First Year Girls' Dormitory, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts. September 5, 1989.
"I can't believe he didn't say anything!" I frowned, yanking my comb through my hair with far more force than what was proper.
Yesterday had been the day I'd dreamed about for as long as I could remember.
My first real school day at Hogwarts.
The same school my grandparents had praised to the heavens throughout my upbringing—a school where history was practically woven into the very walls themselves. Spearheaded by one of the most powerful wizards ever to have lived, there wasn't a single young witch or wizard in Britain who didn't dream of attending Hogwarts.
At the height of his power, even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hadn't dared to set foot in these sacred walls. The dark wizard was even rumoured to be scared of Dumbledore.
Or he had been, before The-Boy-Who-Lived, of course.
That said, I'd planned for yesterday to be my day.
Yesterday was supposed to be the day when I made it crystal clear to everyone that the Fawley name still meant something. That we weren't just relics past our prime.
People were wrong about us. Our legacy was not fading. I wanted to show them that.
Instead, he showed up
I gritted my teeth, wincing as my comb snagged on a knot of hair.
That boy—Michael—had somehow managed to outperform me in every single subject except Herbology.
"How does that even make any sense?!" I hissed, tugging the comb free.
Michael was supposed to be a Magbob. A Muggle-born without pedigree or training. And yet…
"He made it look so easy," I scowled, thinking back to Professor Crowe's class—the Red Spark Charm he'd cast seemingly burning behind my eyes.
The worst part? Unlike most of our flabbergasted peers, I'd known he was good at charms beforehand. I'd been prepared.
Still, watching him learn a new spell so bloodyeffortlessly felt like a slap to the face.
I sighed, recalling what Cedric had said on the train.
"I need to remember to not use that word anymore…" It wasn't exactly a bad word, but Cedric was right in that people outside the Sacred Families rarely used it.
Back at the estate, the only Muggle-born I'd ever spoken to was a housemaid who we all affectionately called Magbob Maggie.
Of course, I adored Maggie like family, but she was nothing like him.
When I first saw him levitating his trunk without incantation on the train, I'd actually—embarrassingly—assumed he was a senior.
In my defense, though, so had Eve.
My jaw clenched again.
Even more embarrassingly—since I'd been so frustrated after classes yesterday—I'd deliberately chosen not to save him a seat at supper. I'd even caught myself grinning, picturing the awkward look on his stupid face when he realized he couldn't sit next to me.
He was supposed to stand there awkwardly, looking around for help, unsure what to say, before I'd ever so graciously request one of the girls to scoot over—making room for the poor boy.
"Only, he barely even noticed!" I froze, catching the frown etched across my face in the mirror.
"Don't let it get to you. Don't let it get to you." I repeated inwardly, rubbing the ridge of my nose like Mum had taught me—wrinkles were unbecoming, she often reminded me, even at eleven.
The Fawley Genius, they called me.
"What a joke," I murmured to myself. "What kind of genius can't even outdo a Muggle-born? Someone who probably didn't know which end of a wand to hold on to until a week ago?"
My reflection stared back at me—an uncertain look on my face.
"Maybe I should've gone to Beauxbatons after all…"
An awkward silence descended on the bathroom. The only thing I could hear was my peers' muffled chatter piercing the walls from the dormitory outside.
"No," I gritted my teeth. "This is not the time to be second-guessing myself. I practiced the Vermilious charm like crazy yesterday. I'm confident it's better than Michael's now."
"I'm not going to let him beat me." I decided, pleased by the determined gleam in my eyes.
…
"Wait for me, Thalia!" Ophelia called as I made my way towards the exit.
Unable to help myself, I stifled a sigh.
Ophelia might seem nice and friendly on the surface, but I'd pegged her from the moment I met her.
I recognized it in the way she always agreed with me. How she refused to pick a bed until I'd chosen mine. And the endless compliments she showered me in consistently.
Simply put—she was a suck-up. And I'd met enough of her ilk at galas and soirées to recognize one in my sleep.
