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Chapter Text

Reader’s Guide to Ashes of Moonlight

Warnings & Content Notes

• Darker themes (blood prejudice, manipulation, poisoning)
• Investigative mystery with suspense and occasional disturbing imagery
• Emotional tension
• Occasional swearing

Tropes You’ll Find Here

• Enemies-to-Reluctant-Partners-to-Something-More
• Protective Sirius / Reckless Female Lead
• Love Triangles (sort of)
• Transfer Student POV (Mahoutokoro → Hogwarts)
• Slow Burn (painfully so)
• Mystery/Investigation at Hogwarts (clues, secret codes, suspects)

What to Expect

• Mystery/investigation with a touch of romance and slice-of-life
• Sirius Black written as his chaotic self, protective, and above all… a teenager who was still trying to shape his identity
• An original female lead who’s logical, stubborn, and reckless in pursuit of the truth
• A balance of canon characters & original threads (I would expand/build on things as the story progresses)
• Eventual romance, and... *cough* smut

What You Won’t Find

• Smut without plot
• Sugar-sweet fluff (though there is quiet softness in the cracks)
• Romance without buildup (my buildup is slow)

If you decide to give it a read, I hope you’ll enjoy wandering these darker, quieter corners of Hogwarts with me!

-AKZ

Chapter Text

Remember, Chaerin. White clothes are the clothes of the dead.

She should have remembered it. Her mother once said it to her when she asked why there was a little girl wandering alone at the graveyard wearing a white hanbok. A Suui – burial clothes – were supposed to be the last thing you wore when alive. And yet this little girl was still alive. She was running and giggling and looking at Chaerin with her big bright eyes. All while wearing burial clothes. 

She seemed to be Chaerin’s age, maybe a little bit younger. Perhaps they could be friends? Chaerin asked her mother if she could play with the little girl. But her mother only held her hand tightly and put a finger to her lips.

“White clothes are the clothes of the dead,” she said. Her lips pressed thin, her expression hard as stone.

Chaerin was confused. Her mother’s words lingered, uncertain. She wanted to ask more, but her mother shook her head and tightened her grip on her little hand.

“We’re going home,” she said, pulling Chaerin along. She didn’t mention anything about the little girl in white. Her eyes clearly weren’t looking at that little girl either. Chaerin wanted to protest, to linger with the girl, maybe get to know her. After all, that girl had looked lonely, just like her. But her mother gave her hand another pull, and Chaerin reluctantly agreed. They never spoke again about the little girl. And Chaerin knew not to ask.

Today, though, she seemed to have forgotten.

It was nighttime, and Chaerin stood by the banks of the river. The silvery-white moonlight had made everything look solemn, magical. Almost like this was a place that existed out of her reality.

And there, standing in the shallows of the river, the ripples lapping softly at her ankles, Chaerin saw her.

She was a little girl around Chaerin’s age, clad in a white hanbok. Her face was pale, faintly luminous, as though the moon itself had shaped her. It was a stark contrast to her large, dark eyes. A pair of beautiful eyes that didn’t reflect the moonlight. As she raised her arm to beckon slightly to Chaerin, the fabric of her sleeves trailed behind her in a dreamy-like manner.

“Hey  –  where do you come from?” the girl in white asked.

Chaerin regarded the little girl in white with curiosity as the girl made her way across the river toward her. Her movement was smooth, almost as if she glided. But Chaerin wasn’t paying attention to that. She should have seen all the wrongness back then – how the fabric trailing behind the girl was never dampened by the river or how the water’s reflection showed nothing at all. Yet for little Chaerin  –  who grew up between the world of spirit and matter, of magical and non-magical, of living and dead - this was just one of the things she occasionally witnessed. To her, this was nothing strange.

The girl stopped in the waters right in front of Chaerin. Her lips curved into something not quite a smile. Chaerin tilted her head, observing her a little more. She was strange, otherworldly, like a painting that had stepped out of its frame. Too still, too quiet. Yet she did not look frightening. She only looked… lonely.

And Chaerin knew that feeling too well.

“I come from beyond the mountain,” Chaerin answered, her voice small in the heavy silence.

Now it was the girl in white’s turn to tilt her head. Her large, bottomless eyes fixed on Chaerin.

“That’s a long way from home,” she remarked, her expression unreadable.

Chaerin shrugged. “I don’t really care. None of the village kids want to play with me. They say I’m the daughter of a witch,” she said. “Their parents told them to stay away from me.”

For a moment, the mist thickened. It curled toward the girl like smoke to a flame. The river, though Chaerin could still hear its gurgling sound, seemed to have stilled. Even the air seemed to hold its breath

Then the pale girl raised her hand, sleeve trailing like a shroud. “I want to be friends with you.” Her voice was soft, almost like a plea. “Do you want to come visit my house?”

Chaerin’s gaze flicked to that outstretched hand. Her heart beat faster. Perhaps it was fear, but perhaps… it was anticipation.

“It’s not that far from here,” said the girl in white again. Chaerin’s fingers twitched to move — she was about to grab that outstretched hand, and then…

Chaerin awoke with a start.

The rattle of train wheels filled her ears. Steam hissed somewhere distant. She blinked against the window, disoriented, the image of the pale girl’s face still lingered in her mind.

It was that dream again. Always that same river. Always that same girl.

She exhaled, steadying herself. You’re okay, she told herself as she inhaled deeply. You’re not near the river. You’re not near the water.

After a few moments of inhaling and exhaling slowly, Chaerin finally collected herself. She must have drifted to sleep, consumed by fatigue after nights of endless worrying about her transfer to Hogwarts.

Hogwarts. A name that still sounded distant and strange to her, but the rattle of wheels on iron constantly reminded her of where she was: aboard the Hogwarts Express, carrying her north through an unfamiliar country. She shifted against the worn velvet seat, wondering how many students had sat here before her. Hundreds of years of Hogwarts history  –  probably more students than she could have counted. And she would become a part of them soon. She still didn’t know how to feel about that. Tentatively, she turned her gaze outward.

Outside her window, the Scottish Highlands unfurled in wild grandeur. The land rose and fell in dark, sweeping ridges, peaks jagged against a sky the color of slate. Valleys opened into lonely stretches of moor, carpeted with heather and gorse, their muted purples and yellows standing out against the gray. A thin mist clung to the slopes, softening the edges of the mountains so they seemed to breathe. Occasionally loches would appear, black and smooth as glass, reflecting nothing but cloud. Sheep dotted the hillsides like pale stones, but no villages, no farmhouses broke the emptiness. It was a land both vast and secretive, older than the history of humans itself.

She drew back with a small sigh and sank against the back rest. Scotland. It was beautiful and desolate, in a way it reminded her of her hometown in Jeju Island, Korea – where folklores were very much alive, shamans and the Dragon King were worshipped by the fishermen, and spirits dwell among the people. It was beautiful, yet lonely – full of stretches of empty wilderness that could easily make people disappear among the mist.

Just then, as though to keep her from thinking too much about home and the world she left behind, the compartment door slid open with a soft clatter. Standing there was a red-haired girl with bright green eyes, flanked by two others: a fair-haired girl with a self-assured stride and a dark-haired one already mid-protest.

“Would you mind if we sit here?” the red-haired girl asked. “We had to move out of our last compartment because of… an incident.”

Chaerin blinked, startled out of her thoughts, then gestured to the empty seats. “Be my guest.”

“Thank-you. That was nice of you,” said the redhead. The three girls piled in gratefully, dropping their trunks and perching on the benches.

“First of all, it wasn’t that dreadful,” the dark-haired one said at once when they sat down, folding her arms.

“Oh, don’t start,” the fair-haired girl shot back, rolling her eyes. “You singed the seat, Mary. The whole place stank of smoke.”

“Marlene Mckinnon! Don’t you make a habit to exaggerate everything. It was a scorch mark, nothing more!” the girl called Mary replied hotly to the fair-haired girl, her cheeks pink. “Besides, it nearly worked.”

The redhead laughed as she sat down. “Mary, you were meant to curl your hair. Not set fire to the upholstery.”

Mary groaned. “The curls did come in, Lily! For ten minutes, anyway. Then they dropped again, just like always. So I thought I’d charm them to stay. How was I meant to know it’d go straight through the cushion?”

“You were trying to make it permanent,” Marlene said flatly.

“Yes, well, curlers don’t last. By dinner time it’s flat as a board again. This way I’d have woken up curly every day.”

“Or woken up bald,” Marlene muttered. “I’d suggest you practice a few more times before trying it directly on your hair… Wouldn’t want a hospital visit and having to explain to Madam Pomfrey that you singed your hair trying to do permanent curls, would you?”

Lily snorted, covering her grin with her hand. “That would be hilarious.”

Mary flicked her hair over her shoulder with a huff, though her lips twitched at the corner. “I’ll get it right next time.”

Their laughter carried on as the train clattered north, voices echoing warmly around the compartment. Only then did the girls seem to notice the stillness in the corner. A quiet presence sat by the window: a girl with long, straight black hair that cascaded down her back, framing her oval face with high cheekbones and defined jawline. Her skin was pale against the dark fabric of her clothes. Her dark eyes held a piercing gaze, though just now they lingered on the passing landscape rather than the girls’ conversation. Her features were fine and composed, almost intimidating in her silence, but there was a quiet elegance about the way she carried herself. She looked watchful, as though she belonged more to her own thoughts than to the world around her.

