Chapter 4: Simply Magical.
Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Ravenclaw Tower, scattering across books, parchment, and the pale blue hangings of the dormitory. The smell of ink and parchment had already begun to feel like home. Quirinus woke before Rufus, as usual, his mind clear but his thoughts crowded—lists of spells, unfinished questions, memories that didn't quite belong to this life.
He dressed quietly, buttoning his uniform with mechanical care, and glanced at the wand lying on his desk. Alder wood, twenty-three centimeters, unicorn hair. The surface gleamed faintly in the half-light, like a patient eye watching him. He hesitated before picking it up.
Another day, he thought, and slipped it into his robe.
The corridors hummed with morning chatter—shoes scuffing on stone, portraits yawning awake. When they reached the Great Hall, Rufus was already balancing a piece of toast in one hand and his timetable in the other.
"Transfiguration first," he said, groaning. "She'll turn us into teacups if we're late."
"Then don't be late," Quirinus answered, taking a modest breakfast of tea and porridge. The nerves that clung to most students before McGonagall's class felt to him like anticipation. He wanted to learn—every detail, every law. Magic wasn't instinct; it was structure. That thought steadied him.
Transfiguration Class...
Professor McGonagall's classroom was bright with the reflection of dozens of polished cages and brass instruments lining the walls. The faint smell of fur and chalk hung in the air. A blackboard already carried today's topic in sharp, confident strokes:
Transformation of small mammals into inanimate objects (advanced principles of control and reversal).
When the professor entered, her robes cut through the murmurs like a blade through silk.
"Good morning," she said. Her voice carried both greeting and command. "Wands ready. This term we refine precision. Transfiguration is no parlor trick—it is the discipline of will."
She waved her wand once; a series of small wooden cages appeared on each desk, each holding a bright-eyed field mouse. The class leaned forward.
"Your task: transfigure the mouse into a snuffbox and return it to its original state. Alive. We shall see how many of you can manage both ends of the process."
Rufus shot Quirinus a look somewhere between amusement and dread. "Alive, she says, as if that's optional."
Quirinus's lips twitched—almost a smile—but he was already studying the mouse. He noted its breathing, the way the light touched its fur. To change it, he would need to understand it first.
McGonagall's wand sliced through the air. "Begin."
Quirinus inhaled, centering his focus. Form before substance, he reminded himself. His wand moved in a smooth circle, then a decisive tap.
"Vera Verto!"
The mouse shimmered, its outline blurring as if caught between worlds. For an instant, he felt the spell hesitate—the flow of magic faltering, like breath caught in a throat. The wand vibrated faintly in his hand. He pressed on, pushing his intent through the resistance.
A click echoed; on the desk now lay a small, silver-grey snuffbox with faint traces of fur at the edges. Quirinus exhaled slowly. Almost.
Across the aisle, Fabian Prewett leaned over his own desk, his usual confidence tempered by effort. His transfiguration was neat, gold-trimmed, almost ornamental. When McGonagall passed, she gave him a crisp nod.
Rufus muttered, "Show-off."
Quirinus ignored the comment, focused on the next step—the reversal. He steadied his breathing, pictured the mouse as it had been, alive, small heartbeat drumming against tiny ribs. His wand trembled again, reluctant. "Reverto!"
The box shuddered, warped, and unfurled. In a blink, the mouse stood once more on the desk, unharmed but blinking in confusion. It squeaked, stretching its whiskers.
"Better," McGonagall said, stopping beside him. "You nearly lost control midway. Remember: magic resists force. Coax it."
"Yes, Professor."
Her tone softened slightly. "You have precision, Mr Quirrell. Learn patience to match it."
He inclined his head. Praise and admonition in equal measure—both earned.
When she moved on, Fabian glanced back. "Nicely done," he said quietly. "Took me three tries last year to get that clean."
Quirinus looked up, surprised by the civility. "Thank you. Your gold trim was unnecessary but… impressive."