"Sycophants—as Michael likes to call them." I smirked, pleased to have learned a new word.
Even I had to admit his vocabulary was impressive. It was one of the reasons why I couldn't help but to enjoy his company.
That—and the fact that he tended to treat me like a normal person. Not a Fawley. Not a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir. Just… Thalia.
It was a refreshing change of pace.
Needless to say, only a handful of people had ever done that. Childhood friends like Eve and Cedric, and maybe a few other pure-blood scions who understood the pressure. Everyone else only saw the name—and the influence behind it—when they looked at me.
"Maybe it's because he's Muggle-born?" I mused. If that's what it took, perhaps I ought to spend more time with Muggle-borns moving forward.
The fact that spending time with Muggle-borns would undoubtedly upset my uncle? That was simply an added bonus.
As I waited—rather impatiently—for Ophelia to finish fiddling with her robe, a familiar glint of golden hair suddenly caught my eye.
"Selene!" I called out, flashing another one of my peers a smile. Truthfully, I quite enjoyed the flicker of surprise that briefly flashed across the tall girl's face. "Are you coming?"
Selene visibly hesitated and then nodded, placing her book neatly on her nightstand.
As she approached, I made a mental note to ask where she kept finding all those ridiculous Muggle romance novels.
…
The common room was bustling with Ravenclaws students—first years and upperclassmen alike—when we finally descended from our tower. At a glance, it was easy to spot the different cliques scattered throughout the space. As expected, upplerclassmen rarely bothered with us younger ones.
Yet my eyes—like magnets—were drawn to the tall blonde figure whose head rose a good inch above the others in his group.
"Since when is he friends with Roger…?" I frowned, narrowing my eyes at the other boys clustered around my friend.
Only Quentin Avery and his closest flunkeys were conspiciously absent from the group. That said, knowing the Avery Family's attitude toward Muggles, I could surmise the reason why.
Michael wore a polite smile—nodding along the conversation—but I couldn't help but feel like he was forcing it.
He'd do that occasionally, I noticed—feigning interest when he actually wasn't. The first time I caught on to it was on the train ride to Hogsmeade.
"Thalia," Michael greeted, his blue eyes lighting up when he saw me. "I was starting to think you were going to skip breakfast."
Something fluttered in the pit of my stomach when I met his blue-eyed gaze.
My competitive streak.
Obviously.
…
*****
When Thalia appeared with her female entourage, my three roommates: Roger Davies, William Underhill, and Rufus Redford suddenly fell conspicuously silent. William and Rufus busied themselves with the floor, pretending as if it had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the room. Roger, ever the extrovert, flashed a confident smile at the approaching trio of girls.
"Adolescent boys…" I sighed inwardly.
"Thalia," I smiled, turning my attention to my friend. For some reason, her expression was suspiciously neutral. "I was starting to think you were going to skip breakfast."
Before Thalia could respond, a girl who I'd never interacted with before cut in.
"Never!" The brunette said. "Breakfast's the most important meal of the day."
I responded with a raised eyebrow. She wasn't wrong.
"Sorry we're late." Thalia muttered, her eyes glaring at the brunette. "Someof us were slow to get ready."
"No worries, we just got here ourselves." Roger lied easily, his smile positively radiant as he looked at the girls.
"Water under the bridge," I offered, readying myself. "Is everyone ready to go?"
…
The closer we got to Great Hall, the more convinced I became that something was off with Thalia. While she wasn't as talkative as Eveline, Thalia usually pulled her weight in conversations.
Today, however, her answers were short—curt, even.
If it wasn't for Roger and the brunette—Ophelia Hollis—keeping the conversation afloat, the walk would've been excruciatingly awkward. Selene only spoke when probed, while Rufus and William preferred whispering to one another.
"Maybe she's just having a bad day?" I mused. But trying to guess what was going on inside a girl's head—even an eleven-year-old's—was the definition of a fool's errand.
At breakfast, I continued practicing—even while eating. Beneath the table, I absentmindedly transfigured my favourite ten-pence coin. At this rate, I figured I'd soon be able to attempt lesser shape manipulation even without having to look at my target.
