The next morning, Rowan found himself on the Quidditch pitch with a dozen other students who'd come out to enjoy the September sunshine. No structure, no practice, just students taking turns on school brooms, attempting tricks, or simply flying lazy circles around the pitch.
He borrowed a school broom and pushed off.
The moment he was airborne, something in his chest loosened. Up here, no one was staring at him. No one was whispering about tournaments or Muggleborns or fame. Just wind and speed and the simple physics of flight.
His technique was still terrible. Students who'd grown up flying were doing barrel rolls and racing each other while he managed wobbly circles. But for the first time, he didn't care. Imelda had been right that he was terrible. She'd been wrong that it mattered.
He flew wide loops, feeling the September air cold against his face, watching Hogwarts shrink below him. Twenty minutes passed before he even thought to land.
When he did, Iris was waiting at the edge of the pitch.
"You're smiling," she observed.
"Am I?"
"Genuinely smiling. It's unnatural. Disturbing, even." But her tone was warm. "Turns out flying's fun even when you're bad at it?"
"Apparently." Rowan ran a hand through his wind-messed hair. "Who knew."
Iris laughed. "The Flamels taught you well."
They walked in comfortable silence for a moment before Iris spoke again. "Edmund and I were thinking about exploring the grounds this afternoon. There's supposedly a decent path along the lake that goes all the way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Want to come?"
A month ago, Rowan would have declined. Too much to study, too much to plan, too much work to do.
"Sure," he said instead.
The walk along the lake turned into three hours of simply existing. They found a hollow tree that Edmund insisted was clearly a bowtruckle habitat, though they never spotted one. Iris demonstrated her improved Severing Charm by cleanly cutting reeds, then immediately got distracted trying to weave them into a basket and failing spectacularly.
"This is harder than it looks," she muttered, glaring at the tangled mess.
"Everything's harder than it looks," Edmund said philosophically. "That's why people specialize."
"Deep thoughts from Edmund Haggarty. Mark this day."
"I have deep thoughts! Frequently!"
"Name one."
"Pudding is underrated as a food group."
"That's not even deep. That's just true."
They skipped stones. Rowan was terrible at it, Edmund was worse ("It's the wrist motion!" "My wrist is doing the motion!" "Wrong motion!"), and Iris managed seven skips on her best throw.
"You're showing off," Edmund accused.
"I'm demonstrating proper technique. Not my fault you can't learn."
They found a large flat rock overlooking the water and settled there as the afternoon stretched on. Edmund lay back, using his bag as a pillow, and stared at the sky. Iris practiced her wand movements for the Incendio variation they'd learned last year. Rowan just... sat.
"You know what I realized?" Edmund said eventually. "We never did this last year. Just... wasted an afternoon."
"We were busy," Iris said.
"We were always busy." Edmund picked up another stone, turned it over in his hands without throwing it. "Classes, studying, Rowan's tournament preparation. We never just sat by the lake doing nothing."
"We're sitting now," Rowan pointed out.
"We are." Edmund grinned. "And it's brilliant. No offense to academic achievement and all that, but this is definitely better than homework."
When they returned to the castle for dinner, Rowan's robes were dusty from climbing rocks, his hair was a mess from the wind off the lake, and he felt more relaxed than he had in months.
At breakfast Monday morning, Rowan sat with Iris and a few other Ravenclaws. The attention was still there, stares, whispers, but slightly diminished. Yesterday's spectacle was becoming today's background noise.
He was spreading jam on toast when he noticed the house point hourglasses at the front of the hall. The enchanted gems flowing upward as points were earned, downward as they were lost. Constant movement between the four hourglasses, but always the same total number of gems in the system.
"Allocation…" he murmured.
"What?" Iris followed his gaze.
"The house points. The enchantment doesn't need enough power to move all the gems at once. Most of them sit still most of the time. It only needs power for the gems that are actually moving." His mind raced. "The hub design. I've been thinking about it wrong. Trying to power hundreds of connections simultaneously when most would be idle. But if the hub has a fixed power capacity and just allocates it to whichever connections are actively being used..."
"Are you having magical insights about house points?"
"Maybe." He grabbed his journal, started sketching. A central hub with limited power. Ambient magic, or user-charged, or eventually a miniature alchemical cycle like the Flamels mentioned. But instead of trying to maintain hundreds of connections at full strength, it dynamically directs that power to active connections only. Ten people actually communicating? The hub powers those ten. Everyone else idle? Their connections use almost nothing.
"You're doing it again," Iris said.
"What?"
"The thing where you completely forget I'm here and start drawing runes on napkins."
Rowan looked down. He'd been sketching on a napkin. "Sorry. The Flamels said insights come from watching ordinary things."
"Well, your 'ordinary things' are still magical theory." She stole a piece of his toast. "Though at least you're eating breakfast with us instead of skipping it to read. Small victories, I suppose."
"I'm trying."
"You are. It's weird. I'm waiting for you to crack and disappear into the library for a week."
"Give it time," Rowan said. "I'm sure I'll disappoint you eventually."
The week settled into a rhythm. Classes resumed. Transfiguration working on switching spells, Potions brewing Shrinking Solutions, Charms practicing the Skurge charm. Standard second-year curriculum that Rowan had already read ahead on.
Between classes, he worked through the Flamels' alchemical texts. In the evenings, he forced himself to be social. Card games in the common room. Flying on weekend mornings. Conversations that weren't about changing the world or building innovations or fighting future wars.
Students still stared. Still whispered. But the intensity faded as the week progressed. Other gossip emerged. A seventh-year couple's dramatic breakup, a third-year who'd accidentally set his robes on fire during Charms, rumors about changes to the Quidditch season schedule.
Rowan became yesterday's news, which was exactly what he'd hoped for.
On Friday evening, he was playing Gobstones with Edmund and Lawrence, and losing badly, when Professor Hecat appeared in the common room entrance.
"Mr. Ashcroft. A word."
The common room went quiet. Rowan stood, conscious of every eye tracking him as he crossed to where Hecat waited.
"Crossed Wands meets Tuesday at four," she said without preamble. "I'll be assessing where you stand after your summer away. I expect the tournament victory hasn't made you complacent."
"No, Professor."
"Good. I want to see whether you've maintained your training or let your skills atrophy." Her expression was unreadable. "Come prepared to duel."
"Yes, Professor."
When she left, the common room's attention shifted back to him. Lawrence whistled low.
"She looked ready to murder someone."
"That's just her dueling face," Rowan said, sitting back down. The Gobstones had somehow rearranged themselves while he wasn't looking. "Edmund, did you cheat while I was talking to Hecat?"
"Cheat? Me? I'm wounded by the accusation."
"That's a yes."
"That's a 'prove it.'"
Tuesday. Crossed Wands. A chance to prove he'd earned his silver medal.
"Your turn," Edmund said, nudging him.
Rowan focused back on the game. Tuesday was four days away. Tonight, he was playing Gobstones with his friends and pretending not to notice that Edmund had definitely moved pieces while he wasn't looking.
Balance. He was learning balance.