Late 1938, Hogwarts
Leonard woke early, slipping out of bed and into his morning meditation before quietly dressing. The castle was serene at this hour, with only the faint sounds of distant footsteps.
After a quick bath, Leonard returned to his dormitory and glanced at his schedule—Herbology was first. He gathered his things and made his way to the Ravenclaw common room. The space was calm, just a few students quietly reading or sipping tea as the morning light filtered in. Looking up, he noticed subtle changes in the stars, the way some shone brighter than others, forming faint but deliberate lines. Following these lines, he discovered Roman numerals etched into the pendentives of the dome. A clock.
Immersed in his reading, Leonard was startled when Artie and Philip appeared beside him.
“Morning,” Artie grinned. “Coming to breakfast?”
"Lost track of time," he muttered, quickly gathering his things.
As they made their way through the winding corridors, Leonard asked, “Where are Alistair and Roger?”
“Alistair slipped out early,” Philip shrugged. “Roger? Off with someone from the Sorting, I reckon. Seems to be the chatty type.”
The castle echoed faintly with the sounds of students as they passed towering walls, ancient tapestries, and moving suits of armour.
Artie groaned, “You think we’ll be stuck digging in the dirt all day in Herbology?” Philip smirked. “If we’re lucky. Some say you end up as fertilizer if you’re not careful.” Artie’s eyes widened. “Wait—you’re joking, right?” Philip’s grin didn’t fade, leaving Artie visibly uneasy.
Before anyone could respond, the aroma of breakfast hit them as they entered the Great Hall—eggs, sausages, pastries laid out in abundance. Leonard paused, staring at the spread. It felt unreal, almost excessive compared to what he was used to in Stepney. His thoughts drifted to his sister and Joyce. Were they getting enough to eat?
Philip noticed. “What’s wrong? You barely touched anything.” Leonard forced a smile. “Just... not that hungry, I guess.”
As his gaze wandered over the uneaten food on nearby tables, Leonard asked, “What happens to all this when no one eats it?” Philip, buttering his toast, glanced up. “House-elves take care of it. They handle everything here—cooking, cleaning, you name it.” “House-elves?” Leonard frowned. “What are they? And why don’t we ever see them?” Philip shrugged casually. “They’re magical creatures. Been at Hogwarts for centuries. They prefer staying out of sight, like my mum when she doesn't want me messing up the kitchen.” Leonard’s frown deepened. “Seems strange, doing all that work and no one even notices.” Philip gave another shrug. “That’s just how it is. You get used to it.”
“What about you, does your family have any?” Leonard asked, his curiosity piqued. “Nah. Mostly the old wizarding families have them. Alistair’s probably got a few.”
As they walked to the greenhouse, Artie glanced nervously at Philip. “You were joking about the fertilizer thing, right?” Philip smirked, giving Artie a once-over. “Wouldn’t be much for the plants to feed on, mate.” Artie scowled. “Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?” Philip chuckled. “Relax, Artie. They probably save the dangerous stuff for the older students.”
Inside the greenhouse, warm and humid air filled with the scent of earth surrounded them. Students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw quietly mingled as they waited. Leonard glanced around, noting the neatly lined pots along the central table, each filled with rich, dark soil.
Professor Black soon appeared, tall and severe in her black dress, her sharp gaze sweeping over the students. “Welcome to Herbology. Today, you’ll be introduced to basic magical plants,” she announced. Her tone left no room for anything but full attention.
She waved her wand, and a small plant hovered before them. “This is Fluxweed. It’s used in potions requiring balance, like the Polyjuice Potion.”
A Hufflepuff girl raised her hand, asking how to trim the leaves a slight tremble in her voice. Professor Black’s response was clipped. “If you’d read the material, Miss Cartwright, you’d know to trim at an angle, avoiding the stems. Don’t waste my time with questions you should already have the answer to.”
After introducing a few more plants—Feverfew for fevers and Shrivelfig for Shrinking Solutions—Professor Black instructed the class to begin trimming their Fluxweed plants, warning them not to damage the leaves.
As Leonard worked, carefully trimming the delicate plant, he noticed Roger chatting with another student. Professor Black’s sharp voice cut through the greenhouse. “Mr. Dawlish, perhaps you can enlighten us on the secondary use of Shrivelfig juice?”