Again and again, I found myself marvelling at how much more efficiently magic could be learned here at Hogwarts—especially compared to the orphanage.
Naturally, I had plenty of theories as to why that was. Some involved subtle enchantments imbued into the castle itself, while others were more mundane—psychological, environmental, or even nutritional in nature.
Considering how delicious the food here was, who knows what magical ingredients or herbs they added to our meals?
In the corner of my eye, I noticed Tom watching me. The other Muggle-born sat with Matilda Vance and her retinue, having somehow wormed his way into her little clique.
I struggled to understand why he'd made that choice. But ultimately, I was just glad he wasn't being bullied.
Speaking of bullying…
When I woke up this morning, I'd surprisingly discovered my shoes were missing.
Needless to say, I'd asked my roommates about my footwear's mysterious disappearance, but none had given me a reason to believe they were behind it somehow.
Which begged the question: Who'd nicked my shoes?
Comically, the first answer I could think of was Nargles—the mischievous little creatures Luna Lovegood claimed had stolen her belongings in the books.
But Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them didn't have a single reference to the creature.
"I'll have to look them up in the library…" I decided.
Asking Luna wouldn't work. The eccentric girl wasn't going to attend Hogwarts for another three or four years.
In the end, the theft was more of an inconvenience than an actual problem. Without my black leather school shoes, I simply wore my trainers instead.
"In what year is the Summoning Charm taught?" I asked, cutting into the ongoing conversation.
"Accio?" Roger replied, lifting an eyebrow in surprise.
"The Summoning Charm is a fourth-year spell." Thalia revealed, her eyes narrowing at me. "Why?"
"No reason."
"Michael… surely you weren't thinking about summoning your shoes, or were you?" Roger asked, sounding flabbergasted.
Learning from my past mistakes, I refrained from responding.
"Your shoes?" Thalia frowned. "What do you mean? What happened to his shoes?"
"Michael believes Nargles stole his shoes this morning."
"I said 'maybe' it was Nargles who took them." I corrected, offended by Roger's teasing tone.
"Nargles?" Thalia muttered, a strange look flashing on her face. "Nevermind that, are you saying your shoes are missing?"
I sighed.
"Yeah, my plain black school shoes must've decided to wander off on their own last night." I replied, rather pointedly.
Thalia's frown worsened in response.
"Have you talked to Professor Flitwick about this?"
"No, I haven't, but I—"
"Theft is serious, Michael," Thalia cut me off. "Especially if it occurs in the dormitories. You must report this to the professor."
"Like I was saying, I—"
"At the very least, you should talk to one of the Prefects. Maybe we should also consult the house-elves, they might've seen—"
"Thalia." I cut in, exasperated. "Don't worry, I got this under control."
Apparently, that must've decidedly been the wrong thing to say—given how Thalia's expression soured even further.
"Ah, I see." Was all she said, turning to focus on her food.
This time, not even Roger's valiant attempts to rekindle the conversation managed to catch fire.
…
After breakfast, at 9 a.m. sharp, it was time for my first Transfiguration class with Professor McGonagall—whose classroom was similarly located on the first floor.
Stepping into the classroom, I had to suppress a smirk at the sight of the tabby cat perched on the teacher's desk—watching us unblinkingly with those sharp, emerald green eyes.
The cat was obviously Professor McGonagall, albeit in her Animagus form.
"Amazing…" I murmured under my breath.
It went without saying that all magic was astonishing in its own right. The floating candles in the Great Hall. The Floo-Powder Network. The self-steering boats. The Red Spark Charm. The Wand-Lighting and Wand-Extinguishing Charm. Heck, how could I ever forget the fact that there were actual ghosts roaming the castle?
Let's just say everything had been positively surreal so far.
And yet, despite all the magic I'd encountered, the ability to transform into an animal at will still stole the show.
Once again, I couldn't help but wonder what my Animagus form would be. Even if it was something as laughable as a Rita Skeeter's beetle, the concept remained incredibly fascinating from both a personal and scientific standpoint.
