Chapter 5: Winter´s Edge.
The first snow came silently in the night.
By morning, the grounds lay blank and perfect, a pale skin stretched over the hills and the frozen lake. From the high windows of Ravenclaw Tower, the view looked almost unreal, the world simplified to light and distance.
Quirinus stood by the glass while the other boys dressed and complained about the cold. He liked the quiet before the castle awoke, when the air seemed to listen. Somewhere far below, he could hear the faint clang of the Great Hall's bells summoning breakfast.
Rufus appeared behind him, hair half-combed, scarf crooked around his neck.
"Still staring at the weather like it's an essay you've to finish?"
Quirinus turned. "It's precise. Nothing wasted. I admire precision."
Rufus groaned. "It's snow, Quirrell. It just falls."
"Exactly," he said, and reached for his satchel.
They left the dormitory together, boots squeaking on the spiral stairs. The corridors were dim and full of misted breath, the portraits wrapped in tiny woollen scarves. By the time they reached the Great Hall, half the school was already there, voices echoing against the enchanted ceiling where snow drifted but never touched the tables.
Rufus loaded his plate carelessly. "I heard Flitwick's giving us something new today—some charm for focus or hearing, can't remember which. Think you can keep your wand from protesting?"
Quirinus stirred his tea. "It isn't protest. It's rejection. We're simply not suited anymore."
Rufus stopped chewing. "That… sounds tragic."
He almost smiled. "It's logical. Wands and wizards change at different speeds."
Charms Class…
Flitwick's classroom glowed with lamplight and the smell of warm wax. The tiny professor stood upon his usual pile of books, excitement bright in his eyes.
"Good morning, everyone! Today, we'll refine our control with the Silence charm. Simple in theory, but difficult in practice—true silence is an act of precision, not force."
Pairs of students arranged themselves beside a row of caged songbirds that chirped restlessly. Each student was to quiet the bird without frightening it.
Quirinus lifted his wand—steady wrist, calm breath. "Silentium."
The note faltered, then resumed, sharper than before. The charm had fizzled halfway. He frowned, repeated the motion. The wand vibrated faintly; the song died completely, too abruptly, leaving a pulse of static in the air.
Flitwick clapped once. "Careful, Mr. Quirrell—gentle endings, not executions."
"Yes, Professor."
He tried again, slower, but the magic dragged, like walking through water. When the bird finally fell quiet in the proper way, his hand tingled with numbness.
After class, Flitwick called him aside. "Mr. Quirrell," he said kindly, "your control is remarkable, but the wand's response worries me. You may have outgrown it."
Quirinus met his gaze without surprise. "I thought as much."
"It's not failure," Flitwick added softly. "Sometimes, the match shifts as the wizard matures. You'll need a new wand soon."
Quirinus nodded. "Thank you, sir."
When he left the room, Rufus was waiting outside the door, leaning against the wall.
"So?"
"He was right," Quirinus said simply. "It's over between us."
Rufus laughed under his breath. "You make it sound like a romance gone wrong."
"In a way," Quirinus replied, glancing at the wand, "it was."
…
By noon, the sky had cleared. Students crossed the snowy courtyard, scarves trailing, laughter clouding in the cold air. Rufus trudged beside him, boots crunching.
"You're taking this wand thing too calmly. Most people would panic."
"Panic wastes time," Quirinus said. "I'll visit Ollivander over the holidays."
Rufus kicked at a pile of snow. "You ever think about not studying for once? We could go sledding down the eastern hill. I heard the Hufflepuffs built ramps."
Quirinus looked at him, amused. "Sledding is controlled falling. Hardly efficient."
"That's the point."
They reached the bridge overlooking the lake. Below them, the frozen surface gleamed under the thin sun. Rufus leaned on the rail.
"You know," he said, "you talk like you've got centuries ahead of you. You're fourteen."
"Thirteen," Quirinus corrected automatically.
"Even worse." Rufus's grin softened. "You need to live a little, mate. Books won't remember you."
Quirinus considered the remark, then nodded once. "Perhaps not. But they listen."
Rufus shook his head, laughing. "Merlin help me, you're hopeless."
…
That night, the library was hushed except for the crackle of the hearth and the turning of pages. Most students had retreated to their dormitories, leaving rows of lamps burning low. Quirinus sat surrounded by open books—Charms, Arithmancy introductions, a borrowed volume on runic origins.
Rufus lay stretched across the bench opposite, half asleep, a quill balanced on his chest. The warmth and the rhythm of Quirinus's writing filled the space between them like quiet music.
Outside, snow tapped gently against the windows. He looked up from his notes and watched it gather on the sill. Each flake melted differently, patterns dissolving before he could study them.
He whispered without meaning to, "Everything changes shape."
Rufus stirred. "Talking to your parchment again?"
"To myself," Quirinus said. "It listens better."
"Then tell yourself to sleep."
"In a moment."