Roger stumbled through an incomplete answer, and Professor Black’s gaze hardened. “Ten points from Ravenclaw for your lack of attention. Focus on the lesson.”
The rest of the lesson consisted of Professor Black firing off questions—most straightforward if you’d paid attention, though some required reading ahead. As the session finally ended, her voice cut through the room.
“Before you leave, prepare for the next lesson. We’ll be working with Dittany. Read chapter five and focus on leaf harvesting. I expect better preparation next time. No excuses.”
Outside, Artie spoke up, sarcasm in his voice. “Well, wasn’t she a ray of sunshine? Herbology’s gonna be a real laugh.”
Even Roger, still embarrassed about losing points, smiled. Philip shook his head. “That was definitely something.”
As they waited for Alistair, the group set off toward their next lesson—flying, the conversation naturally drifting toward what lay ahead.
“So, what d’you mean by ‘flown before, but not on a broom?’” Philip asked, glancing at Roger. Alistair looked equally puzzled; his brow furrowed.
“I’ve flown in a plane,” Roger said casually.
“A plane?” Alistair echoed, looking perplexed. “What’s a plane?”
Roger began explaining, though it quickly turned into a muddled attempt. “It’s like... a big metal thing with wings, and it takes off in the air. But not with magic, it’s... well, it’s different.”
Leonard, watching the confusion unfold, stepped in with a slight smile. “A plane’s a Muggle invention. Think of it like a massive bird made of iron, but it flies with engines, not magic. Just another way of traveling.”
Philip raised an eyebrow. “A giant metal bird that flies without magic? Muggles are something else.”
Artie, looking thoughtful, turned to Leonard. “Have you ever flown on one?”
Leonard paused, the thought crossing his mind—not in this life anyway. “No. Flying’s expensive.”
The boys stepped outside into the crisp morning air, the clear blue sky above them. As they approached the flying grounds, Leonard glanced at the Quidditch pitch, still puzzled by the sport’s popularity, especially with the Gryffindors.
Waiting for them was a young man with broad shoulders and keen eyes. “Welcome, everyone,” he called. “I’m Theodoric Flint. Call me Sir, not Professor. I’ll be teaching you how to fly.”
In front of them were rows of brooms. Flint gestured to one on display. “This is a Cleansweep Two. Reliable for teaching but not for racing—yet. Now, before you hop on, understand the basics: balance, control, and safety.”
"Flying is like casting a spell—there’s precision and control involved. Let’s start slow. Each of you, choose a broom."
Leonard picked his broom, nerves bubbling as Flint instructed them to call it up with authority. “UP!” he said, but the broom didn’t budge. Around him, other students succeeded. Frustrated, he tried again, and the broom snapped into his hand with a painful thwack.
Flint offered pointers as he passed by, his tone patient. “Relax. Let the broom respond to you.”
Once everyone had their brooms, Flint demonstrated how to mount, hovering effortlessly a few feet off the ground. “Balance is key. Now, give it a try.”
Leonard mounted his broom, uncomfortable on the hard wood, but managed to find his balance. Following Flint’s instructions, he pushed off the ground, hovering just a few feet up. The sensation was both thrilling and unsettling. Testing the broom, he leaned forward, feeling the wind whip past him as he sped up—until he glanced down.
Panic crept in as the ground seemed farther away, and he quickly levelled off, his chest tight. Maybe this isn’t for me, he thought, more focused on staying steady than enjoying the ride.
Around him, other students took to the air. Artie, in particular, flew with ease, executing sharp turns that caught Flint’s attention. “Well done, Mr. Smith! You’ve got a good feel for it—might want to try out for the team next year.”
As Jonathan Kingsfield hovered unsteadily, Leonard sensed the tension rising. Gripping his broom tightly, still hovering just above the ground, his heart pounded with every shaky turn Jonathan made.
“Watch out!” Flint’s warning came too late.
Jonathan’s broom jerked violently, and in an instant, he lost control. Leonard’s breath caught as Jonathan veered sharply downward, arms flailing. The sickening thud of his body hitting the ground sent a chill through the air. He lay crumpled on the grass, face down.
For a moment, everything froze. Gasps filled the air, some students rushing forward while others stood rooted in shock.