Lily glanced over, her smile softening with curiosity. “I’m sorry if we are too loud,” she started. “Hope we weren’t bothering you too much.”

Chaerin, realizing that Lily was addressing her, quickly tuned in to focus and shook her head.

“Not at all,” she said. Now Mary and Marlene also turned to look at her with curiosity.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” Lily continued. “ What’s your name? And… what year are you in? You don’t look like a first year.”

“I’m -” Chaerin was about to answer, but before she could speak, the compartment was filled with the crackle of a magically-amplified voice.

“We will shortly be arriving at Hogwarts. All students are reminded to change into their school robes before arrival. I repeat….”

As soon as they heard the announcement, the three girls immediately began rummaging in their trunks for their uniforms, their chatter resuming in bursts as they pulled out folded bundles of fabric. Chaerin drew in a breath, reached for her own trunk, and pulled free her robes. They shimmered faintly in the dim carriage light as she slipped them on: silk the color of gold, the Mahoutokoro crest in jade catching the light.

The chatter around her stilled.

“What house is that?” Mary asked at last, her eyes wide. “I’ve never seen robes like those.”

“Nor have I,” Marlene added, tilting her head, intrigued. “Don’t think it belongs to any of the houses.”

Lily leaned forward, her gaze caught on the sheen of the fabric. “Where did you get them?”

Chaerin fastened the clasp at her chest and smoothed the sleeves before answering, her voice calm. “They’re not Hogwarts robes. I’m not originally from here. I…,” Chaerin paused, looking at the curious eyes placing her under scrutinizing gaze. Mary’s mouth gaped slightly, while Marlene and Lily were just completely taken aback. Chaerin quickly realized she’s going to have to get used to this once she had attended Hogwarts full time. After a deep breath, she finally continued.

“I come from Mahoutokoro.”

It is important to start all stories from the beginning, so before we go further into Chaerin’s story, let us all go back to the beginning of her journey. It all began in London, this morning, before Chaerin boarded the train that took her to Hogwarts. Today was September 1st 1975. She was standing at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, where her family had said goodbye to her. She could still feel the thick steam in the air, the acrid smell of iron, oil, and coal on her nose. Her parents stood close on either side of her, each so different in the way they let her go.

“Chaerin,” her mother had said in her usual crisp, steady voice, “I’m glad you finally took the chance to learn more about your British roots after settling down in Korea for so long. Grandmother Emery would have been proud.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Chaerin. “I would be sure to write to her once I arrive at Hogwarts.”

“She probably still resents me for throwing away my life in Britain and the family tradition of potion-making to pursue my dream,” her mother sighed, looking mellow. “Especially after I decided to get married and settle in Jeju and not come back to Britain. But you… are different,” she paused, looking closely at her daughter. “She would be glad to welcome you back to the Carrow home.”

Chaerin nodded. “I will, Mother.” Her mother put her hands on both sides of her daughter’s shoulders, her soft gaze suddenly changing into something sharper, more focused.

“Remember, Chaerin,” she spoke with more determination in her voice now, “it is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be awarded the Laurea Arcanum Scholarship.” Chaerin blushed a little at her mother’s words but said nothing. Her mother had said it briskly, but there was pride in her eyes beneath the discipline. “You’ve worked hard for it, I know. But you must also remember that this is only the beginning. It is an honor to be given one, and a responsibility to prove that you are worthy of such honor.”

Her mother’s words sank into her chest like a stone, but she forced herself to meet that sharp gaze and bowed her head. “I won’t disappoint you, Mother. I promise to continue working hard.”

Her mother looked satisfied.

Her father, meanwhile, sighed heavily. His hand rested on Chaerin’s shoulder. His reluctance to let her go was obvious. “First Mahoutokoro, and now Hogwarts… each time, farther away. Must I always send you to the ends of the earth?” His smile was fond but sad. “Your mother sees only the honor and the opportunity. I… only see the empty seat at our table.”

Chaerin forced a smile, though her heart throbbed painfully. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll write often, Father. Every week.”

“Every few days,” he corrected softly, brushing her hair back with longing. “Look at you, Chaerin-ah. My little girl is all grown up now.”

Chaerin felt as though she was about to tear up. But of course, right then her younger brother piped up, ruining the moment. “I bet she’ll write home in the first week anyway - because she’ll forget something important.”

Chaerin turned and shoved him playfully. “Jinu-ya. Don’t be mean to me now. You won’t have anyone left to tease while I’m gone.”

“I know,” her brother pouted. “It’s not fair! Why do you get to go? Why only you?”

Her mother cut him short with a sharp look. “Because she worked harder than you. If you’d studied half as much instead of wasting your time blowing things up, perhaps you too would have secured the scholarship. Remember that your Mahoutokoro robe is still pink. Hers turned golden by the end of her fourth year. Don’t blame her for your laziness.”

Jinu’s cheeks burned red, but he said nothing more.

Then the train whistle screamed, long and shrill. Steam billowed across the platform, tugging the moment away. Chaerin clutched her trunk and tried to move her feet. She wasn’t ready for this moment - she felt as though she would never be ready. As Chaerin reached the steps, her mother called suddenly, “I’ll send sweets from home,” her voice carried over the din of students. “Yakgwa, and dried persimmons. Make sure you eat well and don’t feel homesick.”

Chaerin looked back, throat aching. She managed a small smile and lifted her hand in a wave.

Her father lifted his in return, though his eyes glistened with tears. Her brother scowled and kicked the ground, but he watched her all the same. Her mother tried to keep her composure, though Chaerin could see it’s beginning to crack.

Then the train lurched, wheels ground against the rails. Slowly, the platform slipped away. Chaerin pressed her palm against the glass, keeping their faces in sight, etching the last memories of her home for as long as she could. The steam blurred them, the distance stretched, and then the train rounded a corner. Then, in a blink, they were gone.

The Great Hall was nothing like Mahoutokoro.

At her old school, the feasts had never been held in a cavernous hall. Instead, students gathered in a wide chamber of polished volcanic stone, its floor dark and gleaming like still water. Low wooden tables and benches were scattered without order, and students would sit wherever they pleased. Lanterns of jade and gold glowed softly above, their lights soft and warm, gleaming off the edges of the volcanic stone floors until they glowed like the surface of a still water. The sea breeze slipped through open windows, carrying with it the smell of salt, mixed with incense. For Chaerin, it was the smell of home.

Here at Hogwarts, the lights came from thousands of candles hovering overhead. Their glows were warm in hue, yet to Chaerin they felt strange and cold. The enchanted ceiling stretched above their heads, a brilliant replica of the sky outside. It would have been magnificent during good weather, but the weather tonight was unfriendly – the stars and moon hidden behind dark clouds. Beneath it stretched the four long tables, each representing the houses, filled with noises and chatters of strangers.

Chaerin had stood alone at the entrance to the Great Hall, a little apart from the cluster of eleven-year-olds waiting to be Sorted. She did not hate it, she told herself. There was wonder in the enchanted ceiling, and no doubt the grounds beyond as well – she’d glimpsed the vast black mirror of the lake from the boats – it would look magnificent come morning. But just now, that lake was nothing but shadow, its surface swallowing the torchlight whole. The sight of it had made her shiver, echoing too closely the dream that had haunted her for years: the river under the moonlight, the girl in white, and the hand outstretched.

She had crossed that lake in silence with the first-years, the boat rocking gently underfoot. Their chatter had washed around her, curious but unspoken, and she had stared fixedly at the looming silhouette of the castle until they docked. Once they entered the great wooden doors, a tall witch with greying hair had been waiting, her tartan robes snapping in the night breeze. Stern eyes behind square spectacles had swept over the students – pausing, sharp, when they finally reached Chaerin.

“You must be Miss Yi Chaerin,” the witch said, her gaze fixed at Chaerin’s Mahoutokoro robes.  For a while, her stern expression broke into something like a smile. “What a long journey it must have been for you. Please come this way.” The professor then drew Chaerin aside from the gaggle of first-years. “My name is McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress. Welcome to Hogwarts.” Her voice carried an air of precision, every word clipped but not unkind. Then, more softly, she added after patting Chaerin on the shoulder. “Congratulations on the Laurea Arcanum. It is a rare honor.”

The words, spoken so matter-of-factly, had settled like a stone in Chaerin’s chest. Rare. An honor. It was exactly as her mother had told her. It had all felt pretty distant until this moment, but it was slowly and surely becoming more real as she stepped into her new reality.

“You will wait here until your name is called,” the professor said again. Chaerin nodded, watching as the professor went off toward the cluster of the first-years. After giving a brief announcement to the curious group of first-years, she entered the Great Hall, announcing that the Sorting Ceremony was about to begin.

The Sorting. Chaerin knew about it, of course. She’d read it in Hogwarts: A History before she decided to transfer here. And she had found it to be one of the most iconic things about Hogwarts.

