Hogwarts (Year One) - Part 9

Professor Crowe’s’ Classroom, Third Floor, Hogwarts. September 8, 1989.

A heavy silence settled over the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom in response to Professor Crowe’s ruling.

The atmosphere was practically crackling with tension.

Except for Thalia, no one was courageous to meet Crowe’s gaze. But everyone felt it: the contradiction, the unfairness of the situation. Until now, he’d awarded points to anyone whose charm had even remotely come close to hitting him.

And mine had even forced him to deflect.

Yet still nothing.

Jaw tight, I sighed and nudged my friend gently.

Thalia turned toward me sharply, her eyes frigidly cold and utterly unblinking—fury held in check by sheer will alone.

I met her gaze and shook my head slowly.

“Not worth it,” I mouthed.

Thalia didn’t respond—and her eyes didn’t soften—but she took a step forward, adopting a stance surprisingly reminiscent of a fencing form.

Immediately, Crowe’s smirk returned, subtle but unmistakable.

“Ah,” he murmured, eyes narrowing as he studied Thalia’s posture closely. “The Willow Crown. As expected of the Sacred Fawley heir.”

With her body angled side-on, dominant foot drawn back and wand held close, Thalia lifted her chin slightly and spoke—her voice laced with razor-sharp intent.

“Vermilious!”

A bolt—slightly smaller than mine but not any less tangible—shot from the tip of her wand, piercing through the air like an arrow loosed from a crossbow.

With an insufferable grin on his face, Crowe twisted his body, neatly sidestepping the crimson streak as it sailed past him and struck the far wall.

If the Vermilious Charm had been capable of causing real damage, Thalia’s spell definitely would’ve left a scorch mark on the wall. Instead, it burst apart in a spray of shimmering red light—a menacing but ultimately harmless display of magic.

“An excellent Red Spark Charm, Miss Fawley. Five points to Ravenclaw!”

Despite the praise, Thalia pointedly didn’t smile. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the one-eared professor.

“I don’t need it,” she said flatly. “Take it back.”

Crowe’s grin only widened further in response.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Miss Fawley.”

…

In the end, not one of the first-year Ravens managed to land a hit on Professor Crowe. Matilda, Quentin, and Thalia came the closest—each displaying a level of magical prowess that stood head and shoulders above the rest—but even they missed by the narrowest of margins.

Which wasn’t exactly weird, seeing as Professor Crowe was a retired Auror and his opponents a bunch of eleven-year-old brats.

All in all, however, Ravenclaw still managed to scramble up forty points—a respectable amount for a single class. Nevertheless, every time Crowe awarded someone points, I would involuntarily feel the weight of glances shifting in my direction.

Most were pitiful in nature, but a few—like Quentin and Lucien’s—smirked arrogantly at me.

A lesser man might’ve gotten upset—angry, even. I just felt tired.

“It’s just points,” I reminded myself.

Thalia, however, clearly didn’t share my sentiment since she glared daggers at anyone who so much as thought of glancing in our direction.

Finally, aside from Greengrave, only one other student failed to cast the charm properly.

Of course, it was Thomas Winslow.

The Muggle-born wizard was deducted ten points on the spot—and when he began to sniffle, Quentin and Lucien had the audacity to snicker.

Professor Crowe pointedly let it slide—pretending like he didn’t notice.

By now, the pattern was hardly subtle: Muggle-borns weren’t held to the same standard; the difference in treatment clear to anyone.

After the demonstrations ended, we moved on to paired drills—one caster and one dodger.

Thalia and I took turns, switching roles after every cast.

Even Crowe, with all his prejudice and sharp edges, couldn’t ruin the thrill of spellwork—magic had a way of shining through, no matter the instructor.

The final score? Twelve to eleven. Thalia won, albeit barely.

Though, admittedly, I hadn’t adjusted the trajectory of my charms on the fly like I’d done with Professor Crowe. Doing so, I felt, would’ve ruined the purpose of the drill.

Luckily, Thalia hadn’t seemed to notice. In fact, she seemed way too preoccupied with celebrating and holding her victory over me.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Thalia, I’ll make sure this is the last time you best me in charms.” I swore in my heart.