Leonard’s stomach turned. He quickly brought his broom down, his feet hitting the ground hard. His breath came in short bursts. That could’ve been him.
Flint hurried over, kneeling beside Jonathan. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but tense.
Jonathan groaned, barely lifting his head, blood trickling from his mouth. “I’ll take him to the Hospital Wing,” Cassandra Yaxley offered, her voice steady. Flint asked the boy a few more questions before nodding. He gestured to another Ravenclaw to assist Cassandra, and together they helped Jonathan toward the castle.
Leonard stared after them. “You alright?” Philip’s hesitant voice broke through Leonard’s thoughts. Leonard nodded stiffly, though his hands still shook.
Philip tried to reassure him. "It looked worse than it is. Magic will have him back on his feet in no time."
Flint’s voice called out to those still in the air, asking them to come down. Artie, who had been flying effortlessly all lesson, landed beside them, grinning. “Did you see those turns? Looks like I was made for flying!”
Once everyone was grounded, Flint addressed the class, his voice steady but firm. “Now, listen up. Falling is part of learning. Don’t let it scare you. Jonathan will be right on his feet soon enough, and you’ll all have plenty of chances to get better.”
He glanced around, then asked, “So, what did we learn today?” Flint gave a few more tips on balance and control, emphasizing the importance of staying calm during flights. “Remember, flying’s about trust—trust in your broom and trust in yourself.”
As they walked back to the castle, Leonard felt more at ease now that he was back on solid ground. Artie waved goodbye, heading off to his Language and Literacy class. Halfway to Ravenclaw Tower, Philip glanced at Leonard and Alistair.
“So, what do you reckon?” Philip asked. “We could go check on Jonathan, see how he’s doing in the Hospital Wing.”
Along the way to the hospital wing, Philip and Alistair discussed magical creatures they might encounter in future lessons. Portraits either offered helpful advice or deliberately misleading directions, and they caught a glimpse of the Great Staircase shifting mid-step.
When they reached the Hospital Wing, Philip pushed the door open with a flourish. “Let’s see how our fallen comrade is doing.”
Inside, the room was cool and quiet. Madam Hawthorne gestured toward a bed in the back, where they found Jonathan, bruised and missing a tooth, but managing a smile.
“Hey, guys,” he mumbled, wincing. “Guess I’m not cut out to be a flyer.”
Philip grinned. “Think of it as a battle scar—you’ll be fine.”
Alistair quietly nodded. “Glad you’re okay.”
Philip flashed a smile at Leonard as they left the Hospital Wing. “See, I told you—no need to worry about Jonathan. Magic’s got him sorted.” With a quick change of topic, he added, “Since we’re already here, let’s check out a secret passage on the fifth floor.”
Philip explained how his mother had discovered the passage during her own school years. Soon enough, they found the tapestry, depicting three witches around a campfire. “This is it,” Philip whispered. Alistair muttered “Lumos,” casting a soft glow as they slipped behind the tapestry into a narrow, dark passage.
After a short walk, they entered a circular room. The torches flared to life, revealing a faded mural of rolling green hills, its once-vibrant colours now dull and lifeless. Leonard glanced around, taking in the quiet, forgotten space. “So this is the place your mother told you about?” he asked, though the answer was already clear.
“Yeah, but it hasn’t been used in years.”
Shelves lined the walls, filled with old books like Advanced Potion-Making. Tables and chairs, some newer than others, were scattered about. The boys began to explore, flipping through dusty books. Leonard noticed a section of the mural with chipped paint and began scratching at it.
“Need help?” Philip offered.
“Nah, I’ve got it,” Leonard replied, using his shirt to scrub the wall. After a few moments of slow progress, Philip, growing curious, joined him, scraping at the faded paint with the edge of his sleeve. Together, they worked in silence until, slowly, the outline of a figure began to emerge from beneath the layers.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“What is that?” Philip muttered, his voice low, as more of the image came into view.
Leonard’s heart raced as he uncovered a dark-robed figure, its piercing green eyes seeming to watch them from the wall.
“Holy-!” Leonard gasped, stumbling back a step, nearly tripping over a chair.
“Careful!” Philip warned, though his eyes never left the mural. “Who do you think this is?”