At Mahoutokoro, there had been no Sorting. The professors believed that the students’ characters could be shaped: sharpened by study, tempered by discipline, and polished by failures and triumphs alike. The only measurable thing in Mahoutokoro was progress – and students were marked by their achievements. Their robes would slowly change in color as the students mastered their crafts - from pale pink the moment the students entered, to crimson as they gradually learned things, and then golden hue – which signaled the greatest achievements.

But Hogwarts had believed first and foremost in the students’ characters. They had carried the philosophies of the four Founders for hundreds of years - each believing that what lay at the core of a witch or wizard will determine their paths, and that the right house will bring you to glory. Here, they placed a young witch or wizard where their truest self might burn brightest, trusting that foundation to guide everything that followed.

Chaerin found herself intrigued by this timeless tradition. And she wondered, almost despite herself – if the four Founders still walked the earth today, whose gaze would linger on her?

Chaerin drifted back to the present when she heard the doors to the Great Hall opened. She saw the first-years being ushered inside, their shoes scraping lightly against the flagstones as they shuffled into line. From within came the sound of hundreds of voices, bright and overlapping, carrying up into the arches above. Chaerin could feel her throat went dry. This is it, she thought.

This was no longer a thought she could hold at a distance. No quiet rehearsals inside her mind, no imagining how she might carry herself when the moment came. The Sorting was here, and soon she would be standing before the entire school.

She watched as the first student was called to step forward. She was a sweet girl with red curly hair. The hat was lowered, then her curls disappeared beneath its frayed brim. A few moments later, the Sorting Hat yelled, “GRYFFINDOR!” and the table at the far right end of the Great Hall erupted with applause. Chaerin applauded with the rest of the people in the Great Hall. Gryffindor table, Chaerin noted, was decorated with red and gold, and their inhabitants seemed to be the loudest in the entire room.

Then another name was called, this time a nervous boy with dark brown hair stepped forward. He almost stumbled on his feet when he climbed up the short flight of stairs to sit on the wooden stool where the Sorting Hat was waiting. He got sorted into Hufflepuff. Then the table second from the left stood on their feet and immediately gave a warm round of applause. The Hufflepuffs, Chaerin noted, seemed exactly as they were described in Hogwarts history book. Warm and pleasant, the kind of people you could be friends with immediately.

Then another boy was called forward, and got sorted into Slytherin. The table decorated in green and silver at the far left end of the Great Hall stood up and applauded. Hogwarts history book had told Chaerin about Slytherins and their hunger for power, but all Chaerin saw was a bunch of normal students – though a few did have a kind of poised aura around them, as though they thought of themselves to be above the rest. Chaerin decided to turn her attention back to the sorting. A few more students were sorted into Hufflepuff. Then it was a girl who got sorted into Ravenclaw, and Chaerin saw the table second from the right, next to Gryffindor table, finally cheered and applauded.

Chaerin blinked. There seemed to be… a restrained aura among these Ravenclaw students. Amid the festivities of the Sorting Ceremony and the upcoming Feast, they remained calm and composed. Their applause was quieter than the rest, though no less enthusiastic. The girl who had just been sorted into Ravenclaw descended the stairs gracefully, shaking the hand of an older student who congratulated her as she joined the table.

The Sorting went by quicker than Chaerin expected. Each name called, each cheer that followed, chipped away at the line until only a handful remained. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her robes, as though it might anchor her to the moment. With every sorting, her own turn loomed closer.

At last, the final first-year was placed in Hufflepuff to a round of warm applause. The Hall began to settle, students leaning forward to reach for plates and goblets, the feast waiting to begin – until Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet.

Even without an introduction, Chaerin knew him at once. His name and likeness had appeared often in Hogwarts: A History - the celebrated Headmaster of the age, a wizard as renowned for his brilliance as for his eccentricity.

And now, every voice fell silent as his words carried through the hall.

“Welcome, dear students, to yet another year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said, spreading his arms wide as though to embrace the whole hall. His eyes twinkled behind his half-moon glasses as he glanced toward the laden tables. “Ordinarily, this would be the moment I invite you all to turn your attention to the Feast – and a very fine one it is, waiting just there.”

A ripple of laughter stirred among the students, and Dumbledore’s smile softened.

“But tonight, I must ask you to keep your forks at bay for just a little longer. For the Sorting, dear students, is not yet finished.”

Murmurs stirred, curious, but hushed again as he lifted a hand.

“This year, Hogwarts has the honor of welcoming a most distinguished guest. She joins us from Mahoutokoro, the esteemed school of the East, and will continue her studies here in her fifth year. With her, she brings not only great talent, but the rarest of honors: the Laurea Arcanum.”

Dumbledore paused, as though to let his words have more impact. Students shifted at the unfamiliar name, glancing at one another. Some mouths fell open; others furrowed their brows in confusion.

“As you will know,” he continued, his voice echoed across the Great Hall “The Laurea Arcanum is a prestigious scholarship. So prestigious, in fact, that it has not been awarded in more than a century. Past bearers include none other than Nicholas Flamel, the famed Alchemist, and Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa, the great wizard and scholar of magical philosophy. It is a mark of brilliance, dedication, and promise of greatness. And tonight, Hogwarts has the privilege of receiving its newest bearer.”

He let the pause stretch, anticipation settling like a weight over the tables. Then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the entrance, inviting Chaerin to come in.

“Please welcome… Miss Yi Chaerin.”

At the mention of her name, Chaerin drew a deep breath, the kind that felt too shallow to steady her. Her chest rose and fell once, twice – still her beating heart wouldn’t be calmed. The sudden thought of running away flashed inside her mind, but she knew it was impossible. The only way for her now was forward.

She forced her legs into motion. They felt as if they were made from stone, suddenly they were too heavy for her to move. Her steps sounded far too loud against the flagstones, each one echoing into the hush. From the corners of her vision she saw faces turn, necks craning, robes shifting as the long tables leaned subtly toward her. The whispers followed – thin threads of sound, quick and curious – but she refused to catch the words.

Her eyes fixed straight ahead at the staff table, a point of anchor she wasn’t truly seeing. She only needed to look at something to keep her from turning on her heels and running for the doors and out of this place. Her stomach twisted in knots, coiled so tightly it hurt. Her palms were sweaty. She had to remind herself to breathe – in, out, again – because without it she feared her legs might give way.

After a walk that felt like centuries, Chaerin finally reached the front of the Great hall. There, waited the stool, and atop it, the Sorting Hat – its brim bent, its seams frayed. Professor McGonagall stood beside it, her expression composed, but Chaerin thought she saw the faintest nod of reassurance. Chaerin sat, the old wood creaking faintly beneath her. She drew one breath, then another. And when the Hat was lowered over her head, the Great Hall vanished.

Darkness folded close around her. The hum of voices, the weight of hundreds of eyes, all fell away – until there was nothing but the quiet inside her own mind.

And then, a voice: low, wry, and ancient.

“Ah… now, what have we here?”

Chaerin stiffened immediately. That voice was not speaking to her ears, but inside her mind. Taken aback, she blinked into the darkness, curiosity overtook her nervousness. “…Oh. Wow. Who are you?” she asked back to the voice

The voice chuckled, the sound like dry parchment crinkling.  “Straight to the question, are we? Forgive me, for I didn’t introduce myself. I am what the students usually call – the Sorting Hat.”

Her brow furrowed. “So you are… alive?”

“You might say so,” the Hat said, amused. “Curious, are we? Ravenclaw would have cherished a student such as you.”

“Are you Ravenclaw?” Chaerin asked again.

“I might as well be,” said the Hat. “I am also Gryffindor, and Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Each of the Founders left a piece of themselves with me, so that I might carry on their tradition long after their bones turned to dust. I am their voice, their judgment… their legacy, truth be told.” It paused, and Chaerin could almost feel it rifling gently through her thoughts.

“But you – yes, you are curious indeed… You have come far from your island home, and yet I see our roots twined deep in you. A family of potion-makers, is it? Mmm, resourceful stock. And Alchemy – ah, that is a rare talent. Rare and precious. Brilliant, brilliant.” The Hat’s tone warmed, approving. “Every bit of Ravenclaw would prize that mind of yours. Knowledge for its own sake, questions upon questions, the hunger to understand. Yes… there is no doubt. Ravenclaw would welcome you gladly.”

Chaerin felt her breath catch. For a moment, it was almost easy to imagine herself there, among rows of books and towers of parchment, in her pursuit of knowledge. But then the Hat’s voice dropped lower, softer, as though weighing another thought.

“…And yet. I see fire here, too. Courage – a heart that will act when the mind hesitates, that will leap when reason lingers too long. There is recklessness in you as well – an edge sharpened by your pursuit of truth, a willingness to chase answers even into danger. You would risk much, perhaps everything, to protect what you hold dear. That, there, is Gryffindor through and through.”

“I am not reckless,” Chaerin protested. “I am always cool and logical.”

The Hat gave yet another dry laugh, old and knowing. “So you tell yourself. But logic, dear child, is only the surface. Scratch deep enough, and I see the spark that leaps before thoughts can catch it. Ravenclaw would call it curiosity. Gryffindor would call it courage. I call it recklessness – and sometimes, recklessness is simply courage by another name.”

