The damp, echoing tiles of the second-floor girls' lavatory didn't yield the "breathing stone." Instead, Ashlyn's compass spun in useless, dizzying circles. She realized with a prickle of annoyance that she had misjudged the ley-line intersection by several degrees—the "pulse" wasn't in the plumbing, but likely in the masonry of the floor above.
As Moaning Myrtle's rhythmic wailing began to vibrate through the pipes, a sudden, sharp memory from her knowledge of this world's future flashed in Ashlyn's mind. In just a few days' time, this very room would become a makeshift laboratory for Polyjuice Potion, a den of rule-breaking and brewing cauldrons.
"Out. Now," Ashlyn whispered, grabbing Lyra and Sophie by their elbows. "The magical residue here is... volatile." And internally whispered "And frankly, I'd rather not be present when a Basilisk decides the plumbing is its personal highway."
"A what?" Sophie squeaked, stumbling as they hurried into the corridor.
"Just a hunch," Ashlyn muttered, her eyes darting to the floor vents. "Tactical retreat. We rethink the map tonight."
Thursday afternoon brought a different kind of challenge: the Quidditch Pitch. It was a sprawling, oval expanse of emerald green, framed by towering spectator stands that seemed to touch the clouds. To Ashlyn, it looked less like a sporting arena and more like a very long drop.
Madam Hooch, with her hawk-like yellow eyes and spiky grey hair, stood in the center of twenty pristine school brooms. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Step up to the left side of your broom, stick your right hand over the handle, and say 'UP!'"
For Ashlyn, the sensation wasn't entirely foreign. Back home, she and her brothers had frequently "borrowed" their eldest brother's racing broom. Under the frantic, high-pitched supervision of Mipsy, the family house-elf—who spent the entire time hovering on a footstool ready to catch them—Ashlyn had mastered the basics.
But knowing how to hover didn't mean she enjoyed it.
"Up!" Alex's voice rang out with pure, unadulterated joy. His broom smacked into his palm instantly. He looked at the wood and bristles as if he were holding a legendary sword. Alex didn't just want to fly; he wanted to own the sky, his eyes already drifting toward the tall golden hoops at the end of the pitch.
Ashlyn's broom rolled over lazily before finally snapping into her hand.
"It is a logical necessity," she told herself, her knuckles white as she mounted the handle. "A strategist must have mobility. If I cannot fly, I am cornered."
When they took off, the world blurred. The wind was a cold, biting hand against her face. To Alex, it was freedom—he soared, banking into a sharp turn that earned a rare nod of approval from Hooch. To Ashlyn, it was a constant calculation of gravity versus F = ma.
Despite the magic hum beneath her, her "previous" soul remembered the frailty of a human body falling from fifty feet. Every gust of wind felt like a threat to her equilibrium. She stayed low, her movements stiff and precise, learning the skill with the grim determination of someone practicing a necessary evil.
Evening Shadows in the Great Hall
By the time dinner arrived, the Great Hall was a sea of flickering candles and the heavy scent of roast beef and gravy. Ashlyn sat quietly, her legs aching from the tension of gripping a broomstick for two hours.
The table was boisterous Alex was animatedly reenacting a "Wronski Feint" with a bread roll. Lyra was complaining about the grass stains on her robes. The Overhead Enchantment showed a stormy purple sky, reflecting Ashlyn's own internal fatigue.
As she pulled a scroll toward her to start her Transfiguration essay, a wave of sudden, sharp homesickness hit her. She missed the quiet of her own room, the smell of Mipsy's cinnamon tea, and the safety of a floor that didn't move.
The castle was grand, the mysteries were deep, and her mission was vital—but as she watched the owls begin to swoop in with the evening post, she realized that being a tactical genius didn't make the stone walls feel any less cold.
"Homework already?" Alex asked, his face flushed with lingering excitement.
"The stones won't map themselves, Alex," Ashlyn replied, her voice soft but steady. She dipped her quill into the ink, the scratch of parchment grounding her. "And tomorrow, I plan to be much further than three floors away from a haunted toilet."