Alistair stepped closer, inspecting the figure as it stood half-shrouded in shadows. “It’s eerie, that’s for sure.”
Leonard continued scrubbing, now more determined, until strange runes began to appear beneath the figure. “What do you make of these?” he asked, glancing between Alistair and Philip.
“They’re runes,” Philip said, his expression shifting. “We might’ve scrubbed away a protective ward.”
Leonard frowned. “If it was important, they shouldn’t have covered it with a tapestry.”
Without warning, the wall rumbled beneath their feet, the grinding of stone filling the room. Slowly, it slid open, revealing a narrow, shadowy corridor. Philip’s eyes widened in surprise.
They exchanged glances. Alistair raised his wand, casting a faint glow ahead. “Let’s see where this leads,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the fading sound of shifting stone.
The boys cautiously stepped into the passage, the dim light from Alistair’s wand their only guide. The air was thick with dust, making each breath feel heavy, and their footsteps echoed off the walls, unnervingly loud in the narrow space. Leonard’s heart pounded in his chest, excitement battling with a growing sense of unease, as though the castle itself was watching, aware of their every move.
“Are you sure about this?” Philip muttered from behind. His voice sounded far too loud in the cramped space.
Leonard didn't answer, his attention drawn to a faint glow at the end of the corridor. They reached a small, circular room where the walls were lined with cobweb-covered shelves. An ancient desk stood against one wall, covered in dust, with a single candle flickering.
“Look at this,” he whispered, running his fingers over the surface of the desk. A half-open book lay in the centre, its pages brittle and yellowed. Without thinking, he picked it up, curiosity overpowering his caution.
“What is it?” Alistair asked, stepping closer.
“Just some old book, but look at the writing... it’s like a code,” Leonard murmured, flipping through the brittle pages. The cramped handwriting and strange symbols seemed to dance in the dim light, drawing him deeper into the text.
The sound was distant at first, but quickly grew louder, sending a chill down Leonard’s spine. He snapped his head toward the entrance. The corridor behind them had begun to shift.
The stone walls turned bright red, as if they had been set ablaze from within. The crimson light pulsated, bathing the room in an eerie glow. Suddenly, cold, maniacal laughter filled the space, echoing from the very walls, as though the castle itself had come alive. The sound was sharp, ice-cold, and filled with a kind of malice that made Leonard’s blood run cold.
“Merlin” Philip stammered, his face paling as he backed away from the walls, his wand trembling in his hand.
“That laughter...” Alistair whispered, his voice barely audible over the chilling sound. “It’s coming from everywhere.”
The walls continued to close in, each heavy stone grinding with deliberate menace. The gap leading to the corridor was shrinking faster now, and with every inch it closed, the laughter grew louder, more deranged. It was as though whatever force controlled this place was toying with them, mocking their fear.
“We have to get out of here!” Leonard shouted, his heart pounding in his chest. He shoved the book into his bag, his eyes darting to the narrowing exit.
But the room itself seemed to resist them. The air grew thick and oppressive, pressing down on their lungs. Leonard’s breath came in short gasps as he stumbled toward the corridor, but it felt as though the ground beneath him was tilting, making it harder to move.
“Go! Move!” Alistair yelled, grabbing Philip by the arm and dragging him toward the shrinking gap. The walls were now so close they could feel the heat radiating from the red stone, as though the very air itself had caught fire.
Leonard pushed himself harder, his body screaming in protest as he lunged for the opening. The laughter grew to a fever pitch, a cruel crescendo that seemed to pierce straight into his mind. Just as the gap was about to close entirely, Leonard dove through, his body slamming into the cold stone floor on the other side.
The door slammed shut behind him with a deafening thud. The laughter ceased abruptly, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing and the thudding of Leonard’s heartbeat in his ears.
For a moment, no one moved. Leonard’s hand instinctively tightened around the strap of his bag. The book pressed against his side, its presence a reminder of what they had found—and what had almost trapped them.
“What... what was that?” Philip gasped, leaning heavily against the wall. His face was ghostly pale, eyes wide with lingering terror.
Leonard swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand. “I don’t know... but whatever it was, it didn’t want us in there.”
Philip’s voice rose, “You shouldn’t have touched the mural, Leonard! You—you had no idea what you were doing!”