I couldn't wait to experiment with advanced Transfiguration magic.
Truth be told, Transfiguration was probably the subject that intrigued me the most at Hogwarts. Needless to say, Charms was fascinating—but the ability to impose permanent, magical change upon inanimate objects and living beings?
Now that was worthy of comprehensive research.
Naturally, I had no intention of stumbling into the same ethical quagmire as Victor Frankenstein had, but my curious mind couldn't help but wander—conjuring images of chimeras and humans with animalistic traits. With sufficiently advanced Transfiguration, could one enhance their senses? Attain a wolf's nose? An eagle's sight?
If so, then were even morecomplex biological changes possible as well?
An example: off the coast of Australia, there exists a species of jellyfish capable of biologically reverting to its prepubescent stage after reaching maturity—effectively rendering it immortal, barring sickness and trauma.
Could Transfiguration somehow instil this ability in a human?
If so, if one sought immortality, studying Transfiguration struck me as a far more sustainable alternative compared to Voldemort's Horcruxes. However, since—to my knowledge—no one had gone down this path, there was probably something crucial I was missing.
But I digress.
Professor McGonagall's classroom filled pretty quickly. And like in Defence Against the Dark Arts, the Ravens weren't required to share this class with another house.
Which left me with something of a conundrum, seeing as Thalia wasn't on speaking terms with me at the moment.
Who was I supposed to sit with?
In hindsight, I did regret how I'd handled things at breakfast. Thalia had simply been worried on my behalf. As such, I shouldn't have dismissed her desire to help so callously.
That said, I hardly believed I'd done anything to warrant this level of fallout. I mean, it's not like it was her shoes that had gotten stolen.
Still, telling an eleven-year-old girl to act rational?
Yeah, I might be socially inept at times, but I wasn't suicidal.
No—I'd just give her space until she cooled off a little. Eventually, I reckoned she'd realize she was overreacting and apologize.
Surely.
Regardless of the outcome, I was unwilling to test her patience any further at the moment. As such, I silently gestured for Selene to sit next to Thalia instead.
As for me, I meandered off and laid claim to an empty desk near the front of the classroom. Apparently, the universal reluctance to sit up front transcended both timelines and dimensions.
When the last student filtered in and the bell rang, a respectful silence fell over the room.
I watched with quiet fascination as the tabby cat atop the desk stood, stretched—
—and, just as some students started to whisper, leapt and transformed into a tall witch with her hair drawn into a tight bun.
Professor McGonagall looked even sterner than usual.
This time, the silence that followed was utterly deafening—everyone's eyes fixed on the professor.
"Amazing." I murmured, looking every bit much as the eleven-year-old I was.
Not that I cared. I was hardly the only one who had to pick up their jaw from their desk.
When Professor McGonagall's sweeping gaze landed on me, I detected a brief flash of recognition in her eyes.
"Nice to see you again too, Professor McGonagall…" I smiled, keeping my thoughts to myself.
"Welcome to Transfiguration." Professor McGonagall began, her voice slow and methodical. On the black board, her name began appearing, manifested by magic.
"Transfiguration…" She continued, her voice mirroring her stern expression. "Is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn here at Hogwarts."
I heard someone gulp behind me.
"You Ravenclaws often pride yourselves on your sharp minds. But never mistake cleverness for mastery. Transfiguration demands discipline, vigilance, and respect. And in this class, I expect nothing less from each and every one of you."
She paused, waiting for her words to sink in before continuing.
"No matter what profession you aspire to, a solid foundation in Transfiguration will serve you well. Now, can anyone tell me the definition of Transfiguration?"
Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed slightly.
"No one?" Her voice was somehow both indifferent and disappointed—weighing heavily in the silence.
That was when Thalia Fawley lifted her hand.
"Yes, Miss Fawley?"
"Transfiguration is a branch of magic that focuses on changing the physical form or appearance of an object or creature."