Chaerin pressed her lips together. “Perhaps. But I came here to prove myself. I don’t care which House you put me in – I must show that I am worthy of the honor bestowed upon me.”

“Ahh.” The Hat’s voice softened, a rumble like pages turning in an old tome. “Yes. The Laurea Arcanum. The weight of expectations – so heavy for such young shoulders. You would climb any tower, crack open any locked book, unravel any mystery to prove you deserve your place.” It lingered a beat, almost wistful. “And so it shall be. Better to hone your questions into wisdom, than to burn yourself to ash chasing every flame. I see your mind is made up already.”

And before Chaerin could respond, the Hat cried aloud for the hall to hear: “RAVENCLAW!”

The Great Hall erupted in applause. The table draped in blue and bronze rose to its feet, clapping and cheering, their voices rising above the rest. Chaerin blinked against the sudden roar, the weight of silence replaced in a heartbeat by a tide of welcome.

Chaerin lifted the hat from her head and passed it back to Professor McGonagall. She was very glad the sorting was over that her hands trembled slightly. McGonagall accepted the hat with a small, approving smile. “Well done, Miss Yi. Congratulations,” she said, her clipped tones gentled by warmth.

From the podium, Chaerin saw Dumbledore clapping slowly, his mild smile touched with a twinkle as he inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment.

“Of course,” Chaerin could hear someone yelling from the Gryffindor table. “Of course the scholarship bearer would be placed in Ravenclaw. Where else would she be?”

“Stand here a moment, please,” McGonagall gestured to Chaerin, drawing her wand. Chaerin obeyed, and the professor raised her wand above the girl’s head, the tip hovering steady for a breath before she stirred it gently, as though tracing a circle in the air.  A ripple of magic stirred, soft as wind through silk, and her Mahoutokoro robes began to shimmer. The gold silk gleamed once under the light, then drained, settling into the midnight black of Hogwarts robes. A flash of deep, royal blue shimmered inside the hood, and Chaerin suddenly felt the Ravenclaw crest – the bronze Eagle with blue backdrop – had formed over her heart. Instinctively, she raised her hand and traced the crest, feeling the stitches and the firm fabric beneath her fingertips.

She blinked. Months of waiting, of preparing for this moment, and that was it – she was a Hogwarts student now. Officially a Ravenclaw. She descended the flight of stairs toward the Ravenclaw table decorated with blue and bronze. An older male student seated near the head of the table immediately offered his hand to her as she approached, and Chaerin shook it out of instinct. “Congratulations!” he said. Chaerin nodded, still not fully processing the moment. All she could feel was the cold of the student’s ring against her palm. She moved a little bit toward the center of the table, and a few students shifted to make room for her. She sat down.

“And now,” said Dumbledore, as Chaerin had made her way to the Ravenclaw table, robed as one of their own, “let the feast begin!”

The command left Dumbledore’s lips, and in an instant, the long tables filled themselves. Platters of roast chicken and beef, tureens of steaming soup, piles of golden pasties, and goblets brimming with pumpkin juice appeared as if conjured from the air. The sheer scale of it made Chaerin falter. The abundance felt overwhelming – too much, too loud, too many choices all at once. She stared at the nearest dish, unable to decide where to begin.

“Try the roast beef,” a voice said gently beside her. “It’s nice.”

Chaerin turned. A girl around her age with a tumble of dark curls and large, round glasses was watching her, a small smile tugging at her lips. Her robes sat a little awkwardly on her small frame, ink smudged faintly on her fingertips. Behind her glasses, her hazel eyes seemed to shift with the light, flecks of green surfacing when she tilted her head. Her face was soft and round, giving her that youthful look, with cheeks that looked as though they were quick to lift when she smiled.

“…Thank you,” Chaerin murmured, reaching awkwardly for the platter. She served herself a slice, aware of how tense her own movements felt under so many curious glances from the table.

The girl seemed to sense it. She looked as if she was never quite rooted to the present moment. Yet her gaze, round and steady, held a quiet sharpness that made it hard to dismiss her as absent-minded.

“Don’t worry. Everyone’s just staring because you’re new,” she said. “But they’ll be back to ignoring you soon enough.”

Chaerin blinked. “You make it sound like that’s a good thing.”

“It is,” the girl said with quiet certainty. She pushed her glasses up her nose, then offered her hand. “Ilsa Lovegood.”

“Yi Chaerin,” she replied, taking it.

“I know,” Ilsa said, not boastful, just matter-of-fact. “The Headmaster introduced you. But names sound better when you say them yourself.”

Chaerin found herself caught by that, a little disarmed. “…Do you always talk like that?”

Ilsa shrugged, eyes glinting behind the round frames. “Only when I notice things worth saying. And I noticed you looked like you weren’t sure if you belonged. But you will see that you do. Ravenclaw always has room for someone who asks a lot of questions. Especially for someone with Mahoutokoro golden robes. You will fit right in.”

Chaerin couldn’t help but let out a small smile. “You notice too much.”

“Maybe,” Ilsa said mildly, reaching for the breadbasket. “But that’s what makes me a Ravenclaw. And you too, I suppose.”

Meanwhile, next to the Ravenclaw table, the Gryffindor table was as noisy as ever. Benches scraped against the stone floor as people jostled for space, knives dand forks clattered against plates, and voices tumbled over one another in quick bursts. Laughter broke out in pockets, and shouts carried down the length of the table – someone was calling for pumpkin juice, another was demanding the potatoes be passed faster. Peter leaned forward across his plate, pitching his voice above the racket so Remus could catch it.

“Summer wasn’t bad,” he started. “Went down to Brighton a few times. Fish and chips, pier rides, bit of the arcade. You know, normal.”

Remus tore a roll in half, his expression looked like long-term suffering. “Normal sounds like heaven.”

Peter perked. “And you? How was yours?”

“Brilliant,” Remus replied, so flat it could’ve been sarcasm carved in stone.

Peter frowned. “Doesn’t sound it.”

“They tried to make me join a summer camp.”

Peter nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. “What, with tents and sing-songs round a fire?”

Remus gave him a deadpan stare. “Exactly. Try to picture it, Peter. Me, sleeping under the stars, waking up to belt out campfire tunes…  with the full moon as my duet partner.”

Peter let out a cackle of laughter. “Bloody hell. That’d have cleared the camp in one night.”

A faint smirk tugged Remus’s mouth. “That was the general concern, yes. I managed to stay home instead.”

Before Peter could press further, the bench shook violently as two figures dropped onto it. James Potter plonked himself down first, hair even messier than usual, Sirius Black was right beside him with both arms full of pilfered goods: pasties, pies, and a jug that definitely hadn’t been on the tables.

“Evening, lads,” Sirius said cheerfully, already halfway through a bite.

Remus let out a long sigh and gave Sirius the sort of look only he could muster – weary, unimpressed, long-suffering. “Was there not enough food in front of you?”

“House-elves give extra if you ask nicely,” Sirius replied around a mouthful.

James helped himself to a mouthful of minced-meat pie. “Correction: they give extra if you’re Sirius and refuse to leave the kitchen until you’re buried in pies.”

“Details,” Sirius said airily, waving a pasty.

“Sirius, James,” Peter leaned forward, eager. “You missed the event of the century when you were down in the kitchen –”

But James, eyes sparkling with mischief, barrelled past him. “Never mind the feast. Tonight, we’re celebrating the first night in the dormitory properly. Drinking game. Firewhisky. Sirius and I liberated a bottle.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose, looking clearly like he was suffering from a terrible headache. “James. You’ve barely been back an hour.”

“Exactly,” James said, triumphant. “No time like the present.”

“Merlin’s beard,” Remus muttered. “One day you’ll both manage a quiet night.”

“Quiet?” Sirius looked horrified. “What are we, Ravenclaws?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I was trying to tell you - ”

“Drinking game,” James declared, leaning across the table to Sirius. “Loser has to do whatever the winner asked. And Adam McKinnon’s joining. I already told him.”

“Done,” Sirius said instantly, slamming his goblet like a gavel.

“Oh, forget it,” Peter groaned. “Why do I even bother?”

“Because you love us,” Sirius said through another mouthful. “And because we’d be dead without you reminding us when prefect rounds are.”

Remus smirked faintly into his bread roll. Peter opened his mouth again, desperate to wedge in his news –  the strange fifth-year, the girl the whole hall had stared at – but James was already outlining rules for his drinking game with the enthusiasm of a Quidditch captain planning a final.

The Feast ended in a clatter of benches and chatter, and the sea of students poured from the Great Hall into the corridors beyond. “Ravenclaw first-years this way!” called the older student who had shaken Chaerin’s hand earlier. He led the way briskly, his voice carrying over the din. The first-years trailed after him in a neat cluster, their heads swiveling in awe. Older Ravenclaws filed in behind them, forming a column winding upward through the castle. Chaerin found herself near the back, walking beside Ilsa, who matched her slower pace without comment.

They passed the Reception Hall, the Entrance Hall, and soon reached the Grand Staircase. Chaerin looked up – and stopped.