Leonard, shot back. “Wasn’t this your stupid idea to explore the castle, Philip? That’s what happens when you explore!”
Philip’s face flushed with anger. “Yeah, but you’re the one who started scratching around like some—some Muggle archaeologist, destroying whatever ward was keeping us safe! I didn’t tell you to mess with it!”
Leonard stepped toward Philip, his pulse still racing. “Oh, right, because just standing around looking scared would’ve been better? You didn’t exactly stop me, did you?”
“I didn’t think you’d be this stupid!”
Leonard opened his mouth to retort, but Alistair quickly stepped between them, his arms outstretched to keep them apart.
“Knock it off, both of you!” Alistair said, his voice firm but steady. “We barely got out of there in one piece. You think arguing about it is going to help?”
Leonard glared at Philip, his jaw tight, but he didn’t speak.
“None of us knew what would happen when we went in there, okay? But now we need to stick together. Fighting isn’t going to fix anything.”
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Leonard felt the adrenaline slowly draining from his body, replaced by a cold, gnawing unease.
Philip broke the silence first, glancing uneasily at the book in Leonard’s hand. “So... what do we do with it? We can’t just keep this, right?”
“No way. This is clearly beyond us. We need to give it to a teacher—Professor Merrythought or someone else. We shouldn’t mess around with whatever that was.” Leonard’s tone was firm, the urgency clear in his voice.
Philip nodded, still rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah... this was too close for comfort.”
Alistair, however, hesitated. “I mean, maybe we could... just hold onto it for the weekend? See if we can make sense of it ourselves. It’s not like we have to hand it over right away. We can still give it to Professor Merrythought on Tuesday.”
Leonard blinked, stunned. “Are you serious?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “We were almost crushed to death by glowing red walls, and you want to keep it? Did you forget the maniacal laughter, or are you just ignoring that part?”
Alistair faltered but stood his ground. “Look, I just think there might be something in the book worth understanding. It’s not every day you stumble on something like this.”
Leonard shook his head in disbelief, taking a deep breath. Without another word, he tossed the book toward Alistair, who caught it clumsily, wide-eyed. “Fine,” Leonard muttered, stepping back. “We keep it over the weekend, but not a second longer. And if anything, else like that happens, it’s straight to Merrythought.”
The tension between them was palpable as they made their way back to the castle, the weight of what had just happened hanging in the air. None of them spoke much, each lost in their own thoughts. Leonard couldn’t shake the images from his mind—the echo of that cold, maniacal laughter and the sight of the glowing red walls still fresh and unnerving. Whatever they had stumbled upon was far darker than anything he wanted to be involved in.
They sat down for lunch in the Great Hall, but conversation was sparse. Each of them pushed their food around their plates, barely eating, preoccupied with their own thoughts. Philip occasionally glanced at the others, as if waiting for someone to break the silence, but no one did.
Once the meal was over, they made their way to the Potions classroom. The room was dimly lit, its walls lined with jars of peculiar ingredients, casting odd shadows in the low light. Professor Slughorn, clad in his emerald robes and beaming with his usual warm demeanour, greeted the students as they entered. Leonard noticed Tom Riddle standing apart from the others, isolated, even among his fellow Slytherins.
Slughorn began by explaining the significance of potions, highlighting their ability to heal, enhance, or even alter appearances, such as with Polyjuice Potion. He emphasized the precision required in brewing, noting that too much or too little heat could lead to failure. With a clap, he instructed the class to find partners, reminding them they’d be working together all year. With no other choice, Leonard joined Tom, and Slughorn, with a chuckle, paired them up.
Slughorn introduced their first task—brewing the Wiggenweld Potion, a simple healing potion. As they gathered ingredients and began working, Leonard chopped the Wiggentree bark while Tom handled the stirring, his movements precise, almost mechanical. They worked in silence, following the instructions carefully, adding ingredients one by one.
When it was time to add the Flobberworm mucus, Leonard grabbed the vial, his mind wandering slightly as he prepared to pour it in. Just before he tipped too much into the cauldron, Tom’s hand shot out, gripping Leonard’s wrist firmly. “Careful,” Tom said in a low, cold voice. “Pay attention. You almost ruined it.”