Though, truthfully, I actually had a lot to learn about duelling from Thalia. Considering she’d obviously been trained in the finer art of magic duelling already.

And from the looks of it, so had Quentin and a few others.

When the class wrapped up—and students began filing out of the classroom—I stayed behind, waiting.

Thalia seemed to understand what I was doing and gave me a pointed look before exiting the room along with the rest.

A few minutes later, I was the only one left—apart from Professor Crowe, of course.

Yet even now, he steadfastly refused to acknowledge me, his quill scratching against parchment as he studied the notes scattered across his desk.

I took a deep breath, stepping forward.

“Professor,” I said, voice calm but determined. “Did I perhaps do anything to offend you?”

No reply.

I watched the muscles in his jaw shift as he made a final note, still without looking up.

“Professor,” I said again, more firmly. “This is getting childish.”

This time, the professor paused.

His quill stilled, hanging in the air for a beat too long.

Then, lifting his gaze, Crowe furrowed his brows in my direction.

“Childish, Mr. Morgan? You’re mistaken. I’m simply setting an example.”

“And what example is that? That Muggle-borns are somehow lesser wizards?”

Crowe scoffed, his voice laced with dislike.

“Lesser?” He echoed, shaking his head. “No, Mr. Morgan. Not lesser. Believe me when I say I’m intimately familiar with the danger Muggle-borns pose to the wizarding community.”

My eyes flicked to the jagged line where his left ear used to be, and my brows rose—just slightly.

“You’re telling me this is all about some missing ear?” I asked, exasperated.

“It’s more than just an ear, Mr. Morgan.” Professor Crowe replied, narrowing his eyes. “It’s what the ear represents.”

“What I left out earlier, Mr. Morgan, was that the curse that claimed my ear wasn’t cast by a Death Eater. Or some foreign dark wizard. Hell, it wasn’t even cast by someone properly trained in magic. No, it was a Muggle-born—barely of age, actually—wielding power they didn’t understand, and casting spells without even considering what the consequences might be.”

Professor Crowe stood up, glaring at me.

“You people meander into our world unprepared, untested, and ignorant to a fault. Yet the Ministry insists on calling it progress—throwing open the gates and pretending blood doesn’t matter. That discipline doesn’t matter. That magic is just… talent.”

“So, you’re solution is to, what?” I shot back. “Use your position to ostracise Muggle-borns before they even get a chance to learn about the wizarding world? To condemn us in front of our peers? To what end—humiliation? To shame us until we break?”

I met his glare with one that didn’t lose out in intensity.

“You’re going about this in the wrong way, Professor Crowe. As a teacher, you have the opportunity to change all of that. If we’re unprepared—prepare us. If we’re untested—test us. Ignorant? Yes, maybe you’re right. But then, isn’t it your task to teach us?”

My voice was steady now, but each word remained deliberate as I continued.

“You talk about the Ministry lacking discipline, Professor Crowe. Then may I suggest you show them what it means to instil it properly?”

For a long moment, Crowe and I simply stared each other down—neither willing to yield.

“I’ve said all I wanted to say,” I said, picking up my satchel. “I will see you on Monday, Professor Crowe.”

And with those parting words, I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving Crowe behind to digest my words in the silence.

…

Seated in the Great Hall, I stared listlessly down at the plate in front of me.

The scent of parsley and steamed haddock rose up from it, mingling with the din of conversation and the clink of cutlery echoing through the hall.

I wasn’t a fan of fish, but I ate it anyway.

Still, the conversation with Professor Crowe had left a distinctly nasty taste in my mouth.

“I’m screwed, aren’t I?”

Thalia shook her head in response, her face calm yet resolute.

“No, you’re not. If Crowe dares to give you anything less than an Exceeds Expectations in Defence Against the Dark Arts, I promise you—the school will hear from my father.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, glancing at her from the side.

“Wow, you really are an heir, aren’t you?” I smiled mirthlessly, shaking my head. “Sometimes I forget.”

Thalia avoided my gaze.

“You’re probably the only one…” She muttered, mumbling softly.