Her mouth parted in astonishment. At Mahoutokoro, there had been floating floor-tiles that rose and carried students neatly between levels, each one arriving exactly where it was supposed to. Hogwarts, by contrast, looked as though its very stairs had a mind of their own.

“They move when they feel like it,” Ilsa remarked, almost idly, watching another staircase grind into a new place with a shower of dust. “If you’re unlucky, you’ll step onto one and it’ll take you somewhere you don’t mean to go. Happens all the time.”

“All the time?” Chaerin replied, her eyes growing wide. “How is anyone supposed to get anywhere then?”

“They don’t always,” Ilsa said simply, her eyes faraway as though she found this fact pleasing rather than frustrating.

Chaerin muttered under her breath as she hurried to keep up. And then, without warning, her right foot plunged into nothing. She gasped, pitching forward – only for Ilsa’s hand to catch her sleeve and yank her back. Looking down, Chaerin saw one of the steps had vanished completely into a hole.

“Vanishing step,” Ilsa explained mildly, as if pointing out a crack in the pavement. “Best not to forget where it is. But then again… it never stays in the same place for long.”

“What?”

“The trick is never to trust the eleventh step from the bottom,” Ilsa released her, her expression unreadable. Chaerin couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. Cheeks hot, she drew herself upright and pressed forward with the rest of the column.

As they climbed higher, the castle seemed to watch them. Portraits leaned from their frames, their painted faces alive with curiosity. Some whispered to each other, some stared boldly, and one fat woman with ruff called to her, “Such a long journey you have, dear – welcome to our castle! I hope you enjoy it.”

Chaerin blinked, “They knew me?” she asked to Ilsa, startled. “Of course,” Ilsa said, tracing the paintings idly with her eyes. “Imagine being trapped for centuries in your frame with nothing but a fruit bowl as your company. You’d want gossips too. It’s your only source of entertainment. That’s why news travel fast here – the walls have eyes… literally.”

This made Chaerin shudder. They did have enchanted paintings in Mahoutokoro as well, but the paintings were always rather… good at keeping their opinions to themselves.

At last they reached the end of a high corridor, where an arched door stood with no handle, no keyhole. Set into its center was a great bronze eagle knocker, its wings flared in mid-flight, the metal catching the torchlight.

The older student at the head of the column lifted the knocker, and the eagle’s beak opened. A soft, musical voice came out.

“What is it that no man ever sees, which always comes but never leaves?”

“Tomorrow,” the older student answered without hesitation.

Chaerin gasped, “A riddle!” Her eyes were practically sparkling. This was probably the most interesting thing she’d seen in the whole castle.

“Thought you would like it,” Ilsa remarked, sounding lightly amused. “It changes every few hours. Get it right and the door swings open. Get it wrong and you have to wait for another student who can answer for you. This is why Ravenclaws never sleep early. We were stuck out here debating about the riddles.”

The door swung inward, and Chaerin stepped into the Ravenclaw common room.

It was a tall, airy space, round like a tower should be, its walls lined with high arched windows that looked out over the mountains. Moonlight poured through the glass, spilling silver across the floor and picking out the blue-and-bronze patterns woven into the great circular carpet at the center. Above, the domed ceiling arched high and graceful, painted the deep hue of midnight and flecked with stars.

But what caught her eye most was the marble statue standing in an alcove opposite the door: a tall, gracious woman. Chaerin read the name at the base of the statue. She was Rowena Ravenclaw herself, serene and solemn, her stone gaze cast across the room as though weighing the worth of all who entered.

Chaerin lingered for a moment, trying to take everything in – the elegance, the quiet sense of order. Hogwarts was a different kind of feeling from Mahoutokoro’s polished perfection: older, yet a lot more unpredictable. Here, there was a dignity to the worn stone and soft chairs gathered near the fire, as if knowledge was not just pursued, but lived in.

She drifted closer to one of the windows, drawn by the view beyond. From here, the mountains stretched endless in the distance. The lake looked like a large, black mirror below. The sight pulled something in her chest taut, then eased: for the first time that night, she felt the weight of expectation lighten into something almost like belonging.

“Yi Chaerin?” a voice called.

She turned. The older boy who had shaken her hand at the table earlier stepped forward, and in the light of the common room Chaerin saw him more clearly. He was tall and sleek, with dark hair neatly combed back from his face. His build had a wiry elegance to it, sharp, purposeful, as if every line of him was carried with a kind of restraint. His eyes were a deep, cool gray, steady and assessing without being unkind. On his chest, Chaerin saw a metal badge wearing the letter ‘P’ gleaming under the light.

“I’m Wayne Ryder, Sixth Year, Prefect,” he said with a polite smile, pointing to his badge. He spoke with the sort of quiet authority that didn’t need to be raised to be obeyed. “Our Head of House, Professor Flitwick, will want to meet you tomorrow before first period, just to get things sorted for your time here. In the meantime… welcome to Hogwarts. And welcome to Ravenclaw.”

Chaerin inclined her head. “Thank you.”

Wayne nodded once in approval. “The fifth-year girls’ dormitory is just up the stairwell to your right. All your things have already been delivered. Settle in, and if you need anything, you’ll usually find me in the common room or the library.”

Chaerin thanked him again, more quietly this time, and turned toward the stairs. They spiraled up tightly, the stone steps worn smooth by centuries of feet. She ran her hand along the cool wall as she climbed, the muffled sounds of the common room fading behind her. At the top, a round landing opened onto several oak doors with bronze nameplates. One was engraved Fifth Years.

She pushed it open cautiously.

The dormitory was circular like the common room, with five five four-poster beds draped in deep blue hangings. Chaerin’s eyes darted immediately to a trunk by the bed closest to the window – her trunk, the brass plate engraved with her name reflected the moonlight outside. She crossed the room and sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress. The sheets were crisp and cool, the whole room oddly hushed compared to the lively hall below.

Her relief was short-lived. From the bed beside hers came the distinct rustle of pages. Chaerin turned.

A girl with dark curls tumbling over her shoulders was sprawled comfortably against her pillows, a book balanced in one hand. She looked up as if she had been expecting Chaerin all along, her large round glasses catching the light.

Her lips curved into a grin. “Hi, roommate. Welcome to your new home.”

Chaerin smiled. “Ilsa. I didn’t realize we’d be sharing a room.”

“All the fifth-year girls are together,” said Ilsa. “But Wayne probably have told you that, haven’t he?” Chaerin nodded in response.

“Figured,” Ilsa tilted her head, studying her new roommate with a quiet curiosity. “You look tired,” she said gently. “But less like someone who wants to run away now. That’s good. You’ll find this place isn’t so bad once you stop thinking it’s meant to swallow you whole.”

Chaerin gave a small laugh under her breath, surprised at the remark. “You really do notice a lot of things, Ilsa.”

“People say that is my best strength – others say I should be careful with it,” Ilsa said. “Not everyone wants to be noticed.” She leaned back against her pillows again, stretching like a cat. “Get some rest, Chaerin. Tomorrow the castle will start showing you her secrets. She does that, you know. One by one.”

For the first time that night, Chaerin let herself relax fully into the mattress. The soft curtains stirred faintly in the draft, and somewhere below she could hear the muffled laughter of other Ravenclaws. But here, in this room with her trunk by her bed and a strange, kind roommate smiling beside her, the nervous tightness in her chest finally began to loosen. For the first time since she stepped foot in Hogwarts, she felt something close to a belonging.

Chapter Text

The first shards of sunlight slipped through the tower windows, spilling across the dormitory in long, golden stripes. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, glinting like sparks. One stray beam fell across Sirius Black’s face, making him groan and roll over. The motion only made the pounding in his skull worse. His temples throbbed like someone had wedged a Bludger inside his head. With a muffled curse, he dragged the pillow over his face.

“If this is death, it’s far too bright,” he croaked with a hoarse voice.

“Shut up,” James muttered from the next bed, one arm flung across his bloodshot eyes. His hair stuck out in six different directions – worse than usual – and his voice was almost gone.

“Transfiguration first period,” Remus said dryly from his neatly made bed. “Good luck surviving McGonagall in that state.”

“Merlin’s bloody beard,” James groaned. “She’ll skin us alive.”

Peter piped up cheerfully from his corner, far too awake for their liking. “Well, maybe she’ll let you off… once she hears you lost the drinking game.”

Sirius cracked one eye open. “…What?”

“Last night,” Peter said with relish. “The dare. You lost to Adam McKinnon, remember? That means one forfeit. He hasn’t told you what it is yet.”

Both boys sat up groggily, the color draining from their faces.

Remus pulled his robe on with a snap. “Whatever it is, you two deserve it.”

The night before, the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory, especially the one occupied by Sirius, Remus, James, and Peter, had been loud even by its usual standards. Sirius and James had liberated a bottle of Firewhisky and had been successful in persuading Adam McKinnon, Marlene McKinnon’s twin brother, to join them in a drinking game to properly celebrate the first night in the dormitory. Truth was, Adam was a replacement player for Remus, who had quite politely but firmly refused to participate (him being a Prefect was quoted as the reason). Instead of participating, Remus had decided to quietly observe them from the perimeter, sitting on an armchair with an open book, while wearing an expression like he was suffering from an eternal headache. His disdain was well-reasoned. He knew that whenever James and Sirius had agreed to drinking games, he would be the one having to clean up for their ‘after-parties’.