Fabian laughed under his breath. "I'll take unnecessary over dull."
McGonagall turned at the sound. "Mr Prewett, if you are quite finished commenting on aesthetics—five points from Gryffindor for talking during practical work."
The class smothered smiles. Fabian winced good-naturedly and returned to his desk.
Quirinus allowed himself the faintest satisfaction, though it faded quickly when he noticed a thin mark burned into the wood where his wand had rested—a single dark streak, as if scorched by brief heat. He touched it, frowning.
After Class...
When the bell rang, students spilled into the corridor, laughing with the relief of survival. Rufus nudged him. "You were brilliant, you know. Even McGonagall looked impressed."
"She looked precise," Quirinus corrected.
"That's as close to impressed as she gets."
They walked together through the hall of portraits, their footsteps echoing softly. Quirinus felt the weight of his wand in his sleeve, heavier than before, as though the magic inside had grown wary.
Rufus kept talking—something about Quidditch practice—but Quirinus's mind was elsewhere, still replaying the flicker of resistance, the professor's words. Coax it.
Was patience truly the answer, or understanding? He wasn't sure he knew the difference yet.
…
The air grew cooler as Quirinus and Rufus descended into the dungeons. The smell of damp stone thickened with each step, mingling with a faint sweetness—the unmistakable aroma of simmering ingredients. Torchlight painted wavering reflections on the walls; somewhere deeper in the corridors, the clink of glass echoed like distant music.
"Slughorn's already brewing something," Rufus said quietly. "You can smell it halfway from the Great Hall."
Quirinus nodded, fingers brushing the edge of his wand beneath his sleeve. It was calmer now, inert, as if asleep after the strain of Transfiguration. He told himself that was a good sign.
When they entered the Potions classroom, warmth wrapped around them immediately. The room was circular, lined with shelves of bottled colors—emeralds, ambers, and purples glowing faintly in the dim light. At the front, Professor Horace Slughorn stood beaming, his thick mustache twitching as he arranged ingredients on the table.
"Ah! My favorite combination—Gryffindor and Ravenclaw!" he declared, voice rich as melted honey. "Brains and bravery in one cauldron. We're bound to discover something explosive!"
A few students laughed. Slughorn clapped his hands together. "Today, we begin the Draft of Tranquility, an intermediate restorative. Nothing too dangerous—unless you're careless with Valerian root. Then it's not tranquility you'll find, but a rather eternal nap."
Fabian Prewett, sitting near the front, leaned back with an easy grin. "Challenge accepted, Professor."
Slughorn chuckled, clearly fond of the boy. "Confidence! I like that, Mr. Prewett—but don't let it curdle your cauldron."
The students spread out to their stations. Quirinus chose a spot near the center; Rufus settled beside him, rolling his sleeves up to the elbows. Steam rose gently from the cauldrons as water heated under a warming charm.
Slughorn paced slowly between tables. "The key, my dears, is balance. Add your powdered asphodel while stirring clockwise. Not counterclockwise. Counterclockwise invites melancholy."
Quirinus measured each ingredient with obsessive care. The texture of crushed valerian fascinated him—the way it clumped and released its scent only under the exact pressure of a silver spoon. He didn't follow recipes blindly; he studied them, searching for logic beneath the ritual. If potion-making was language, he wanted fluency.
"Smells better than the last one," Rufus said, peering over the rim of his cauldron.
"That's because you haven't burned it yet," Quirinus replied softly. It wasn't meant as an insult—just fact—but Rufus laughed anyway.
Halfway through the lesson, Fabian's voice rose from the front table. "Professor, does emotional state affect this brew? The text mentions resonance under agitation."
Slughorn's eyes lit up. "Excellent question! Yes, the Draught of Tranquility reacts to the brewer's temperament. If you're angry, the potion darkens. If you're calm, it gleams clear blue."