I smiled faintly, suppressing the urge to ask her to repeat herself. Instead, another question crossed my mind.

“I hate to ask, but what does it actually mean, being an heir?” I asked, watching her closely.

Thalia met my gaze, surprise gave into hesitation.

“You know what the Wizengamot is, right?”

I nodded slowly, “in theory,” I admitted. “It’s the wizarding world’s Supreme Court, isn’t it?”

“Partially,” Thalia said, exhaling. “But the Wizengamot isn’t just a court—it’s more like a parliament. A ruling body made up of noble, pure-blood families from all across the British Isles. And it’s presided over by the Chief Warlock—who just happens to be our current headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.”

“Right.” I said, raising a brow. “And where do the Sacred Twenty-Eight and their heirs fit into all of this?”

“Well, the Wizengamot operates on a voting system,” Thalia explained. “Votes are allotted to families based on their history and legacy. Most Ancient Houses—that is, houses that predate to before the Ministry was founded—get five votes, Ancient Houses get four, Established Noble Houses get three, Recognised Houses get two, and Non-noble Magical Houses get one.”

She paused, hesitating a moment before continuing.

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight, being considered the purest families in Britain, are granted an additional vote—on top of their base. And once every other century, they receive a single veto. The power to block a ruling, regardless of the outcome.”

“A veto?” I echoed.

Thalia shook her head, sighing.

“In reality, they’re almost never used. Going against the majority might win you the vote—but politically? It can cost you everything.”

There was clearly more to the story, but one glance at Thalia’s face told me not to pry.

“And the heirs?”

“Oh, right,” Thalia blushed. “Well, practically speaking, the family heir is the person who will one day inherit the family’s votes in the Wizengamot. Socially, however, it’s a lot more than that…”

Thalia paused, clearly hesitant.

“I can’t really explain it that well.”

“That’s fine, I think I get it.” I looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. “It’s like being the crown prince or princess, right?”

When Thalia didn’t respond right away, I turned in her direction with a raised eyebrow.

“I-I’m not a princess…” she muttered, her face red as a tomato, eyes fixed anywhere but on me.

Stunned by her sudden shift in demeanour, I found myself momentarily at a loss for words.

“Oh??” A faintly familiar voice purred, pulling both our attention. “Flirting in the Great Hall, are we? My oh my, the firsties just keep getting bolder and bolder these days, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, Sandra,” another student replied, nodding as she adjusted her thick glasses. “I don’t believe any couples formed in our first semester.”

I let out a slow sigh and turned back to my food, deliberately pretending like I hadn’t noticed the platinum-blonde senior and her sidekick.

“This—” Sandra exhaled sharply through her nose, positively scandalised. “Did this little brat just ignore me?”

“I believe he did, Sandra.”

“Tell me, what’s a mentor supposed to do in this scenario?” The senior Raven asked, clearly enjoying herself.

“Hmm… I believe it falls to the mentor’s discretion, Sandra.”

“Are you two done yet?” I asked flatly, speaking in-between mouthfuls like the very picture of a Muggle-born who hadn’t learned anything about proper etiquette.

“Michael…” Thalia whispered. “I think they are talking about the mentorship programme.”

I was mid-frown when fragments of a conversation suddenly came back to me—Roger, Rufus, and William whispering something about looking forward to meeting their mentors and assigned pairs.

Looking up at the two seniors towering behind me, my lips involuntarily thinned in scepticism.

“Really?” I frowned, unwilling to believe it. “They assigned you?”

…

“Come on, aren’t you exaggerating a bit too much, Miki? Oh, you don’t mind if I call you Miki, do you?”

“I do.”

“Anyway, you mustn’t have realized it yet, Miki, but it’s like really difficult to say no to Professor Flitwick when he comes asking you for a favour.” Sandra explained, looking over at her sidekick. “Right?”

“If I recall correctly, Sandra, you were the one who—”

“Oh, shush you.” Sandra waved her arm, silencing her friend. “Anyway, where are the other two?”

“The other two? What other two?” I echoed, feeling my frown worsening.

“Urgh wait a minute,” she said, rummaging through her bag in pursuit of something.