“Rules are simple,” Adam declared, slamming the bottle down on the table with a grin. “Take a swig, answer the question or take the dare. If you refuse both, you’re out. Last one standing wins.”

“Standing? Pfft,” Sirius scoffed, already pouring himself a glass. “I’ll be lying down before I lose.”

“You’ll be lying down regardless,” Remus muttered from behind his book. The first rounds went easily enough – the dares and questions were quite harmless. But halfway through the bottles, then Adam raised the stakes.

“Alright, Potter. Dare: shout the name of the person you fancy.”

James puffed his chest as if this were a triumph. “Easy.”

“Too easy,” Sirius cut in immediately. “That’s not a dare, that’s a bloody hobby.”

Adam smirked. “Fair enough. Then… how about this? You’ve got to march up to Evans and ask her out. Tonight.”

James, grinning like a maniac, downed his glass, smoothed his hair, and vanished down the stairs toward the common room. Ten agonizing minutes later, he swaggered back in, face flushed, tie skewed, and grinning like a fool.

“She said no,” he announced proudly. “But she smiled when she said it!”

“Pathetic,” Sirius declared, but his eyes were gleaming.

The bottle spun again, landing on Sirius. Adam’s grin turned wicked. “Your turn, Black. Dare: peck Lupin on the cheek.”

Remus looked up from his book, wand already in his hand. “I dare you to try that,” he said calmly, though his eyes were glinting dangerously. Sirius grinned. He wasn’t going to pick a fight with his best mate on his first day back to dorm. “Alright, alright. Plan B?”

“Fine,” Adam said smoothly. “Break into the Quidditch equipment shed and bring us the Golden Snitch.”

“Easy,” said Sirius, looking like he was clearly addicted by the thrill. He climbed out of the portrait hole, and twenty minutes later came striding back in, hair windswept, Golden Snitch struggling in his fist. The room exploded with cheers.

The night grew wilder as the bottle drained. Songs were sung, dares grew more absurd, and James, Sirius, Peter, and Adam were getting more and more trashed. Remus stayed in his seat, watching over the chaos like a Prefect in training, though with a look of someone nursing the world’s worst headache.

At last, the bottle was nearly empty. Adam raised it high, eyes glinting. “Final round. Black. Potter. One-shot challenge. Winner takes all.”

“Make it strong,” Sirius slurred, dragging a half-drunk bottle from under someone’s bed. James poured in whatever was left from three more – firewhisky, mead, and something suspiciously sharp-smelling that might have been for cleaning cauldrons. The mix fumed in the glasses, a swampy burn that made Peter wrinkle his nose from across the room.

“Reckon it’s lethal enough?” James asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Only one way to know,” Sirius said, snatching his wand. With a flick, a blue flame danced to life on the surface of each glass. The others whooped, leaning in to watch the fire curl and flicker.

Adam grinned. “Now that’s a proper final round.”

James balanced the three flaming shots on the table, the blue fire licking the rims. The heat shimmered between them, and Sirius rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Bottoms up,” Adam said, grinning.

Remus finally lowered his book just enough to give them a flat look. “Do let me know what you’d like to be written on your headstones,” he muttered, “Since you lot seem to be very eager to send yourselves to early graves.”

The others ignored him. They raised their flaming shots, the room glowing with the light. One heartbeat, then three throats tipped back at once. The fire winked out in a puff of smoke, and the silence that followed lasted only a second before Sirius keeled sideways onto James. James slid bonelessly after him. Both collapsed in a heap.

Adam, swaying dangerously, lifted his empty glass in triumph. “Still standing,” he croaked, grinning stupidly. “I win.”

Then, he tipped over and fell onto the mattress – out cold.

Peter leaned over the wreckage of the three boys, eyes wide. “Whoa. They’re out cold. What do we do with them, Remus?”

Remus only sighed, shutting his book with a snap. “Let them. I’m going to bed.”

Chaerin stirred when the first rays of sunlight crept across her face. For a few moments she lay still, disoriented, expecting the familiar smell of salt on the air, the sea breeze that always swept through Mahoutokoro's windows. But here there was only the dry scent of old stone and woodsmoke. Blinking up, she saw a ceiling painted in deep royal blue, so unlike the jade-green canopy of her old school.

Her gaze drifted sideways, and there it was: her robe, hanging neatly on the coat stand. On its chest, the bronze eagle on its blue backdrop seemed to gleam back at her. And then she remembered.

Ravenclaw’s crest. Hogwarts.

Of course. She was in Hogwarts now.

The memories of last night returned in a rush – Ryder’s voice, warm but firm: “Our Head of House, Professor Flitwick, will want to meet you tomorrow before first period, just to get things sorted for your time here.” Chaerin sat up on her bed, checked the small clock by the bedside, and realized she’d need to hurry if she wanted breakfast before her appointment.

She rose, dressed quickly, and smoothed the folds of her new robes. In the mirror, her pale, solemn face looked back at her. Instead of the shimmering gold of her old Mahoutokoro robes, her figure was framed by Hogwarts’ midnight-black robes with Ravenclaw colors now. It made her feel strangely ordinary. Back there, the golden robe had commanded respect. Everyone knew that golden-robe bearers were holders of the highest mastery in the Mahoutokoro halls. People would look at her in awe or envy. Here, she was nothing more but an obscure transfer student. It made her miss her old life in Mahoutokoro more than she cared to admit.

Still, she couldn’t linger on the thought. If she had to start anew as a transfer student here – she’d better start by not being late to her first appointment. She brushed her hair for one last time and stepped out into the spiraling stairwell, making her way down toward the Great Hall.

The Ravenclaw Tower stairwell wound down and down until she emerged into a corridor that looked both familiar and not. Last night, she had followed Wayne and the other students, being overwhelmed by the moving staircases and vanishing steps, but in daylight the castle seemed even more complicated. She paused, frowning at a junction of three hallways, each lined with tall windows and shadowed corners.

She tried retracing her steps from memory – past the stretch of wall with the tapestry of trolls clubbing each other, then down the staircase that creaked every third step. But when she reached the landing, the staircase had moved. The yawning gap of space where it had once been made her stop short, her stomach dropping.

“Bit turned around, are you, dear?” came a voice from behind. Chaerin spun to see a portrait of a lady in a stiff ruff, watching her with a kind of dry amusement.

“Yes,” Chaerin admitted. “I need to get to the Great Hall.”

“Second staircase to the left – if it hasn’t moved again,” the lady said with a sigh. “And if it has, well, try the next one over. Keep your eyes open. The castle doesn’t like to be rushed.”

Chaerin gave a quick bow of thanks before hurrying along. Twice more she had to stop to ask directions, first from a portrait of a knight polishing his sword and then from a cluster of painted monks who argued loudly amongst themselves before one finally agreed to give her a straight answer.

At one point she turned a corner and nearly jumped when an entire suit of armor clanked stiffly to life beside her. “Great Hall’s that way,” it croaked, raising an arm with a creak of metal joints. She blinked, startled, then murmured her thanks as the armor saluted her stiffly and returned to its rigid stance.

By the time she reached the wide marble staircase descending to the Entrance Hall, she was slightly breathless, both from the descent and from the sense of being constantly watched in every corner by the paintings, armor suits, statues, and who knew what else. The Great Hall was already busy with students when she stepped through the doors. Sunlight streamed down through the enchanted ceiling, scattering across plates of toast and bowls of porridge. Chaerin slipped into a seat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, eating only lightly – bread, butter, a bit of tea – more focused on memorizing the way down to the hall than filling her stomach.

When she finished, she rose again, retracing her path back toward the grand staircase. This time she asked a passing portrait of a stern-looking wizard in plum robes where she might find Professor Flitwick’s office. The wizard huffed, muttered something about “students these days,” but grudgingly pointed her toward a stairwell leading off the first floor. After another pause at a suit of armor that directed her with one outstretched gauntlet, she finally found herself in front of a stout oak door with a brass plate: Professor F. Flitwick, Charms Master, Head of Ravenclaw.

Her knuckles rapped lightly. The door opened at once. Flitwick himself peered up at her, his expression brightening immediately.

“Ah! Miss Yi, splendid. Right on time. Do come in, do come in!”

Flitwick’s office was small but lively, every shelf brimming with curious objects. Books leaned in haphazard towers, stacks of parchment overflowed a desk, and half a dozen instruments whirred or ticked softly in the corners, puffing out faint clouds of steam or tiny sparks. Sunlight slanted through a high window, catching on the silver inkwells and glass baubles, filling the room with a quiet glow.

“Please, take a seat,” Flitwick said, bustling toward a low chair across from his desk. His voice was light and quick, full of energy, and he had a habit of talking with his hands, so that every sentence seemed to be more animated.

Chaerin sat, smoothing her robes over her knees. She found herself liking Flitwick immediately – the intelligence in his eyes, the precise but playful way he moved, the sense that he carried both brilliance and humor in equal measure. She could see why he was Ravenclaw’s Head of House.