Leonard blinked, momentarily startled by Tom’s cold tone. Instinctively, he started to offer a quick apology but stopped himself. Why should he apologize to him? The thought sharpened his irritation, and his expression hardened. A sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth as he reached for the vial again, gripping it with more force than necessary. With deliberate precision, he added the mucus, his movements steady but laced with defiance.
Tom raised an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on Leonard, but he said nothing. The tension between them was palpable, but they both kept their focus on the potion. After a moment, the mixture finally turned the desired bright green and emitted a pleasant herbal scent, signalling their success. Leonard let out a quiet breath, satisfied, though he didn’t offer any further words to Tom.
Slughorn moved through the classroom, instructing the students to carefully transfer their potions into vials. Leonard and Tom worked in silent coordination, though the undercurrent of tension remained.
One of the Slytherins, eager to finish, reached for a vial with his bare hands to dip it into the potion. Slughorn immediately stopped him. “Never touch a potion before it’s fully settled,” he warned. Slughorn demonstrated how to use a gripper arm to lower the vial into the potion and explained how magic could also be used for more delicate brews. “Remember,” he added, “some potions need time to settle, while others can be used immediately. Always know the properties of what you’re working with.”
As students filled their vials and labelled them, Slughorn reminded the class about proper cauldron cleaning. “Leftover residue can ruin future brews. Take it seriously,” he said, smiling warmly and complimenting their work and promising to test the potions next time.
Leonard rushed out of the Potions classroom, not bothering to wait for Artie or Alistair. His thoughts were consumed by the mysterious book they’d found earlier, the strange runes and eerie laughter echoing in his mind. Distracted, he didn’t notice the Ravenclaw girl in front of him until it was too late.
He collided with her, sending her books tumbling to the floor. Flustered, Leonard quickly bent down to help, his face heating with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, picking up the scattered volumes. He handed them back, his eyes catching the blue ribbon tied neatly into her auburn hair.
The girl smiled. “No harm done,” she said lightly. “I’m Cassandra Yaxley.”
“Leonard Harrington,” he replied as they both stood up, offering a quick smile in return.
With their introductions out of the way, they fell into step together, walking towards their next class in a comfortable, quiet pace.
Their walk took longer than expected, with several staircases shifting just as they were about to step onto them. Thankfully, they arrived just in time. The Charms classroom was a stark contrast to the dim, dungeon-like Potions room. Sunlight poured through tall windows, filling the space with warmth, and the faint scent of parchment and ink replaced the lingering smells of potions.
At the front of the room stood Professor Balthazar Burke, a thin man with sharp, piercing black eyes. His deep red robes stood in stark contrast to his pale complexion, and his hooked nose gave him a hawkish appearance. As Leonard entered, he noticed Alistair tense up slightly, and the thought crossed his mind—was Burke a cousin or uncle of Alistair’s? The resemblance seemed more than coincidental.
Professor Burke’s eyes swept across the room, his cold, calculating gaze seeming to weigh each student as if judging their worth. As Leonard made his way to the back row, he exchanged a polite smile with Cassandra before they parted—she headed to the front. Pure-blood students filled the front rows, the mixed-bloods sat in the middle, and the nervous Muggle-borns lingered at the back. Though no one had explicitly told them where to sit, the pattern was undeniable, and Burke’s approving glance confirmed the arrangement wasn’t accidental.
A Gryffindor girl in the back row, looking uncomfortable, quietly tried to move forward. Burke’s sharp voice cut through the air, startling everyone. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The girl froze, her face paling. “I... I just wanted to sit closer to the front, Professor—.”
Burke’s eyes narrowed with cold disdain. “Did I give any indication that seating was optional, Miss—?”
“Brown, sir,” she answered, her voice trembling.
“Well, Miss Brown, I suggest you learn to follow the unspoken rules of this classroom. If you can’t manage that, you’ll find yourself struggling with the much more challenging task of casting a spell.”
Her face flushed with embarrassment as she slunk back to her seat, the tension in the room thickening as Burke’s gaze lingered on her. Satisfied, he turned back to the rest of the class.
“I am Professor Balthazar Burke,” he announced in a low, commanding voice. His tone, though calm, carried an unmistakable weight. “This is Charms, a subject that requires both discipline and intellect—qualities that I hope, for your sake, you possess.”