I let out a sigh, exchanging a meaningful glance with Thalia.

“We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“So it seems.”

“Here it is!” Sandra exclaimed, unfolding a piece of paper. “Let’s see, study group four, participants: Michael Morgan, check, Princess Thalia, check,”

Thalia groaned across the table, while I suppressed the urge to sigh yet again.

“The last two members are Rowena Blight and Matilda Vance.” Sandra finished, turning to look at her friend. “Wait, Vance, isn’t that—”

“The Grim Magister, Lord Caius Vance’s oldest daughter and heir.” Sandra’s sidekick confirmed with a prim nod.

Sandra’s eyes lit up like lights in a Christmas tree. “Oh, we really did luck out with our mentees, didn’t we Charlotte? Two heirs, a girl named after our founder, and—"

Her gaze slid to me, lips curling.

“Michael Morgan, Ravenclaw’s newest heartthrob. And from what I hear, a Muggle-born, no less?” Sandra purred, her tone laced with amusement. “Isn’t that fascinating?”

“Please,” I said, lifting a hand mid-bite. “Seeing as you already know who we are—and claim to be our mentors—shouldn’t you at least introduce yourselves first?”

“You’re right, and we will…” Sandra’s smirk widened, pausing dramatically. “Once the whole group has been assembled, that is. Let’s say one o’clock, shall we? By the first-floor entrance to the library?”

“Sure,” I agreed, Thalia nodding alongside me. “See you there.”

“Oh, I can’t wait!” Sandra exclaimed, practically skipping away. Behind her, her sidekick Charlotte trailed after her.

“If…” Thalia said, breaking the silence. “If it’s any consolation, I heard Sandra’s actually pretty popular, she’s even ranked first in her year.”

“Of course she is.” I sighed, decidedly focusing on finishing my food.

For some reason, I reckoned I would need the energy.

…

*****

I couldn’t help but smile, watching the four firsties huddle around table Charlotte and I had claimed in the group study room.

So earnest. So innocently wide-eyed. All nerves and anticipation.

To think, it felt like just yesterday I was the first-year—clinging to my planner like some kind of lifeline, terrified of missing a single deadline.

“So much has changed since then…”

Somehow—despite everything—I was a sixth year now. And after this, I’d be in my final year.

And after that?

Well, we’ll see.

I studied the group of mentees a moment longer, not even trying to suppress the grin from growing on my face. Never in my life would I’ve expected being a mentor to be so much fun! I don’t know why I said no last year.

“Let’s start with introductions, shall we?” I said with a pleasant smile, glancing at Charlotte. “Since we’ll be seeing a great of each other in the future, perhaps Charlotte and I should begin?”

Matilda Vance gave me a small, polite nod.

The others just blinked at me.

I smiled anyway. “Charming.”

“Anyway, my name’s Sandra Marwick,” I said with a dip of my head. “I currently hold the top academic rank in the sixth year.”

Rowena blinked, her surprise subtle—but it was enough to register. The other three, however? They barely flinched. Clearly, they’d done their homework.

“How cute.”

My gaze slid to Miki, and I allowed my smile to linger a bit longer.

“I’m a half-blood, originally from Cambridge. It’s lovely to meet you,” I added, glancing at the three girls. “All of you.”

I hadn’t expected my introduction to be met with applause, exactly—but the polite and lukewarm nods felt underwhelming all the same.

Truthfully, the lack of curiosity rankled me a little. Would it have hurt them to ask a follow-up question?

“Whatever,” I murmured, pivoting to Charlotte.

“Your turn.”

Charlotte nodded, fixing her glasses, her cool gaze sweeping over the group with that effortless authority only she could pull off.

“Charlotte Macraith. Sixth year. Rank four,” she said crisply. “And since Sandra chose to divulge her background, I suppose I will too.”

Charlotte drew a deep breath, posture impeccable—like always.

“The Macraiths are a pure-blood cadet branch of the Macmillan family, originally from the Scottish Highlands. While we trace our ancestry back to the Macmillan founding patriarch, these days we’re more invested in research than politics. Like Sandra, I look forward to getting along with you this semester.”

