The dormitory was still in the grey-blue before dawn when Rowan opened his eyes. The light was faint, pressing weakly around the edges of the tall curtains that framed the windows. The air was cool against his skin, edged with the stale warmth of bodies that had been sleeping for hours. He lay still for a moment, listening: the slow, steady breathing of his dorm-mates, the muffled rustle of blankets shifting, the faint creak of a bedframe as someone turned over.
He sat up quietly and swung his legs out from the bed. The boards were cold beneath his feet; it made his movements sharper, more deliberate. His shirt slid over his shoulders in one smooth motion, the fabric soft from repeated washing. Robes followed, the black wool holding a trace of the smoky scent from the common room fire. The faint metallic click of his belt buckle was the loudest sound in the room.
Dean had pulled his blankets over his head, only a tuft of hair sticking out. Seamus mumbled something incomprehensible and shifted. Rowan tied his shoes quickly and slipped out, each step on the spiral stair deliberate enough to keep the wood from groaning too loudly.
The common room was dim, lit by the red-orange glow of embers in the grate. The shadows in the corners seemed to lean closer to the fire, their edges flickering when the coals flared. A mug sat abandoned on the table nearest the window, a small pool of tea at the bottom, cold and opaque. The armchairs were slouched where they'd been left, cushions bearing the imprints of those who'd last sat there. Threads hung in the air like faint curls of smoke, loose and slow, barely disturbed in the stillness.
He stepped through the portrait hole, and the Fat Lady, still in her pink silk gown, gave a drowsy little sigh but didn't speak. The corridor was cooler, the stone smelling faintly of damp. The sound of his steps echoed and then faded in the vastness of the hall. Somewhere above, a staircase shifted with a long, groaning creak, slow and unhurried.
At a landing, he paused by a tall window. The grounds lay under a soft, colourless light. The lake was still and silver, a delicate mist blurring its far bank. Threads hung over it in long, slow curves, heavy with dew. When the breeze came across the water, they rippled in a wide, lazy wave, the movement rolling outward like a breath. He stayed there for a moment, watching the slow pull of the threads, before continuing down toward the Great Hall.
The hall itself felt larger in its quiet. The floating candles hung lower than usual, their flames steady, casting pools of golden light along the tabletops. A few early risers were scattered along the benches: a pair of prefects murmuring together at the far end, two older Ravenclaws with their heads bent over a single open book, a solitary Slytherin absently stirring porridge. The air was warm with the smell of toast, porridge, and a faint sweetness that might have been honey or jam.
Rowan slid into a seat midway down the Gryffindor table. The silver jug of pumpkin juice was cool beneath his hand. As he poured, a faint shimmer rose from the jug's lip—a single thread curling up, glimmering for a moment before vanishing—the residue of the preservation charm. He drank slowly, letting the familiar sweetness settle on his tongue.
"Morning!" Hermione's voice was bright, though still brisk with purpose. She set her plate down opposite him, the china clinking lightly against the wood, and stacked a pile of books with neat precision beside her elbow.
"Morning," Rowan replied.
She reached for the toast rack. "History of Magic first thing. I went through the whole chapter on the eighteenth-century rebellions last night. Binns always skips half of what's important. Did you read it?"
"Yes."
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction before a small smile tugged at her mouth. "Well, at least I won't be the only one trying to keep up."
Neville appeared at her side, both hands cradling a small potted plant. "Morning," he said, easing himself onto the bench. The pot made a soft thump as he set it down.
The plant's leaves were thick, glossy, and a deep, almost blue-tinged green. Threads rose from the soil, curling upward in smooth spirals that lingered in the air around the stem. Rowan studied them for a heartbeat.
"Looks healthy," he said.
Neville's face brightened instantly. "Thanks! My gran sent it—it's a Mimbulus mimbletonia."
Hermione leaned in. "Rare. And smelly if you touch the wrong bit."
Neville laughed quietly. "I'm not going to test that. Professor Sprout gave me the right soil. She says it'll do well here."
As they spoke, the hall filled in waves. Fred and George passed by with quick greetings, one of them swiping a slice of toast from an unsuspecting second-year. Laughter rose from a knot of Hufflepuffs at the far table. The sound of knives spreading butter and spoons scraping bowls mingled into a comfortable hum. Rowan ate steadily, contributing to conversation when it came his way, but letting the warmth of the voices around him carry the rest.