“So, Miss Yi,” he said, settling himself onto a stack of cushions that raised him high enough behind his desk. “How have you found Hogwarts so far?”

Chaerin considered for a moment before answering honestly. “Honestly it’s… overwhelming, Sir,” she admitted. “The staircases, the portraits, the way everything seems to watch you. Mahoutokoro was always very – organized. Here, I feel like the castle itself is testing me.”

Flitwick chuckled, the sound bright and genuine. “Yes, yes, overwhelming indeed. That’s part of her charm. I daresay you’ll never quite learn all her secrets – none of us ever do.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “Why, just last week a staircase carried me to a passageway I’d never seen before. Ended up in a tower with windows that looked out over a stretch of forest I couldn’t even place on the map.”

Chaerin’s gaped slightly. “You mean… you got lost, Sir? But surely, you’ve lived here for decades?”

Flitwick blinked, cleared his throat, and sat straighter. “Ah – well – yes. But that’s nothing to worry about! Perfectly ordinary, happens to everyone now and then. The castle likes to keep us humble, that’s all.” He coughed delicately into his hand, then brightened again as if to change the subject. “Which is why I thought this might help you.”

He rummaged behind a stack of books and produced a thick, leather-bound volume. Its cover was plain, save for a small, embossed Hogwarts crest. When he placed it in Chaerin’s hands, she was surprised by its weight – it felt lighter than its size suggested, warm to the touch, as though it held something waiting to be revealed. She flipped it open.

The pages were blank.

Chaerin looked up, puzzled.

Flitwick’s eyes twinkled. “This is your Hogwarts Study Guide. A little enchantment of my own design. Its pages will fill themselves as you explore –  Hogwarts traditions, classrooms, corridors, hidden places. Each time you uncover something new, the book will record it. Think of it as a companion, one that grows with your knowledge. By the end of the year, I expect it to be brimming.”

A book that would record her discoveries? Chaerin’s lips curved into the faintest smile. “So the more I learn, the more it gives back?”

“Precisely!” Flitwick beamed, clearly delighted by her enthusiasm. “It rewards curiosity, Miss Yi. And as you know, that is Ravenclaw’s finest trait.”

For the first time that day, Chaerin felt excitement brimming inside her. The riddle door, and now a study companion that evolved the more she learned… She did make the right choice by being in Ravenclaw. She closed the book carefully and nodded. “I’ll make the most of it, Professor.”

“Good,” Flitwick said warmly. “Then let me be the first to say once again – welcome to Hogwarts, and welcome to Ravenclaw. I expect great things from you, but more importantly, I expect you to enjoy discovering them for yourself.” Chaerin nodded enthusiastically.

“Oh – look at the time!” Flitwick exclaimed suddenly, glancing at an enchanted clock mounted high on the wall. Its many dials spun and ticked in ways Chaerin could barely follow, though one hand clearly pointed toward the words First Period. “And wouldn’t you know it, fifth-year Ravenclaws are meant to be in Charms with the Hufflepuffs. That would be us, of course. Best not to be late, Miss Yi!”

Chaerin stood quickly, tucking the Study Guide into her satchel with care. She bowed her head respectfully. “Thank you, Professor.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Flitwick said with a cheerful wave of his hand, hopping down from his pile of cushions. “I would need a few moments to prepare for my lesson, but off you go now! I shall meet you in class.”

Chaerin gave a respectful bow once more and stepped out into the corridor, the castle’s stone floor cool beneath her shoes. To her relief, the Charms classroom stood only a short walk from Flitwick’s office. She retraced her steps slowly, committing every turn and stair to memory – arches, tapestries, even the way the suits of armor glinted faintly in the sunlight. At the end of the hall, she reached the familiar double doors, their wood darkened by age and polish. The murmur of voices drifted from within. She hesitated only for a breath, then pushed them open.

The Charms classroom was wide, with rows of long desks arranged before a raised platform. Sunlight streamed in through high windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were already filtering in, bags dropped onto desks, voices bright after summer. Chaerin felt the usual prickle of eyes as she stepped through, but then she spotted a tumble of dark curls and a pair of large, round glasses turned toward her.

Ilsa Lovegood smiled, her expression warm and faintly dreamy, as though she had been waiting for her. Chaerin’s shoulders loosened almost against her will. She crossed the aisle quickly and slid into the empty seat beside her.

“Good timing,” Ilsa murmured, shifting her books to make space. “Professor Flitwick gets cross when people dawdle – but never for long. He forgets too easily.”

“He can’t be cross with me. I did just meet him this morning, after all,” said Chaerin, putting her book bag on her desk and pulling out her parchment and quill. “He gave me the most interesting thing ever.”

“Ooh, what is that -?”

At that moment however, Flitwick himself bounded onto the platform at the front. His voice carried clear and bright: “Good morning, everyone, and welcome back to Hogwarts! I trust most of you tend to forget things over the summer, so today we will begin by revisiting the Summoning Charm. If you would all please have your wands at the ready.” His eyes twinkled, and a few students chuckled sheepishly. “But no matter – we’ll have you up and ready for your O.W.L.s in no time.”

He clapped his hands once, brisk and eager. “Now then, let’s see what you’ve remembered.”

With a swish of his wand, a pile of cushions floated into the air before tumbling neatly across the front rows. “Right then! We’ll start with something simple. Summon these cushions to yourselves – nothing too heavy, nothing too far. Wands at the ready! The incantation, as you should all recall, is Accio.”

A few students scrambled to take notes, but most already had their wands out. The room filled with the murmur of repeated incantations: “Accio cushion! Accio cushion!” Some cushions wobbled; a few sailed and crashed. One Hufflepuff boy managed to knock over an inkpot, while another nearly brained himself when three cushions came flying at once.

Chaerin looked at the scenery around her and exhaled, forcing down the heat rising in her cheeks. She’d done this before – back at Mahoutokoro, Accio had been one of the most basic medium-grade spell that she had mastered. She remembered the volcanic stone chamber where she had practiced, the air tinged with incense, the long hours repeating the incantation until the movement felt as natural as breathing.

Closing her eyes now, she took a deep breath and tried to summon that same calm. Wand in hand. Clear intent. Call it to you.

“Are you nervous?” a voice asked beside her.

Chaerin opened her eyes. Ilsa was watching her with that quiet, dreamy gaze.

“Summoning is like calling a friend,” Ilsa continued softly. “If you sound too desperate, they won’t come.”

Something about the odd phrasing made Chaerin smile faintly. She turned back to the cushion, lifted her wand, and said firmly, “Accio cushion!”

The cushion leapt at once into the air and zipped straight into her waiting hands, smooth and perfect on the first try.

“Excellent, Miss Yi!” Flitwick beamed, bouncing on his stack of books. “Flawless control – just flawless! Ten points to Ravenclaw!”

A ripple of applause rose from her fellow Ravenclaws, a mix of surprise and delight. Chaerin blinked, caught off guard by how good it felt – pride blooming beneath her ribs.

When class ended, Chaerin was gathering her things when a girl drifted into her path. She was slim, tall for her age, with glossy blonde hair curled into perfect ringlets that looked far too deliberate to be natural. The curls framed her face like a crown, her chin tilted just enough to suggest she knew it.

“So… a transfer student from Mahoutokoro, huh?” Her tone was light, almost friendly, but there was something practiced in the way her lips curved, like the remark had been waiting on her tongue all lesson.

Chaerin blinked, unsure how to respond.

“You’re clearly not used to this kind of environment,” the girl remarked again, looking at Chaerin through the tips of her nose as she tilted her head slightly upward, her eyes sweeping over the latter as though appraising Chaerin’s worthiness of being in her presence. “Want me to spell out the rules for you? Rule number one – realize that some people are different from others.”

A delicate snicker slipped from her lips, practiced, like a staged laugh. Then she turned on her heel, robes swishing just so, leaving Chaerin staring after her in confusion.

Ilsa hooked her arm through Chaerin’s and tugged her toward the doors. “Ignore her. Come on, lunch.”

Still frowning, Chaerin asked, “Who was that?”

“Awen Talfryn,” Ilsa said simply, her curls bouncing as they joined the stream of students heading to the Great Hall for lunch. “Fifth-year Hufflepuff. Comes from one of the biggest and oldest families in Wales. Thinks of herself as royalty half the time. Too poised for her own good.” Ilsa’s tone was more amused than bitter. “Funny thing is, she wasn’t always like that. When she was a first-year, she was sweet. Kind, even. Your typical Hufflepuff with a warm heart.”

Chaerin’s brows knit tighter. “So… are you telling me that she changed, even after being sorted into Hufflepuff?”

Ilsa shrugged. “Some people did change after they were sorted. Didn’t the Hat ask you where you wanted to be, when you sat under it?”

Chaerin blinked, then slowly nodded. The memory of that ancient, wry voice in her head, weighing Ravenclaw against Gryffindor, came back to her slowly.

“Precisely,” Ilsa said softly. “It’s not just about what you are – it’s about who you choose to become. And people’s hearts do change. Hearts don’t always keep the same choice forever. They shift. And sometimes, people become someone different from the person they were when they sat under that Hat.”