Annoyingly, Miki visibly perked up, sitting straighter in his seat—eyes practically sparkling with interest after my friend’s introduction.

I couldn’t help but to click my tongue in annoyance.

“You’re up next,” I said, giving Matilda Vance the word.

Standing up, the eleven-year-old girl did a remarkable job at not looking nervous.

“My name’s Matilda Vance. The heir of the Established Noble Family of Vance. My father’s Lord Caius Vance, the current patriarch of the Vance family and a Senior Adjudicator for the Wizengamot.”

I smiled at the clearly rehearsed presentation.

“And?” I cut in, leaning forward. “What are your likes and dislikes?”

“My likes and dislikes?” Matilda blinked, evidently caught off guard.

“Yeah, like, anything you enjoy doing? I mean, it can’t all be House points and exam scores, am I right?” I pressed, gesturing for her to continue.

“I…” Matilda paused, taking a moment to think. “I like Quidditch, I guess?”

“Oh really??” I perked up. “What’s your favourite team? I’m a Harpie, personally.”

“A F-Falcon, I suppose?” Matilda stammered. “My father and I went to see one of their matches last summer.”

I grinned, pleased I’d managed to fish something actually interesting out of her.

“But the Falmouth Flacons huh? Fitting, I guess—considering the Grim Magister’s reputation.”

Still, the Vance heir’s choice of team spoke volumes about her as a person. Unlike the Harpies, the Falcons were hardly known for their elegance after all; no, they were notoriously known for breaking bones and pulling out teeth.

Still, I nodded encouragingly. “Then maybe we’ll see you on the Ravenclaw team next year?”

Curiously, Matilda looked away—offering no reply as she sat back down.

“Sandra,” Charlotte interrupted gently. “The time.”

“Oh, right.” I gave my temple a theatrical tap. “My bad.”

“My name’s Rowena Blight,” the second mentee said, meeting my gaze with a surprising amount of confidence. “I like ice cream.”

And… that was it. Apparently satisfied, Rowena sat back down—leaving the room steeped in awkward silence.

“Uhm…” I glanced between Rowena and Charlotte, scrambling for something to say. “What kind of ice cream?”

“Blueberry.”

“I see…” I nodded, very serious. “Certainly, a fine choice of flavour. Wouldn’t you agree, Charlotte?”

“I’m allergic.”

I felt my smile twitch a little. “O-oh. Right. I forgot.”

Sighing, I decided it was best to move on—to the second most intriguing member of our little study group.

Thalia Fawley rose to her feet, and despite her small frame, she carried herself with a presence that immediately demanded attention. Her icy blue eyes locked onto Charlotte and me, betraying no hint of fear.

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “As expected of a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir.”

“Thalia Fawley,” she said clearly. “Heir to the Sacred Fawley family. I like to study and spend time with my friends. I dislike nosy seniors who go around spreading false rumours about me and my friends. Thank you.”

And just like that, she sat back down, composed and utterly unapologetic.

Coughing awkwardly, I did my best to pretend like I couldn’t see the nasty look Charlotte was shooting my way.

“About that,” I smiled. “I only told one friend; it wasn’t meant to become gossip.”

“I believe the definition of gossip is when you go around and talk about other people behind their back, spreading rumours that are not necessarily true.” Miki cut in, fixing me with a glare.

“Also, I believe a proper apology should include the words ‘I’m sorry.’” Miki added, his words difficult to argue against as he turned in Charlotte’s direction. “Or am I wrong?”

In what was very likely greatest act of betrayal in Hogwart’s history, Charlotte nodded, adjusting her glasses before looking at me accusingly.

“He’s right, Sandra.”

“Fine, fine, fine!” I groaned, bowing my head toward the two brats—who, despite their constant denial, were clearly into each other. “I apologize for saying you and Thalia were a couple when I had no right to. It was wrong of me, okay?”

“Especially without confirming it first.” I added in my heart.

“I suppose that’s as close to sincere as we’re going to get, Thalia,” Miki sighed, more tired than annoyed.

“Why does this brat remind me of my uncle?!” I thought, baffled.

Thalia nodded, meeting my gaze head-on with those icy blue eyes.