"Someone's read ahead, I see." Professor McGonagall said with a curt nod. "Five points to Ravenclaw."
A round of surprised chatter erupted from my peers.
"Like Miss Fawley adequately put it, Transfiguration is fundamentally about change. You could say Transfiguration is a discipline that focuses on form and function above all else."
Professor McGonagall's eyes scanned the room again, before gently sweeping her wand over a goblet—transforming it into an elegant, long-necked bird.
"Kar-r-r-o-o-o!" The striking crane cried—low and trumpet-like.
"Wow!"
"Wicked."
"It's beautiful!"
"A-hem." Professor McGonagall coughed, pulling our attention again.
"A Master of Transfiguration is as much a menace in combat as a proficient healer. But even Transfiguration is not omnipotent."
As if on cue, the bird released a squawk and morphed back into a goblet.
"Transfiguration cannot create real life. What you just saw was a magical construct—not to be confused with true biological life, like you and me. The crane did not have a soul or lineage. Most transformed creatures do not even possess internal organs, unless the magic is incredible advanced."
"Broadly speaking, there are four types of Transfiguration."
"Switching Spells."
"Vanishing Spells."
"Transformative Spells."
"And Conjuration."
"As you've hopefully begun to grasp, Transfiguration is a structured field with distinct branches, each governed by magical law. Each one potentially fatal if done incorrectly."
Professor McGonagall paused.
"I suggest you start taking notes."
Reminded, everyone scrambled to open their notebooks.
"Transformative Spells—or Transformation—is the core of what you will learn in this class. Like changing a goblet into a crane, it focuses primarily on form over function. Next class you will learn your first Transformative Spell—"
Professor McGonagall flicked her wand, and a matchstick on her desk promptly transformed into a gleaming silver needle. Another ripple of interest swept through the class.
"You will attempt to change matchsticks into needles."
I nodded, having known about this exercise beforehand.
"Transformation can go in many directions: it can turn an inanimate object into another inanimate object. But it can also turn the animate into the inanimate. Changing a teacup into a tortoise is transformation. So is turning a hedgehog into a pincushion—though attempting to do so without adult supervision is not recommended, for obvious reasons."
A couple of students chuckled nervously.
"Then we have Switching Spells…"
…
Professor McGonagall wrapped her class up by assigning us with homework: a short, hand-written essay summarizing the dangers inherent in Transformation Spells, as listed in chapter one of Emeric Switch's A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
The essay had to submitted by next Transfiguration class—tomorrow.
While my peers hurried out of the classroom—no doubt excited about their first flying lesson with Madam Hooch—I deliberately took my time gathering my things.
"Mr. Morgan." Professor McGonagall said, once the last of the students had filed out. "I trust you're settling in well at Hogwarts?"
For a moment, I considered mentioning the matter of my missing shoes. But ultimately, I decided against it.
Professor McGonagall might be the Deputy Headmistress, but she was still Head of House Gryffindor—not Ravenclaw.
"I am, thank you." I replied, meeting her gaze. The respect I felt for the older witch was genuine. "I already have more friends here than I did back home."
"Good." Professor McGonagall's nodded with faint—almost indistinguishable—smile.
"The reason I stayed behind, professor, was to ask you a question about Transfiguration."
"Let me guess, Mr. Morgan. You want to learn how to become an Animagus?"
"How did you—"
"Every year, students inevitably ask me the same thing, Mr. Morgan. And every year, I give them the same answer."
Her lips thinned.
"The process of becoming an Animagus is advanced, dangerous, and strictly regulated by the Ministry of Magic. It is not part of the standard Hogwarts curriculum, nor will it be taught to first-years—no matter how ambitious they may be."
"But it can be taught?" I pressed.
"Yes, it canbe taught," she affirmed, "but only to those who prove themselves capable of handling the responsibility. The Animagus transformation is no simple party trick, Mr. Morgan. A single mistake can leave you permanently disfigured… or worse."
"When?" I queried. "When can it be taught?"
