The climb to the Ravenclaw Tower was conducted in a heavy, contemplative silence that usually only preceded final exams. Behind them, the screeching of Argus Filch faded, replaced by the rhythmic thud-thud of hundreds of boots on stone.
Once the bronze eagle knocked and allowed them entry, the common room didn't feel like its usual airy sanctuary. The blue silk hangings seemed darker, and the marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw looked particularly cold.
"Barnaby?" Addam called out softly as they collapsed into the velvet armchairs near the fire.
With a quiet pop, the house-elf appeared, looking unusually frazzled, his tea towel slightly crooked. "Tea, Master Addam? The castle... the castle is feeling very unwell tonight."
"Tea for everyone, Barnaby. Strong," Addam commanded, rubbing his temples.
As the steam rose from the porcelain cups, the conversation inevitably turned to the writing on the wall.
"'Enemies of the Heir,'" Lyra Selwyn whispered, her pale face ghost-like in the firelight. "That's... that's pureblood rhetoric. My father talks about 'heritage' all the time, but usually over expensive wine, not written in blood on a wall."
Ashlyn took a slow sip of her tea, her mind spinning like a well-oiled kinetic sculpture.
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
The Selwyns. Purebloods. Lyra is technically 'safe' by the Heir's twisted standards. And us? The Carter line—pureblood as they come. Alex, Addam, and I are tucked neatly into the protected category. We're as safe as anyone can be in a castle with a giant serpent in the plumbing. She glanced at Alex, who was staring into the fire, and then at Addam, who looked more annoyed than scared.
Sarcasm aside, 'safe' is a relative term at Hogwarts. My family isn't in the books. We aren't the Malfoys, the Weasleys, or the Longbottoms. We're secondary characters—background noise in the grand symphony of Harry Potter's life. Voldemort doesn't care about us, and the plot shouldn't touch us... as long as we stay in the shadows.
Her eyes drifted to Sophie, who was clutching her tea so hard her knuckles were white. Sophie was Muggle-born. In the narrative Ashlyn remembered, Sophie didn't even have a name. Here, she was a friend who shared her snacks and helped with Transfiguration.
"It's probably just a prank," Sophie said, her voice trembling. "A really, really dark prank by some older Slytherins, right?"
"Pranks don't petrify cats, Soph," Alex said grimly.
Ashlyn felt a sharp, icy spike of genuine fear pierce through her clinical detachment. She looked up at the older students and saw Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw Prefect, talking urgently to some fifth years.
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
Wait. Penelope. She's on the list. She's one of the ones who gets hit later in the year. If she's at risk, and she's a Ravenclaw... then the 'background character' shield isn't as thick as I thought.
Ashlyn set her tea down with a deliberate clatter. She needed to warn them without sounding like a lunatic who could see the future.
"We need to be smart," Ashlyn said, her voice projecting a calm she didn't entirely feel. "Regardless of who the 'Heir' is targeting, a predator doesn't always check your family tree before it strikes. We move in groups. No one goes to the library or the owlery alone. Not even you, Addam."
Addam looked like he wanted to argue, but the look in Ashlyn's eyes stopped him. "The First Year is right. Safety in numbers."
"And Sophie," Ashlyn added, leaning toward her friend. "Stay under the radar. Don't go looking for the 'why' behind this. Let the teachers—and Potter—handle the mystery. We are Ravenclaws; our job is to stay informed, not to be targets. Precision and caution, remember?"
Ashlyn's Inner Monologue:
I have to keep them out of the main plot. If we don't interfere with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, the story should play out exactly as written. The Basilisk will be killed, the petrified will be woken, and we will survive. A precaution is never wasteful, even if the script says we're supposed to be fine.
"Alex," she nudged her twin. "That means no 'heroic' wandering. You stay with me or Addam. Always."
Alex nodded, looking sobered. "Yeah. Okay, Ash. No solo flights."
Ashlyn leaned back, watching the blue flames. She was a spectator, yes. But the stadium was starting to feel very, very small.