, ate it, and immediately made a face. "Ugh. Dirt."
"Serves you right," Edmund muttered, but he was grinning.
When they finally headed upstairs around ten, Rowan felt lighter than he had all day. Edmund's laugh still echoed in his head. Poppy's delighted expression when she'd finally solved Amit's puzzle box. Lawrence's beetle eyes story that had everyone in stitches.
The second-year boys' dormitory was already occupied. Hector Fawley bounced up from his bed the moment Rowan entered.
"There you are! We were just talking about the tournament."
"My father thought you must have been cheating somehow," Timothy Fletcher said, grinning. "He kept asking how else a first-year beats seventh-years. I told him maybe you were better. He went purple."
Amit spoke up quietly. "Mine wanted to know your training regimen. Every detail."
"Practice," Rowan said. "A lot of it."
"My family just wanted to know if I'd asked for your autograph yet," Hector said. "It was mortifying."
"Have you?" Lawrence called from where he was unpacking his own trunk.
"Obviously not. I have dignity." Hector paused. "But if you were offering..."
Rowan threw a pillow at him.
"How was France really?" Amit asked. "Beyond the alchemy."
"It was intense. The Flamels don't do anything halfway. But I learned more in two months than I could have in two years of normal study."
"Did you blow anything up?" Hector asked with mock seriousness.
"Only twice. Both times intentionally."
They laughed, and the conversation drifted to their own summers. Hector's family trip to Wales where he'd apparently fallen into a bog, Timothy's reluctant attendance at several society functions where he'd hidden in a library to avoid dancing lessons, Amit visiting family in India and discovering his grandmother was apparently a legendary chess player who'd crushed him in four moves.
"Four moves?" Lawrence said. "That's not possible."
"That's what I said! She just smiled and said I had much to learn." Amit looked genuinely traumatized by the memory.
It was normal. Comfortable. A reminder that not everything had changed.
"Anyone flying tomorrow?" Hector asked as they settled in for the night. "First nice weekend before classes start."
Rowan almost declined automatically. His usual response whenever anyone suggested flying outside of required lessons. Imelda Reyes' mocking comments from last year still stung. Flies like he's never been on a broom. Pathetic for a silver medalist.
But the Flamels had said to try being twelve sometimes.
"I'll fly," he said instead, surprising himself.
"Really?" Hector sat up. "You always say no when we ask."
"Maybe I shouldn't always say no."
"Well, you can't back out now. I'm holding you to it." Hector grinned. "What changed, though? You've been turning us down since first year."
"I'm trying something new." Rowan pulled his curtains partway closed. "The Flamels thought I should... do things besides study occasionally."
"Revolutionary advice," Timothy called from his bed. "Next they'll suggest you eat food and sleep."
"Careful," Lawrence added. "First it's flying for fun, next thing you know we'll have you trying out for Quidditch."
"Absolutely not."
"That's what they all say!"
When he finally climbed into bed and drew his curtains, Rowan allowed himself a moment to process the day. The attention had been overwhelming. The scrutiny exhausting. But the evening had been... good. Better than he'd expected.
He performed his Occlumency meditation, organizing the day's events in his mental landscape, filing away observations and reactions for later analysis. Then, finally, he slept.