"To become an Animagus, you must first go through the Ministry's formal examination. But know this, Mr. Morgan. It takes years of study, discipline, and precise magical control. Even most fully trained witches and wizards never attempt it. In fact, I suggest you master Transfiguration first. If you're truly serious about becoming an Animagus, we can speak of this matter again once you've passed your Transfiguration OWLs with an Exceeds Expectations or above as your final grade."
"My OWLs?" I muttered, brow furrowing. "But that's not until the end of our fifth year…"
"Impatience is an unbecoming trait in a wizard, Mr. Morgan—especially one interested in complex Transfiguration. If you truly wish to attempt the Animagus transformation, I suggest you begin by learning patience. Speaking from experience, you'll require a great deal of it."
"I see…" I muttered, not knowing whether to feel happy or upset. "Thank you for your time, Professor McGonagall."
"Think nothing of it."
…
On my way to the grassy training field near the Quidditch pitch, I couldn't help but to reflect on what Professor McGonagall had revealed.
Fortunately, it was possible to become an Animagus at Hogwarts. Only, if I went through the correct channels, I would have to wait at least five years before I could attempt it.
Five years was a lot of time.
"But Professor McGonagall has a point, if I rush, I only risk self-mutilation…" I was under no illusion that my practice with wandless transfiguration had turned me into some kind of prodigy of Transfiguration. Admittedly, I might have a head start compared to some of my peers, but I was nowhere near ready to attempt the Animagus spell.
That said, I really wanted to become an Animagus before the Chamber of Secrets was opened.
That's right—I hadn't forgotten about the existence of that Mudblood hating Basilisk lurking in the pipes beneath me.
The only reason I hadn't told a professor about the Chamber was because I feared what a reveal like that might do to the canon.
"Harry Potter needs to destroy Tom Riddle's diary. Voldemort's horcrux."
And for that to happen, Ginny Weasley had to be the one to open the Chamber of Secrets.
Which meant I had, at most, four years to become an Animagus—and that was being generous. Ideally, if I wanted the best odds at survival, I'd have to be ready by the end of my third year.
In other words, I would have to attempt the transformation on my own.
"At least the marauders managed it…" And if James, Sirius, and Peter could become Animagi without assistance, then so could I.
"Only… I've no idea what year they pulled it off."
If they didn't pull the transformation off until their seventh year, then I was either incredibly ambitious… or incredibly stupid.
The latter seemed more likely.
"First, I have to learn the transformation process… and for that, the Restricted Section is likely my best option…" I mused. "Moreover, I need to figure out a way to get a hold of the Sorting Hat without alerting Dumbledore."
I stopped mid-step.
Need. It all boiled down to need.
"The Room of Requirement." I whispered, eyes widening.
If I could somehow find the entrance to the Room of Requirement, I could potentially knock out two tasks in one sweep.
"Only I can't remember where the Room of Requirement is hidden…" I frowned.
What I did remember was how to access the room. It was pretty simple, really. All one had to do was walk past the room three times, concentrating on a certain need—and magically, the room would oblige; its interior adapted to the summoner's specific need.
"Still, the castle is massive." I sighed. "There's no way I can examine every corridor on every floor."
Doing so by myself would most likely take me years.
Thus, I'd have to start by finding a way to narrow down the possible locations somehow.
"Hmm…" I muttered, deep in thought as I wandered absentmindedly in the direction of Madam Hooch's first flying lesson.
…
"Up." I commanded—and to my chagrin, the enchanted broom snapped into my hand with such force that a sharp crack resounded from my palm.
"That actually stung a little…" I remarked inwardly, suppressing the desire to smirk.
Around me, my fellow peers stared at me with a mixture of awe, surprise, and jealousy.
Three more people managed to summon their broom on their first attempt, in chronological order they were: Roger, Quentin, and Thalia.
All three of them were pure-bloods, two were even from Sacred Bloodlines
Yet, given the sound my broom had made, it was clear to everyone that my command had been the most forceful. Something Quentin—especially—didn't like, seeing as he kept throwing me the stink-eye.
