Nothing went bump in the night.
Alice didn't sneak out with her newly juiced-up Soul Banner. Instead, she stayed in, digging through the old man's jumbled alchemy memories.
After the banner "processed" him, the info was a hot mess—notes scattered like a tornado hit a library.
It took hours just to sort the basics. By the end, she was wiped. She crashed hard and woke up yawning like a cat.
Her dorm mates clocked the bags under her eyes. Didn't she crash earliest?
Alice flashed them a polite smile. Roommates, right? No need to start beef—school's more fun with allies.
Pansy and Millicent both reached out as Alice headed for the door, then froze, lips parted.
Alice paused. "Something I should know?"
The girls swapped looks. Millicent finally blurted, "Just… watch your back."
Got it. Step outside, and the Slytherin common-room welcome wagon—aka daily dose of "pranks"—would be waiting.
Pranks?
Alice's lip curled.
Sure, call it that.
If this landed on any other first-year, it'd be a suicide spiral, not a joke.
Wand in hand, she shoved the door open.
A swarm of twenty snarling black bats dive-bombed her face.
Alice flicked her wand, muttered the spell—nearest teacup morphed into a tidy shield. Clang. Bats splattered against it and poofed into smoke.
Illusions. Cute. They wanted a scare, not blood.
The cup reverted. Alice twirled it by the handle, cool as ice, and stared down the stunned upperclassmen.
They hadn't expected a first-year to pull clean transfiguration like that.
Her gaze locked on the ringleader—big, rough-faced, buck-toothed. Marcus Flint, Slytherin Quidditch captain.
Way worse than Draco, Goyle, or Crabbe.
First, the guy was built like a linebacker—her go-to "punch in the face" wouldn't dent him.
Second, he had zero chill about hitting a first-year. Rules? Honor? Please.
Third, he kept the whole team in line. Brains behind the brawn.
Alice's flat stare made the lackeys squirm. They tugged Flint away.
It was just a "prank," after all. Even they weren't dumb enough to throw real punches in the common room—Dumbledore would rain hell.
Alice let them go. She wasn't ready to block Flint's exit yet.
Eyes slid off her. Conversation died whenever she passed the leather couches and silver-green lamps.
The common room wasn't some dungeon cliché. Torches flickered, lake light shimmered through windows—giant squid, grindylows, merpeople gliding past. Cliques laughed, swapped gossip, traded secrets.
Until Alice got close. Then silence, side-eye, until she moved on.
Same house, different planet. Pure-blood pride ran deep.
Millicent, fresh from the dorm, watched Alice walk alone and started after her.
Pansy yanked her back. Millicent's eyes asked why?
Pansy nodded at the room.
Upperclassmen either ignored the drama, watched cold, or glared at Alice's back like Flint.
First-years noticed—but copied the hate or the shrugs.
Pansy whispered, "Draco says Slytherin's had half-bloods before. Even him and the Head of House aren't pure pure."
"But every half-blood who survives here buys into the pure-blood gospel. Otherwise, they're toast."
"Alice Norton? She scoffs at the whole thing. Everyone sees it."
"That's why she can't take two steps without tripping over hate."
"She's good—scary good. But the older kids don't want a genius who won't salute the flag."
"Let her bow to pure-blood supremacy, and the whole house will carry her on their shoulders."
Millicent was quiet a long beat. Then: "If she turns pure-blood stan, will she still have that lone-wolf vibe?"
"Will she still be her?"
Millicent patted Pansy's shoulder, said nothing, and headed back to the dorm.
Pansy watched the room slide back to elegant, cold, secretive normal—no Alice, no tension.
She didn't know who was right—Flint's crew or Alice.
She just knew those skinny eleven-year-old shoulders would probably end up molded into classic Slytherin shape.
The house always wins. It doesn't bend for one girl.
Alice had no clue about the debate. She was hunting someone she'd been eyeballing for weeks.
Not a someone—a something.
The Bloody Baron.