He turned another page, eyes tracing the curves of the Nordic letters—Fehu, Uruz, Thurisaz—each symbol a promise of order beneath chaos. He didn't understand them yet, but the symmetry pleased him.
Rufus yawned, rolling over. "You'll burn out."
Quirinus smiled faintly. "Not tonight."
When he finally closed his books, the candles were half melted. The castle had fallen silent except for the wind over the windowsills. He tucked the worn wand into his sleeve one last time before sleep, already knowing that by next term it would belong to someone else.
…
Breakfast that morning glowed with the soft light of winter. The enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall shimmered with pale clouds, flakes of snow drifting but never falling. The chatter of hundreds of voices folded into a warm hum, steady as the beating heart of the castle.
Rufus was already halfway through his porridge when Quirinus sat down. A folded Daily Prophet lay beside the pumpkin juice, the headline smudged with butter.
"Ministry warns of wand shortage," Rufus read, eyes bright with mischief. "Apparently, people keep burning through them. Sound familiar?"
Quirinus poured himself tea. "An exaggeration. The Ministry warns of something every week."
Rufus grinned. "Maybe next week it'll be 'Ravenclaw student mourns lost relationship with wooden partner.' "
That earned the faintest laugh. "You should write for them."
"Only if they pay by the pun."
Steam rose between them; the smell of toast and cinnamon clung to the air. For a moment, everything felt ordinary—just two friends in the rhythm of school mornings, unbothered by theories or misfiring wands. Quirinus let himself rest in that ordinariness.
Ancient Runes…
Professor Babbling's classroom was small and bright, a sanctuary of parchment and maps. Frost veined the windowpanes. Along the walls hung sketches of standing stones, each carved with angular symbols that seemed to hum faintly even on paper.
"Runes," said Professor Babbling, writing with neat precision across the board, "are the oldest conversation between thought and world. Today we begin with the Elder Futhark—sixteen characters that once held entire spells inside them."
She drew the first: ᚠ, Fehu.
"Prosperity, energy, beginning."
Next: ᚢ, Uruz—"strength, endurance, transformation."
Quirinus copied the shapes carefully, each stroke deliberate. The geometry of the lines pleased him; it was order made visible. When Babbling spoke of sound and meaning joined, he felt something settle quietly in his chest, as though he had found the grammar of reality itself.
Across the aisle, Fabian Prewett sat with effortless posture, quill dangling between two fingers. He watched the board, brow furrowed in mild curiosity rather than reverence. When Babbling invited a volunteer to trace a rune in mid-air, his hand rose first.
He flicked his wand, drawing ᛞ, Dagaz, the rune of dawn. The lines glowed pale gold before fading.
"Excellent," said the professor. "A clean form, Mr Prewett."
Quirinus studied the motion, noting how Fabian's wrist curved, how intention followed breath. After class, as the students packed their things, Fabian approached him.
"You watched that like a Potions formula."
"Form matters," Quirinus replied. "Intent without structure dissolves."
Fabian smiled. "And structure without intent? "
"Architecture without inhabitants."
That seemed to amuse him. "You make lessons sound like philosophy."
"They are," Quirinus said simply.
Rufus appeared at the door, hair dusted with snow from some reckless dash across the courtyard.
"Philosophy before lunch?" he groaned. "You two are impossible."
The Library Afternoon…
The library smelled of parchment and dust warmed by sunlight. Beyond the high windows the snow fell steadily, turning the world outside to silver. Quirinus, Rufus, and Fabian occupied a long table near the fire, its surface crowded with open books.
Rufus stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Remind me why I'm here again?"
"Because you promised not to fail Charms this term," Quirinus said without looking up.
Fabian grinned. "And because you owe me help with Defense. Mutual suffering builds character."
Rufus sighed. "Fine, but if I start drawing runes shaped like broomsticks, blame boredom."
Quirinus's quill paused. "That would be Ehwaz, symbol of movement."
Rufus blinked. "You just happen to know that?"
"I remember useful things."
Fabian chuckled softly. "He's memorized half the alphabet already. By Christmas he'll be speaking to the furniture."
They laughed quietly; the sound carried warmth more than humor. Outside, snow pressed gently against the glass, muting the world. The librarian glared once, finger to her lips, but her eyes softened when she passed their table—two Ravenclaw, a Gryffindor, and something in-between forming among them.
As the afternoon deepened, conversation dwindled to the scratch of quills. Rufus dozed with his head on a book, Fabian scribbled diagrams of rune combinations, and Quirinus stared at the reflection of snowlight across the page. He realized, with mild surprise, that he felt at ease.
Friendship, he thought, was another kind of pattern—less precise, but no less true.
Arithmancy…
Professor Vector's classroom glowed with faint geometric light. Circles and triangles hung suspended in the air, each inscribed with numbers that rotated like constellations.
"Magic," she began, "has rhythm. Numbers describe it. Today we begin with single-digit correspondences—the bones of all spell structure."
Chalk moved by itself across the board, writing a neat column from one to nine. Fabian groaned quietly beside Quirinus.