In retrospect, however, I wasn't overly surprised I'd succeeded.
My intent had been clear and commanding. My expectation vivid. And my willpower inscrutable, especially from the perspective of an eleven-year-old.
"Good job, Mr. Morgan!" Madam Hooch's voice boomed.
I replied with a grateful smile.
The only leader-figure among the first-year Ravens who hadn't managed to summon her broom on her first try was Matilda Vance—whose expression visibly soured the moment she noticed the smug looks on her perceived competitors' faces.
Notably, it was clear from the way she glared that she especially didn't appreciate the fact that her rival—Thalia—had succeeded where she'd failed.
Speaking of Thalia, I couldn't help but smile encouragingly at her when her broom jumped into her hand on the first attempt.
In response, Thalia's eyes had flicked toward the broom in my hand, before she shook her head, baffled.
Still. I figured it was a step in the right direction.
"Michael!" Roger waved, a radiant smile on his face as he lifted his own broom. "I didn't know you were into Quidditch?!"
"I'm not though." I smiled, keeping my response to myself.
…
On our way to the Great Hall for lunch, I decided it was time for me to step up and be the bigger person. If I left it to Thalia, we'd be bickering for days—if not weeks at this pace.
"Thalia." I said, matching my stride with my short friend. "About this morning, I'm—"
"Apology accepted." Thalia cut me off, pointedly refusing to look at me. "You really didn't need to give your seat to Selene during Transfiguration, though."
"My seat?" I leaned forward, a teasing smile on my face.
For the first time since I met her, Thalia looked absolutely mortified. Her face as red as a tomato.
"I-I—"
"Don't worry about it," I smiled. "Let's hurry up, I'm starving."
"I hate you." Thalia muttered under her breath.
And, for some reason—definitely unrelated—my smile grew even wider.
…
"I can't do it." Cedric threw his hands into the air. "Let me tell you, if I have to have one more class with the Gryffindors, I'm going to flip."
"Why? What happened?" Thalia asked, beating me to the punch.
Which suited me just fine, I decided—chewing on a piece of meat. I was perfectly content just listening and observing.
"It's Fred and George, they—"
"The Weasley twins charmed Professor Snape's stool so that one leg would explode in a puff of smoke the moment he sat on it."
I nearly choked on the piece of meat, coughing.
"T-They d-did what?" Thalia's jaw dropped.
"You heard her," Cedric replied with a sigh. "Professor Snape was in such foul mood afterward, even breathing too loud lost us house points."
"There's no way he's allowed to do that…" Thalia muttered.
"Well, he did," Eveline said, shaking her head with a mirthless smile. "We lost almost forty points because we kept 'disrupting class'… Tell me, how are we supposed to learn anything if we're not allowed to breathe?!"
"That's still nothing compared to how much the Gryffindors lost." Cedric added.
My smile froze as cold realization struck me.
"Wait… isn't our next class Potions?" I asked, turning toward Thalia.
The way her eyes widened in fear was an answer in of itself.
…
At 1 p.m. the first-year Ravens and Snakes gathered for a combined Potions lesson in Professor Snape's classroom—aptly located in the dungeons, down a long, dimly lit corridor lined completely in cold stone.
The room itself was starkly different from any I'd seen so far. Instead of rows of paired desks, long narrow tabled stretched across the space, crammed tightly together to force shared seating.
Additionally, the space was dimly lit by wall sconces, the light casting long shadows that flickered constantly. The few windows on the walls were sealed with thick wooden shutters, and the air smelled faintly like damp stone and dried herbs.
I felt a number of antagonistic looks land on my person the moment I entered the room.
After scanning the room, I decided they belonged to the first-year Snakes.
"Well, this is going to be fun." I sighed inwardly, taking a seat among the other Ravens—on the opposite end of the Snakes.
Thalia sat next to me, then Ophelia, Selene, and so on.
Shrouded in darkness, Professor Snape reminded me of Dracula the way he stood wrapped in his black cloak.
At exactly 1 p.m., the massive classroom doors slammed shut with a resounding bang—causing the majority of students to flinch.