“What an imposing little brat.” I smiled, my grin widening as I held her stare.

When the little brat looked away first, I couldn’t help the smug curl of satisfaction from manifesting on my lips.

“You’re up, Miki,” I said, turning my focus to the last—and arguably most interesting—member of our little ensemble.

Michael Morgan rose with a sigh, once again drawing attention to his tall and slender frame—certainly impressive for a first-year. Like Thalia, his eyes were blue, but where hers were glacial-like, his were more reminiscent of the ocean—vast, calm, and unexpectedly deep.

“So, this is the one causing all the ripples…” I mused to myself, not bothering to hide my interest.

Even among the sixth years, I’d heard the occasional whisper about the new Muggle-born Ravenclaw with an uncanny talent for magic. His connection with the Fawley girl—and that little scuffle with Jared in the Great Hall—had stirred some attention, for sure. But most of the chatter wasn’t about some silly drama.

No, this wasn’t Gryffindor—this was Ravenclaw.

What they talked about was ability.

Even in a year boasting of one Sacred Heir and one Sacred Scion, it was an unknown Muggle-born—Michael Morgan—who apparently stole the show.

“And, let’s face it, who doesn’t root for an underdog?” I thought, studying the person in question.

Even if said underdog was all but destined to lose in the end.

The sad but indisputable truth is that no individual—least of all a Muggle-born—could ever hope to compete with a scion of the Sacred Families. Even I, a half-blood, had come to accept that.

Sure, for now, I might hold first rank academically, but I’d already learned the hard way that there was always someone better out there.

A bigger monster behind the smaller monsters.

And sooner or later, so will Michael.

Still, for now, Michael would continue to be something of a novelty—an underdog whose talent hadn’t gone unnoticed. Like or not, he would have to endure being both public enemy number one and the face of defiance.

I did not envy his position.

After all, the pure-bloods rarely appreciated being outdone—especially by someone unblooded.

“I’m Michael Morgan,” Michael began, pausing as if deliberating something. “An orphan Muggle-born from Bath.”

Surprisingly, a genuine smile blossomed on his lips. One that wasn’t mirthless or mocking in nature.

“And I like magic.”

…

*****

Our first study group with the sixth years—Sandra Marwick and Charlotte Macraith—was, surprisingly, not a complete and utter disaster.

The sixth years shared a number of intriguing insights about their time at Hogwarts, and as someone whose knowledge of the wizarding world stemmed mostly from a few books I’d read in another lifetime, I genuinely appreciated all the hard-earned lessons they passed down to us.

Their stories included oddly specific—and clearly hard-earned—advice and insights. For instance, to never trust Greenhouse Three after lunch. Apparently, there were Venomous Tentaculas growing in there—whatever those were—pretending to sleep. Back in their third year, a careless boy had gotten too close and ended up with a broken wand due to the plant.

Another valuable lesson they passed down was that it’s possible to enchant your essay to write itself… only you shouldn’t—even with the use of magical artefacts. Apparently, while the enchantments were easy enough to learn, they were also rigged so Professor Flitwick would notice them.

When I asked them whether an original charm could hypothetically bypass Flitwick’s detection, they hesitated before shaking their heads.

Clearly, Hogwarts took magical ethics and academical plagiarism quite seriously.

By the end of our first study group session, I was surprised to find that I didn’t really want it to end yet. Honestly, the study group had been more helpful than some of the actual classes I’d attended this week.

Not that I’d ever admit that to Sandra Marwick. I’d sooner bite my own tongue, in fact.

Sure, I could see why she was popular among the older students—sharp, confident, and relatively humorous—but something about the way she looked at me sent a chill down my spine.

Needless to say, I’d be keeping my distance from her moving forward.

On a different note, Matilda and Thalia seemed to have inched closer to one another—if only marginally so. From the way they spoke, and constantly kept each other at arm’s length, I couldn’t shake the sense that their friction wasn’t just personal. It felt… political.

I wouldn’t be surprised if their families belonged to different factions, for instance.