"I thought I escaped arithmetic by coming here."
"You escaped nothing," Quirinus murmured.
Rufus added, "I was told there'd be fewer numbers and more explosions."
Vector's eyebrow rose. "There will be explosions if you ignore the numbers, Mr Scrimgeour." Laughter rippled; Rufus raised both hands in surrender.
Quirinus leaned forward, eyes following the equations. The balance fascinated him—the way each number mirrored a quality of spellwork. He whispered, almost to himself, "If you can count a rhythm, you can measure a spell."
Vector heard him. "Nicely phrased, Mr Quirrell. Keep that in mind when the calculations seem tedious."
Rufus whispered, "See? He lectures and gets rewarded."
"Because he's right," Fabian said, surprising them both. "Rhythm's easier to understand than theory."
Vector smiled faintly. "Then you may help him explain it next week."
When the class ended, the three lingered outside the door while students hurried past. Their breath clouded in the corridor air.
Fabian said, "Next week, same seats?"
Rufus clapped him on the shoulder. "If it means fewer numbers, I'm in."
Quirinus only nodded, but the gesture carried more warmth than words.
…
Outside, snow thickened against the glass, softening the world to white. Quirinus let his eyes drift shut and thought, not of formulas or charms, but of symmetry—the fragile balance that existed when three different rhythms found the same tempo.
Snow drifted through the morning light like scattered ash. The corridors of Hogwarts rang with the drag of trunks and the call of voices echoing toward the gates. Quirinus walked beside Rufus through the crisp air, both muffled in scarves. The castle loomed behind them, windows bright against the white sky.
"Still sure you won't come home with me?" Rufus asked for the third time. "Mum insists she's got room and more food than sense."
Quirinus smiled faintly. "Tell her I said thank you. But I think the quiet will be useful."
Rufus shook his head. "You and your quiet."
"It's where I think best."
They stopped at the edge of the platform where steam from the waiting train rolled like slow thunder. The smell of coal filled the air; voices tangled in the noise. Rufus turned to him.
"Don't study yourself to death."
"I'll try," Quirinus said, and they clasped forearms, a brief, wordless promise of return. Then Rufus climbed aboard, vanishing among a tide of red and gold scarves.
Quirinus waited while the crowd thinned. He liked the rhythm of departure—the sense of endings arranged in neat lines. He was reaching for his trunk handle when someone brushed past his shoulder too quickly. A case burst open, scattering books into the snow.
"Oh—sorry!" The voice was clear, a touch impatient. The girl knelt at once to gather her things. She had sharp, symmetrical features, dark hair braided neatly under a green-lined hood. Even in the rush she carried herself with the kind of balance that comes from habit, not effort.
Quirinus crouched to help, handing her a small volume bound in dark leather.
"Magical Genealogies of Europe," he read aloud before catching himself.
She took it carefully. "Required reading where I'm from." Her accent was refined, clipped at the edges.
"I'm Quirinus Quirrell," he offered.
"Eva Rosier," she said, eyes flicking up briefly. "Slytherin."
He nodded. "Ravenclaw."
For a moment, they worked in silence, steam coiling around them. When the last book was stacked, she hesitated.
"I've seen you in class lists. You're the one Professor Vector keeps quoting."
He felt an unexpected warmth at that. "She exaggerates."
"Still, not many our age make her smile." There was genuine curiosity in her tone now. "Your family—are they Ravenclaws too?"
He hesitated the slightest second. "No. Muggles."
The pause that followed was thin as glass but sharp enough to cut. Eva's expression didn't change much—just a flicker in her eyes, the faint tightening of posture, as if a polite distance had re-established itself.
"Oh," she said quietly. "I see." The words carried no malice, only the weight of upbringing. "Well… you must be very clever, then."
He heard the invisible boundary drop between them. She lifted her trunk, graceful, efficient.
"Have a pleasant holiday, Quirrell."
"And you," he managed.
She smiled—perfect, distant—and turned toward the train. Her green hood vanished into the smoke.
The whistle shrieked, long and final. Carriages filled; laughter spilled out of open windows. Quirinus remained still, the snow settling on his coat in small, perfect shapes that melted too quickly to admire. He told himself it didn't matter. It was nothing personal—only custom, inheritance, the quiet machinery of old names.
Yet the space where conversation had been felt suddenly larger than before. He thought of Rufus's warmth, of Fabian's easy laughter in the library, and realized how rare simple acceptance was in a world built on lineage.
When he finally boarded, the train lurched into motion, its wheels clattering against the rails. Through the window he saw the castle recede, blurred by snow and distance. The compartment was empty. He placed his notebook on his knees and stared at the blank page for a long time.
On it he wrote, in small deliberate letters:
Understanding is not the same as belonging.
The words looked fragile against the paper, but he let them stand. Outside, the landscape slid past—white, endless, unjudging—and for the first time he understood why knowledge alone was never enough to feel at home.