Fabian glanced back, catching Quirinus's eye. "Sounds like yours will come out crystal," he said. His tone wasn't mocking—almost genuine—but it carried a hint of challenge.
Quirinus stirred without looking up. "And yours may require filtration."
The corners of Fabian's mouth lifted. "We'll see."
Steam thickened, filling the room with soothing fragrance. Slughorn hummed as he moved between cauldrons, offering encouragement and the occasional anecdote about former students. When he reached Quirinus's table, he paused.
"Ah, Mr. Quirrell," he said warmly, peering into the mixture. The surface shimmered faintly, like light caught under water. "Beautiful color, my boy. You've a meticulous hand. Very Ravenclaw."
Quirinus inclined his head. "Thank you, Professor."
"Though perhaps a touch too meticulous," Slughorn added. "A potion must breathe as much as it must obey. Don't strangle it with control."
"Yes, sir." He tried to smile, but his thoughts turned inward again. Don't force it. McGonagall's words echoed quietly from earlier that morning.
By the end of class, rows of glass vials lined the desks, each containing liquid that ranged from deep indigo to pale silver. Slughorn inspected them with theatrical care. "Mr. Prewett—very good, though slightly dense. Mr. Quirrell…" He lifted the small bottle from Quirinus's table, holding it up to the light. The potion gleamed almost transparent. "Ah, clarity itself. Five points to Ravenclaw."
A quiet murmur passed through the class. Fabian's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in analysis. "Looks like tranquility favors intellect today," he said lightly. Slughorn chuckled and dismissed the comment, but Quirinus caught the look Fabian gave him: measured, calculating, perhaps even respectful.
Outside, the dungeon corridors were cooler still. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling into an old stone basin. Rufus walked beside him, carrying his satchel with a lazy swing.
"You realize you're Slughorn's new favorite," he said. "Prewett's probably grinding his teeth right now."
"He'll survive," Quirinus replied. "He's talented."
"That's generous of you."
"It's accurate."
They climbed the stairs, their footsteps echoing. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was comfortable—the kind that grows between people who trust each other even when their worlds are different.
When they reached the upper corridor, light filtered in from the courtyard windows, painting narrow bars of gold across the floor. Quirinus paused, turning his wand in his hand. The alder wood caught the light unevenly, as if dull in places where it used to gleam.
Rufus noticed. "You've been staring at that thing all day."
"It feels… off," Quirinus admitted. "Like it resents me."
"Resents you?" Rufus frowned. "It's a stick, Quirrell."
"Wands aren't sticks," he said quietly. "They choose, and they judge."
Rufus considered that, then shrugged. "Maybe it's judging you for overthinking."
Quirinus gave a soft, rare laugh. "Possibly."
They continued toward the stairwell that led back to Ravenclaw Tower. Through the high windows, the lake shone grey under the pale afternoon sun, and beyond it the mountains stood wrapped in mist. He wondered briefly if the wand could sense doubt the way potions sensed emotion. If it could, he feared it might already know too much.
…
The next morning dawned pale and windless. Rain had washed the castle clean overnight, and the sky hung low and bright, a dull silver stretching beyond the towers. Quirinus liked mornings like this—ordered, quiet, untouched by the chaos of the day.
He and Rufus reached the Defense classroom early. The room itself was old stone and iron chandeliers, with strange objects glimmering behind glass: a cracked mirror, a feather frozen in midair, and a dark shape sealed inside a bottle that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Professor Merrythought was already at her desk, her thin frame draped in purple robes. She was old enough that her hair had lost all color, but her eyes still carried the sharp brightness of a hawk. When she spoke, her voice was low and clear.
"Defense," she began, "is not the absence of fear—it's the dialogue you hold with it. Today we study the Fulgura Curse: a minor offensive hex designed to disrupt concentration and force retreat. Controlled lightning."
She raised her wand. A blue spark leapt into the air, bursting into fine mist before fading. The room fell silent, the scent of ozone crisp and faintly sweet.