And then there was our fourth member—Rowena Blight—who had said no more than a dozen words throughout the entire session. Be that as it may, however, she was clearly paying attention, even showing some interest at times, but it was as if speaking would violate some unspoken and arbitrary rule that she’d set for herself.

A deliberately aloof girl, through and through.

No matter. She’d warm up to us eventually—especially since we were now obligated to spend ninety minutes together, twice a week, until the spring semester began.

After the study group ended, everyone scattered—including me and Thalia.

We had a thirty-minute recess until Astronomy Practice with Professor Sinistra started, and I for one was determined to make the most of it.

With my belongings suitably thief-proofed, I now felt confident in dedicating my time to other endeavours.

Settling into my disused classroom—that was recently starting to show signs of use—I decided to begin by cataloguing my current spell repertoire, along with a rough estimate of my proficiency in each spell.

First year spells

The Wand-Lighting Charm (Lumos) – 7 ★

The Wand-Extinguishing Charm (Nox) – 7 ★

The Red Sparks Charm (Vermilious) – 6 ★

The Levitating Charm (Wingardium Leviosa)  – 7 ★

The Knockback Jinx (Flipendo) – 6 ★

Second year spells

The General-Counter Spell (Finite Incantatem) – 3 ★

Fourth year spells

The Alarm Charm (Alarmare) – 2 ★

For simplicity’s sake, I used stars as my proficiency rating system.

One star meant I could cast the spell intentionally, following the incantation and wand movements exactly as outlined in the spellbook instructions.

Two stars meant I could adjust the spell’s matrix slightly—incorporating intent and emotional catalysts alongside standard incantation and wandwork to a lesser degree.

Three stars was largely the same as two, but at this point, I was familiar enough with the spell to begin omitting or modifying certain wand movements without destabilising the ensuing manifestation.

Four-star mastery indicated a high level of control: I could now shorten the incantation, and wand movements were no longer strictly necessary—but often helped stabilise and focus the manifestation.

At five stars, I could cast the spell nonverbally and adapt it freely in real time, shaping its behaviour and form depending on the situation. This is where I reckoned most witches and wizards argued they’d mastered the spell.

Six stars and above was a lot less categorical—more about artistry and feeling than pure spell mechanics. At this point, it was no longer just spellcasting; it was improvisation, innovation, and instinct all mashed together. The difference between five-star proficiency and eight-star proficiency might not be perceivable for a novice, but ten times out of ten, the one with eight-star proficiency would best the one with five-star proficiency.

The reason why the Levitating Charm and the Knockback Jinx had reached such a level was mainly because I’d practiced the core manifestations long before I even held a wand or learned the proper incantations.

In essence, I’d already learned how to cast these spells instinctively, relying purely on emotion and intent.

Thus, it stood to reason that once I added a wand into the equation, my control would sky-rocket as a result.

Did this mean it was better to learn new manifestations using free-form magic rather than wand magic?

Not necessarily.

One had to remember that my proficiency with the Levitating Charm and Knockback Jinx stemmed from nearly seven years of constant trial and error. And even with that much effort, I’d only just reached what I considered a seven-star level.

Conversely, the Red Sparks Charm—which I’d known for less than a week—was already at six stars.

Admittedly, I was a lot more proficient at magic now than I was seven years ago—and also possessed wand to help me facilitate the spell matrix—but the comparison still put things into perspective.

Though the rating system was loosely defined by design, I still reckoned there was plenty of room left for improvement. In fact, I wasn’t entirely convinced there even existed a ceiling.

Surely, someone who’d practiced the Lumos Charm for a century would be better than someone who’d studied the same spell for two decades?

Again, as I jotted down my conjectures, I made sure to note that my findings were entirely subjective in nature. Without broader data at my perusal, all I had to rely on were personal observations and experience—hardly the height of empirical credibility.

Still, finally satisfied, I nodded and tucked the journal into my satchel.

With less than fifteen minutes left of the recess, I began heading back to the dormitory to fetch my telescope. As I walked, I leafed through my Switch’s A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, quickly finding the page Professor McGonagall had assigned for next week’s classes.

It was time to learn my very first Transfiguration spell: the canonical Match-to-Needle Spell.