Even the Snakes weren't spared, it seemed.
"Five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape announced, his gaze fixed on Roger Davies and his friends, a deep scowl etched across his face. "For disrupting my introduction."
"But I didn't say—"
"Ten points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape cut in coldly, his eyes narrowing. "For speaking out of turn."
A heavy silence fell over the room—made worse by the smug, insufferable smiles spreading across several Slytherin faces.
"Stop smirking," Professor Snape snapped suddenly, several Slytherins straightening at once. "Your childish display of unearned arrogance reflects poorly on my House."
Professor Snape took a deep breath.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. "As there is little foolish wand-waving in this class, many of you might even foolishly come to think it's not magic."
Professor Snape's black eyes were cold and empty as they scanned our faces.
"I don't expect you lot will truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…"
"Unlike other subjects taught here at Hogwarts, Potions offers no margin for improvisation," Professor Snape's voice positively dripped with disgust at the word.
Behind me, Rufus scoffed. And Professor Snape didn't miss it.
"Tell me, Mr. Redford," the professor spoke slowly, his tone like ice. "What exactly is it that you find amusing?"
To his credit, Rufus at least hesitated before his bravado forced him to answer.
"Knowing how to improvise is an important skill for a wizard," Rufus argued, almost as if he was parroting something someone else had told him once.
Naturally, Professor Snape's gaze sharpened.
"Then tell me, Mr. Redford, why do we not improvise and harvest fluxweed during the new moon?"
Rufus looked around the classroom, as if hoping someone might step in and help him.
"No?" Professor Snape's voice was criminally neutral. "Very well. Perhaps something simpler."
He stepped forward, eyes fixed on Rufus.
"Why don't we improvise and use a pewter cauldron when brewing Wolfsbane Potion?"
Again, like Harry in the books, Rufus didn't know the answer. The students sitting near Rufus were beginning to lean away, as if distancing themselves from Snape's line of sight.
Snape exhaled softly through his nose.
"We do not improvise in potion-making, Mr. Redford, because magic, when mishandled, does not forgive. It explodes. It corrodes. It kills."
His words hung in the air like a curse. And this time, Rufus wasn't the only one who gulped.
"Another five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape announced. "For a disappointing lack of foresight."
…
When the bell finally rang, my classmates all but bolted toward the exit—evidently desperate to vacate the room.
I, however, wasn't particularly bothered by Professor Snape's didactic choices—though I admit he was certainly a controversial figure.
But, in the end, what he said was right.
Magic was inherently volatile—dangerous by nature. I'd learned this firsthand back at the orphanage. And while Professor McGonagall and the other teachers had certainly warned us of the risks, none had been as unflinchingly blunt—as unapologetically candid—as Snape.
Magic, when mishandled, could be—and often was—a deadly force. If it didn't kill the caster, it might very well kill someone nearby.
It was easy to forget that, for all their promise, my peers were still children. Preteens wielding power most adults couldn't even begin to imagine.
Better a harsh lesson now than a fatal mistake later.
That said, it came as no surprise that Snape was so loathed by his students. He was uncompromising and entirely uninterested in making himself liked.
But perhaps that was the point?
"Nice shoes." A faintly familiar voice quipped from behind me.
Turning around, I recognized the boy immediately.
Although, admittedly, I had momentarily forgotten about him.
"Cassius," I greeted, looking at the Snake who'd briefly insulted the Hufflepuff house before the Sorting Ceremony last week.
"What gave you the impression we were on first-name terms, filth?" Cassius sneered. "Let's not pretend we're equals, alright?"
"How about me, Cassius." Thalia cut in, her voice icy as she glared hatefully at the Draco-wanna-be. "Are we equals?"
I didn't know much about Cassius's pedigree, but the angry flicker in his expression told me enough—he wasn't from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
Thalia scoffed when Cassius wouldn't respond.
On our way out the classroom, however, we both clearly heard him mutter.
"Disgusting little blood traitor."
…