"I will not tolerate recklessness," she continued. "We practice control, not aggression. Partners, please."
Pairs formed quickly. Rufus ended up beside Fabian Prewett, leaving Quirinus to work with a quiet Gryffindor girl named Helen Avery. She gave a nervous nod.
Merrythought moved among them, tapping the floor with her wand. "Remember the sequence—intent, restraint, release."
Quirinus's first cast came smoothly; a spark hissed and vanished just short of its mark. He repeated the incantation, adjusting the angle, feeling the pulse of his wand in his wrist. The air vibrated faintly. He could sense the charge gather, like breath before thunder.
Across the room, Fabian's hex cracked like a whip, illuminating the chamber in white light. Merrythought snapped her head toward him.
"Control, Mr. Prewett. We duel in practice, not in arrogance."
Fabian nodded, chastened but smiling. He turned slightly, eyes finding Quirinus. No words passed, but the challenge was clear.
Quirinus refocused, whispering the spell again. "Fulgura."
This time, the bolt shimmered steady, almost elegant, dissolving inches from the dummy's chest. Merrythought paused behind him.
"Well-measured," she said quietly. "You understand the art of ending a spell before it overreaches. Ten points to Ravenclaw."
He inclined his head, though his mind barely registered the praise. The wand had resisted again at the moment of release—a brief shiver, like two currents colliding. It was subtle but unmistakable. He'd forced the synchronization by instinct, not harmony.
The lesson continued with rotating partners. When Quirinus and Fabian were paired, the rest of the class gave them space, sensing the unspoken rivalry.
"I'll try not to electrocute you," Fabian said lightly.
Quirinus met his eyes, tone even. "That depends on your precision."
They bowed—a formality learned more from duelling than Defense class—and began. Sparks filled the air in measured bursts. Fabian's spells were bright and confident, like firecrackers. Quirinus's were quieter, colder, controlled arcs of light that vanished before sound could follow.
For a while, neither broke rhythm. Merrythought watched from a distance, expression unreadable. Then Fabian overextended—a flash too wide, a stray surge that brushed Quirinus's sleeve. The fabric smoked faintly but didn't catch.
Gasps rippled through the room. Fabian's face paled. "I didn't—"
"I'm fine," Quirinus said calmly, cutting him off. He shook the sleeve once; the faint scorch faded.
Merrythought approached, voice steady. "Accidents reveal truth. Mr. Prewett, you rely on instinct. Mr. Quirrell, you rely on intellect. Both fail when they forget humility."
"Yes, Professor," they said in unison.
She looked between them, then softened slightly. "That's enough for today. Class dismissed."
Outside the classroom, the two walked side by side down the corridor in silence. Sunlight caught dust motes in the air; their footsteps echoed between stone arches.
Fabian broke the quiet first. "I wasn't trying to show off."
"I know," Quirinus said. "You were trying to win."
Fabian hesitated, then smiled faintly. "So were you."
Quirinus didn't answer, but a ghost of amusement flickered across his face. The silence that followed wasn't hostile—it carried the faint charge of something like mutual respect.
When Fabian turned toward the Gryffindor staircase, he said over his shoulder, "Next time, I'll keep it inside the target range."
"Next time," Quirinus replied, "I won't need to move."
Fabian laughed quietly and disappeared into the stairwell.
Rufus caught up a moment later, falling into step beside him. "You two are going to burn the castle down before Christmas."
Quirinus's tone was mild. "Not if we learn something first."
They passed beneath a high window. The light outside had shifted, cold and clear, reflecting off the lake. Quirinus slowed, looking down at his wand again. He thought of the spark that had stuttered at the moment of release—the hesitation that wasn't his.
He flexed his fingers, whispering almost soundlessly, "We'll learn to speak the same language, you and I."
No response, only the faint scent of ozone still clinging to the air.