Though simple on the surface, the more I read through spell’s description, the more I realized it rested upon a remarkably broad theoretical foundation.

One that, I reckoned, would prove useful for years to come—especially so for an aspiring Animagus.

…

“And if you turn your telescope further to the right, winding its way between the Big and Little Dipper, you’ll find Draco, the Dragon constellation. One of the oldest of the twelve zodiacs. See how it coils around the northern pole? Never setting below the horizon? The ancients called it ‘circumpolar,’ forever watching, never resting.”

Professor Sinistra chuckled.

“To this day, some magical cultures believe its position among the stars influences the potency of fire charms—which is nonsense, mostly.”

“Then what does it actually do, Professor?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“A good question—if a bit rushed. But that’s to be expected, considering your age,” Professor Sinistra said, her gaze fixed on the distant constellation.

“Historically, as a circumpolar constellation, the Dragon has been used to time spells and long-form enchantments. However, if you’re asking about its arcane significance, then understand this: the Dragon is first and foremost a symbol of guardianship.”

She folded her hands behind her back.

“For instance, Draconian Moss—a key ingredient in the Silent Vigil potion—can only be harvested on nights when Draco is at its peak. And if memory serves, then the constellation must also be reflected on the potion’s surface during the brewing phase. For finer details about the constellation’s alchemical significance, however, I’m afraid you’ll have to consult Professor Snape directly.”

I nodded, frowning thoughtfully as I looked into my telescope.

“The Dragon, as the astral symbol of guardianship, is also used to strengthen wards around ancestral homes and heirlooms,” Professor Sinistra continued. “The protective enchantments surrounding Hogwarts, for instance, are rumoured to be partially aligned with the constellation’s arc across the northern sky.”

The young professor walked slowly along the row of telescopes, pausing just behind me.

“In ancient times, there even existed a sacred rite known as the Oath of Draco. Unlike the modern Unbreakable Vow, which binds two individuals through a third party, using spoken terms, the Oath of Draco was performed beneath and tied to the constellation itself, during its apex.”

“An interesting fact about the Oath of Draco,” she added, “is that it doesn’t rely on wandwork at all. In fact, wands hadn’t even been invented when this sacred rite was still being practiced. Like most forms of stellar-aligned magic, it’s far more obscure than its modern counterparts. Betraying the Oath didn’t result in death, as with the Unbreakable Vow. Instead, the oath severed your ability to speak of the sworn subject. Forever.”

A few of my classmates squirmed, visibly unsettled by the topic.

“How does it work?” Thalia asked, taking the words from my lips.

Raising an eyebrow, Professor Sinistra looked at my friend.

“To get an answer, you’ll have to ask the ancients, I’m afraid.” Sinistra sighed. “While knowledge of the Oath has been preserved through various mediums—tales, tablets, and some scattered ritual texts—the precise mechanics have long since been lost to time.”

She turned toward the darkened sky, her voice softening.

“But I strongly suspect,” she said, eyes reflecting the stars, “that if you study the constellation long enough, the answer may yet reveal itself again. In time, the Dragon will answer.”

“That’s awfully romantic…” I thought, glancing at my professor—who seemed lost in thought at the moment.

In the corner of my eye, I noticed Thalia staring at me.

“What?” I mouthed.

Snorting, she returned to her telescope.

Suddenly, as if remembering she was still in the middle class, Sinistra coughed into her hand, hiding her embarrassment.

“Ahem—th-that’s it for today, I think.” Sinistra straightened her robes. “Just a reminder—your homework is due on Thursday: a four-inch summary on parchment covering the names, positions, and key characteristics of the twelve main constellations. Bring your notes and texts with you to class.”

And so, under the watchful eyes of the ancient constellations, the first week of my Hogwarts education drew to a close, leaving me with more questions than I’d had when it began.

…

Post-chapter author note: Yeah, so, the first week at Hogwarts was always planned to be quite detailed. But somewhere along the line, it turned into a 58,000 word monstrosity... Honestly, I don't know how people will take it—considering it's hardly fast-paced. With that said, there will be more time-skips moving forward, otherwise, I suspect the "First Year" arc will be thousands of pages long!