They left the hall together, the corridors already busier now. The History of Magic classroom was warm, the air faintly dusty. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow windows, making the floating dust specks glow like motes of gold. Professor Binns drifted in from the blackboard, chalk already floating in the air, scratching out the date as he began speaking.
"—and thus began the Goblin Rebellion of 1752," he droned, voice flat and unbroken.
Rowan saw immediately how weak the ghost's threads were—thin and wavering, curling toward the students but rarely reaching more than the first row. He set his quill to the parchment, his writing steady, every letter evenly formed.
Beside him, Hermione's quill moved faster, her script small and tight. She glanced at his notes once, her eyes flicking over the clean lines, then bent back to her own.
Two rows back, Seamus leaned toward Dean, muttering something that made Dean grin and shake his head. Ron, slouched in his seat, yawned so wide it made Harry glance at him with a faint smile. Neville scribbled slowly, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth when he tried to keep up with a particularly dense string of names and dates.
Binns floated through the corner of a desk without noticing, pausing mid-sentence before picking up exactly where he'd left off. The chalk wrote on, its movement tethered to his words like a thread pulled taut. Rowan noted each point in turn, arranging them in a clean sequence, the way one might line up dominos to fall in a perfect pattern.
When the bell rang, the sudden scrape of benches felt almost loud enough to stir the air into motion. They stepped out into a corridor cooler than the classroom. Here, the walls were hung with faded tapestries, their colours worn down to muted shades.
Ahead, a group of Slytherins lingered by one showing a knight bowing before a witch.
"…behind the tapestry," one was saying in a low voice. "Quicker route to—"
The words cut off as they noticed Rowan's group approaching. A few smirks, then they turned away, voices dropping to whispers.
Rowan slowed as he passed. The threads in the tapestry curved inward toward a point beyond the wall, pulling subtly but steadily. He brushed the edge lightly with his fingers, felt the faint give beneath, then walked on.
After lunch, they climbed to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. The smell of garlic was strong, clinging to the heavy curtains that let in only a dim light. Quirrell stood at the front, turban shadowing his pale forehead.
"Deflection," he said softly, "is not merely stopping a spell, but turning it aside so it cannot strike you or anyone else."
He demonstrated with a flick of the wrist, the wand tip describing a small arc in the air. Threads sparked bright around the movement, their tension pulling the path of the magic into Rowan's view before it had fully formed.
Quirrell sent a jinx toward the front row. Rowan's wand was already up, the deflection smooth, the spell spinning harmlessly away.
Several students turned to look. Hermione's eyes lingered for a heartbeat before returning to the front. Quirrell hesitated—just enough to be noticed—then stammered, "V-very g-good, Mr. Von Vey."
They paired off. Ron's first attempt sent a jinx shooting sideways into Harry's sleeve, leaving a faint scorch mark that Harry batted at with a grin. Neville missed entirely the first two tries, his wand arm stiff, but on the third the jinx curved away in a shaky arc. His partner clapped him on the shoulder. Rowan moved through each deflection without hurry, the threads showing him exactly where each spell would land.
By the time the class ended, the light in the corridors was leaning toward evening. The library was cool and quiet, the smell of leather and parchment strong in the still air. Madam Pince moved along the shelves with a kind of proprietorial care, her fingertips trailing along spines.
Rowan settled in a corner with two books on spell theory and a heavier volume of diagrams. The inked lines twisted in ways that mirrored the threads he saw in spellwork. He traced them into his notes, repeating each curve until it settled into memory.
Hermione passed with a stack of books that reached her chin. She slowed just enough to glance at his work before continuing on. Somewhere across the room, a group of Ravenclaws whispered over a pile of scrolls, the soft murmur blending with the quiet turning of pages.
By the time Rowan returned to the common room, the fire had burned low again, sending a soft orange glow across the rugs. Most students had gone upstairs, though a pair of fifth-years sat at a corner table, bent over a chessboard. The smell of the evening meal lingered faintly, mixed with the warm scent of woodsmoke.
He crossed to the window and sat, resting his palm against the cool glass. Outside, the grounds lay dark, the lake a sheet of black under the thin moon. Threads drifted across the lawns, slow and steady, shifting only when the wind brushed them.
One was different—thinner than the rest, silver and unbroken, stretching from somewhere deep within the castle and vanishing into the distance beyond the grounds. He watched it for a long time, until the last ember in the grate gave a final glow and went out.