The walk to the Charms classroom was a blur of emerald and bronze, as the First-Year Ravenclaws moved in a pack alongside a group of Slytherins. The air in the Charms corridor was light, smelling faintly of toasted marshmallows and old parchment.
Professor Flitwick was exactly as Adrian had described: a tiny man with a shock of white hair who required a literal mountain of books to see over his desk. As he called the roll, Ravenclaws, he was all business.
"Now then," Flitwick squeaked, waving a wand that looked like a conductor's baton. "Charms is a rhythmic art. It requires the heart to be steady and the mind to be clear."
It was the most basic of spells, yet the room was filled with the frantic clicking of wood on stone. Beside Ashlyn, several pureblood students—raised with wands in the house since they were toddlers—achieved a steady white light almost instantly. Alex managed a flickering glow on his second try, grinning like he'd conquered a dragon.
Ashlyn felt a familiar prickle of nerves. She didn't want to fail, but more importantly, she didn't want to dazzle. She had watched Hermione Granger in the Great Hall—the way the girl's hand shot up like a spring, the way she seemed to vibrate with the need for validation.
No, Ashlyn thought. Visibility is a vulnerability.
She performed the "wand-tip" movement with a fluid, understated grace.
"Lumos," she whispered.
The tip of her wand ignited with a soft, moon-white glow—perfectly contained, perfectly stable. Flitwick trotted past, nodding approvingly. "Well done, Miss Carter. Solid work." He didn't linger or make a scene, which was exactly what Ashlyn wanted. She was a Carter; excellence was expected, but being the subject of school-wide gossip was a fate worse than a failing grade.
Transfiguration was a sharper experience. Professor McGonagall's classroom was cold, orderly, and smelled of ozone. The Professor herself sat atop her desk in the form of a tabby cat before shifting back into a woman with a look that could turn a student to stone.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said sternly.
The task was to turn a match into a needle. While the Slytherins around them grumbled, Ashlyn focused on the molecular transition—the hardening of wood into steel. By the end of the hour, her match was silver and sharp, though it still had a faint wooden eye.
Lunch was a welcome relief. The Great Hall smelled of savory steak-and-kidney pies, platters of cold roast beef, and flagons of iced pumpkin juice. Ashlyn sat near the end of the table, far from the Golden Trio's center of gravity.
"I find the hero-worship exhausting, don't you?"
Ashlyn looked up. Lyra Selwyn was sitting across from her, meticulously buttering a roll. The Selwyns were an old pureblood name, but they were known for their "wait and see" approach to wizarding politics—neutral, observant, and fiercely private.
"The boy didn't do anything but survive," Ashlyn replied softly, pouring herself some water. "It was Lily and James Potter who did the heavy lifting. The Boy Who Lived is just a title given to a toddler who was in the right place at the wrong time."
Lyra's eyes sparkled with a rare, genuine smile. "Exactly. I prefer books to biographers. I hear you have an impressive collection of Muggle journals?"
The two girls bonded over a shared disdain for drama and a love for structured logic. They were interrupted, however, by a girl with straggly, waist-length blonde hair and a necklace made of butterbeer corks.
"You have quite a lot of Wrackspurts around your head," the girl said to Ashlyn, her voice dreamy. "It's probably because you're thinking too hard about the needles."
"That's Luna Lovegood," Lyra whispered as the girl drifted away. "She's... eccentric."
"She's honest," Ashlyn corrected, watching Luna go. "There's a strategy in being that strange. No one ever expects you to be a threat."
The afternoon shifted to the damp warmth of the Greenhouses. Professor Sprout, a dumpy little witch with a patched hat, led them into Greenhouse One. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and fertilizer.
They spent the hour repotting Bouncing Bulbs. It was messy, physical work that required Ashlyn to tuck her hair back and ignore the mud on her cuffs. She enjoyed the tangibility of Herbology—the way the plants reacted to the touch.
As the sun began to dip, casting long, skeletal shadows across the grounds, the First-Years made their way down to the Dungeons.
The temperature dropped ten degrees the moment they crossed the threshold. The walls here were damp, and the light came from flickering green lamps suspended from the ceiling. This wasn't the airy heights of Ravenclaw Tower; this was the belly of the beast.
The Potions classroom was lined with glass jars containing floating, pickled remains of things Ashlyn didn't want to name. She felt a genuine knot of dread in her stomach.
The door banged open with a sound like a thunderclap. A tall man in billowing black robes swept into the room, his sallow face set in a mask of cold contempt. Professor Snape didn't speak until he reached the front, his black eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for a rabbit.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he said, his voice a silky whisper that carried to every corner.
Ashlyn gripped her quill. She had heard the stories. Snape didn't just teach potions; he dismantled students. And for the first time that day, Ashlyn felt her carefully constructed "invisibility" might not be enough to protect her.