He paused, his words hanging in the air before continuing, “Charms are the foundation of all magic. The simplest, yet most fundamental of spells. Without a solid understanding of Charms, you are nothing more than a Squib with a wand.”
Professor Burke began the lesson with a sharp focus on theory. "Before we attempt practical spells, like the Levitation Charm, it’s essential to grasp wand-lore and spell theory." He demonstrated Lumos, the tip of his wand lighting up brightly. "This is the Wand-Lighting Charm, one of the first spells you’ll learn. Nox," he added, extinguishing the light. "These spells teach control—simple, yet foundational."
Pacing slowly, Burke continued, "Magic flows from the wand, but its origins lie in our history. Wizards used crude tools before the modern wand refined by Ollivander’s ancestors." His gaze frequently wandered to the students in the front, nodding approvingly as he discussed the evolution of wands and magical control.
When someone in the back row asked about Lumos's origins, Burke replied curtly, "Perfected in the 18th century, though its use evolved. Its purpose was once practical, but it became more refined through pure-blood ingenuity."
The rest of the lesson remained heavy with theory, focusing on the importance of wand mastery and history.
Outside the classroom, Alistair hesitated before apologizing. “I’m sorry about my uncle. My family’s always been a bit... difficult when it comes to...backgrounds.”
Leonard gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it, Alistair. I don’t hold it against you.”
The boys arrived at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, a large, imposing room in one of the castle’s older towers. As they filed in, Professor Galatea Merrythought stood at the front, her presence commanding yet calm. Her silver hair was tied back, and her blue eyes surveyed the students as they took their seats. The Slytherins and Ravenclaws shared the class, filling the room with a quiet, tense energy.
"Good afternoon," she began, her voice measured. "Today, we begin our study of the Dark Arts—a complex and dangerous subject." She paused, letting the words sink in before asking, "Who here can tell me what the Dark Arts truly are?"
A Slytherin girl spoke confidently. "Spells and curses used to harm or control others."
"Yes, but the Dark Arts are not limited to just curses," Merrythought said. She prompted the class further, leading them through a discussion on dark creatures, manipulative magic, and the pursuit of power. Tom Riddle’s calm explanation about the nature of control in the Dark Arts earned him a slight smile from the professor, but Leonard’s remark on the inherent destruction in dark magic brought a thoughtful nod.
"Exactly, Mr. Harrington. The Dark Arts are a force of chaos, often pursued without regard for the consequences," she added, emphasizing the destructive nature of the magic they were studying.
Merrythought continued, holding up a cursed necklace. "Is this Dark Magic?" The class murmured agreement. She then posed a more challenging question about the Stunning Spell—could it be dark if misused? The students hesitated, unsure, as she pushed them to think critically about intent and consequences.
She then explained how creatures like Boggarts, though neutral, could be used for dark purposes depending on the wizard’s intent. Tom Riddle once again chimed in, reinforcing this point, and the class continued with an in-depth discussion on the fine line between light and dark magic.
As the lesson drew to a close, Professor Merrythought assigned them a reading from Magical Defence: Theory and Practice and asked for a reflection essay on the blurred lines between dark and defensive magic.
His mind drifted back to the book they had uncovered earlier. The thought of it still hidden somewhere in their room made him uneasy. He wasn’t sure where Alistair had stashed it, but the memory of the runes and the eerie laughter gnawed at him. There was an unspoken decision among the boys to keep the discovery to themselves, at least for now.
After dinner, Leonard decided to go for a run around the castle grounds. The cool evening air was a welcome change, clearing his mind as he weaved through the quiet courtyards and paths, taking in the towering walls and the distant flicker of torches. The rhythmic pounding of his feet on the stone helped him process everything—the unsettling day, the book, the tension with Tom. Though it earned him strange glances from other students, Leonard cared little about that. Running gave him a sense of control, something solid to hold onto.
Later that night, back in the dormitory, Leonard tried casting his first spells in the dim light. Lumos, he whispered, focusing intently on his wand. A faint flicker sparked at the tip, but it quickly faded. He sighed, frustrated.
Determined, he tried again. Lumos... Nox. Each attempt was weak, nowhere near the steady light Alistair had produced. Still, Leonard wasn’t ready to give up. He’d get it right eventually.