Chaerin fell silent at that, mulling over the thought. She didn’t realize that they were already at the Great Hall. The place was already buzzing when Chaerin and Ilsa slipped in among the other Ravenclaws. Chaerin set her book bag down on the bench beside her and glanced at the spread of food that had appeared. Platters of roasted chicken sat steaming beside bowls of mashed potatoes, baked beans, and a heaping dish of shepherd’s pie. Fresh rolls glistened with butter, and pitchers of pumpkin juice glowed amber under the sunlight streaming down from the enchanted ceiling.

Chaerin hesitated, then reached for a plate, serving herself a little of everything. Chaerin had only just started eating when Ilsa remarked, somewhat absently, “She’s chairwoman of the Magical Ethics Club, by the way.”

Chaerin blinked. “Talfryn?”

“Mhm.” Ilsa putting a spoonful of bean into her mouth, then continued, “Speaking of clubs – are you planning to join any?”

Chaerin paused mid-bite, thoughtful. The noise of the Hall swirled around them, forks clattering, laughter breaking in pockets, but Ilsa’s question cut through the bustle. Clubs were probably the best choice for her to start socializing and knowing people outside of her House. But at this point, it might be too early to decide.

“I’ll browse around first. See what they’re like,” she said at last.

Ilsa gave a little shrug, drifting sideways to avoid a tray that a Hufflepuff Prefect floated past. “Take your time,” she said simply. Then, glancing sidelong at Chaerin, she added in that airy way of hers, “The things meant for you will find their way anyway… no matter how you wander.”

Chaerin frowned faintly at that, not sure whether to laugh or puzzle it over.

After lunch, she checked her timetable. The next class made her lips curve unconsciously: Potions. She rose from the table, tucking her bag over her shoulder, and Ilsa immediately caught the look.

“You smiled,” Ilsa observed as they crossed the Hall.

Chaerin glanced at her, amused. “Because it’s Potions. My favorite.”

“I had an inkling it might be,” Ilsa nodded as she steered them toward a side staircase. “This way, then. Down to the dungeons.”

They descended together, the chatter of the Hall fading behind them. With every step the air grew cooler, the light dimmer. Chaerin’s gaze roved over the dark stone walls, the sconces burning with pale flames that sputtered faintly in the draft. She found herself intrigued. Ravenclaw tower had been high and airy; here, the castle seemed to fold inward, close and secretive.

For the first time, she was seeing the underbelly of Hogwarts – and she couldn’t help but think it suited Potions perfectly.

“I love brewing potions. They’re subtle, complicated things. Precise, but never easy. If you know the rules – if you respect them – they’ll always answer back. It isn’t flashy magic. It is calm… but depending on the brewer, it can be deadly. There is practically nothing you can’t do when it comes to potions.”

She was about to say more when a thunderous boom rattled the door at the end of the hall. Both girls stopped dead. Chaerin frowned and turned to Ilsa. Her friend blinked back through the lenses of her round glasses, expression unreadable.

“As someone who’s been doing potions almost all my life,” Chaerin started, “I’d say explosions are a pretty... normal part of it.”

Before Ilsa could reply, a thick cloud of smoke oozed from the gap beneath the classroom door. It rolled into the corridor, acrid and heavy. This was definitely not normal, and Chaerin started to look wary now. Meanwhile, Ilsa tilted her head, voice airy. “Maybe we should check. The last time that happened, three students spent the night in the Hospital Wing. One of them still had the mark under his eyebrows until now.”

Chaerin nodded once and pushed the door open. At once, smoke poured over them, stinging her eyes and burning down her throat. She coughed, bringing her sleeve to her mouth, and tried to fan herself with one hand.

“I think someone just burned their potion,” she managed, her voice rasping in the haze.

Ilsa parted her lips to answer – but then a sharp wheeze tore through the smoke.

“Watch out!” someone shouted.

Chaerin ducked on instinct just as a cauldron went sailing over her head and crashed into the flagstones behind her, spilling what looked like a glowing purple sludge. Chaerin straightened, heart hammering. “Merlin!” she hissed. If she had been late in dodging, the cauldron would have hit her square on the face. For a split second, she honestly wondered if she had taken a wrong turn somewhere – this couldn’t possibly be Potions class. It was a full-blown circus.

“Oops, I wrecked the cauldron,” said a voice. Chaerin turned and saw that the smoke had thinned just enough to reveal two boys at the center of the chaos. One of them was a boy with untidy black hair, grinning as though this disaster were the finest joke he’d ever pulled. Beside him was another, dark-haired and good-looking, his sharp features gave him a certain kind of aristocratic air – even as he laughed through the haze like chaos was part of his very nature. Judging from the wand on his hand, it was pretty clear that he was responsible for the flying cauldron. Though, he clearly didn’t feel any remorse about almost hitting Chaerin in the face with his stunt.

The dark-haired boy waved his wand lazily, and the cauldron and the sludge immediately disappeared from the flagstone. Then he turned to the boy with untidy hair and said, half-laughing, half-grinning, “Try the porcupine quills next.”

“You’re mad,” his companion drawled, though the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “But if it makes the smoke pink, it’ll be worth it.”

Chaerin stared, incredulous, her annoyance bubbling through. “What in the bloody hell?” she muttered. She turned toward Ilsa, who had followed her in with the same unbothered calm she carried everywhere. “Who are they?”

“James Potter and Sirius Black,” Ilsa said, calmly brushing soot off her sleeve. “You’ll hear their names often enough. They’re either Gryffindor’s pride… or Gryffindor’s headache. Depends who you ask.”

Before Chaerin could say anything else, a voice came from just behind them. “Sorry about them.”

She glanced back to see a sandy-haired boy with a stack of neatly held books. His voice was quiet, almost resigned, as though he’d been through this routine a hundred times before.

“They’re my friends,” he added, eyes flicking to James and Sirius. Chaerin couldn’t tell if he was fond of them, or wanted to get rid of them entirely. Chaerin noticed the gleaming Prefect badge on his chest, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Bit of a wonder someone of your… caliber would be friends with such…,” she eyed the two boys again before continuing, “clowns.” She shook her head, then let out a weary sigh. Potions was her favorite subject, and she clearly wanted no part of a lesson overshadowed by these two.

“They can be a bit… full of themselves,” the sandy-haired boy said again, pointing with his chin to his two friends. Chaerin let out a huff of humorless laugh.

“No kidding,” she said, and the boy smiled. “I am Lupin, by the way. Remus Lupin.”

“Yi Chaerin,” said Chaerin, shaking the boy’s hand. “Though… I think you already know me.”

“The Headmaster introduced you, yes,” said Lupin, smiling kindly, “but it was my first time meeting you in person.” Chaerin looked up at him.

He did look nice, gentler in comparison to his two chaotic friends. There was something quietly steady about him. His sand-blonde hair was a little tousled, and there were faint lines of weariness underneath his eyes, as though he carried far more than a fifteen-year-old ought to. Yet his smile was warm and genuine, and his gaze held a kind of patience that made Chaerin feel less like a stranger.

Nevertheless, the thought of spending potions with two rascals who clearly didn’t understand the subtle, complicated art of brewing made Chaerin sigh inwardly. “Nice to meet you,” she said politely to Lupin, who returned it with the same courtesy. Then, with a nod, Chaerin caught Ilsa lightly by the wrist and led her toward an empty table at the far corner. They both sat down, and Chaerin once again sent a cross look toward James and Sirius, who were completely oblivious to her disdain. In fact, they were laughing again, arguing over which ingredient would make the next explosion even more spectacular.

“Good afternoon, students!” Chaerin turned when a genial voice boomed from the doorway. She saw a wizard strutting in. He had a somewhat portly build with a neatly trimmed mustache and thinning hair slicked carefully back, his velvet robes straining at the seams as though they had been made a size too small. There was something about him both imposing and indulgent, as if he could be stern one moment and laughing with you the next.

Professor Slughorn – Hogwarts’ Potions Master.

Professor Slughorn walked toward the front of the class, the tip of his wand already raised. His eyes landed immediately on the chaos at James and Sirius’s cauldron, which was still bubbling furiously, belching smoke that had now turned an alarming shade of bright melon green. His mustache twitched as his brow furrowed. With a single wave of his wand, the cauldron’s bubbling contents vanished without a trace.

“Potions, gentlemen,” Slughorn said, his voice mild, but Chaerin noticed the edge of disappointment, “are meant to be brewed, not detonated. Detonating lessons can come some other time, in some other class.”

Chaerin cheered inwardly – finally someone was talking sense in this class! No wonder he was the Potions Master – Chaerin felt her respect for the professor just skyrocketed. Just as she was about to bring out her quills and parchment from inside her bag, her eyes caught sight of the thick volume Flitwick had given her that morning – the Hogwarts Study Guide. To her astonishment, the pages, which had been blank mere hours ago, were no longer empty. They were scribbling across themselves in neat, curling script as though an invisible hand were taking dictation.

Chaerin’s eyes widened. She flipped through quickly, and found that a lot of its contents were actually already ‘unlocked’. One page showed a delicate sketch of Ravenclaw Tower, as well as the common room. Then there was another page describing the Great Hall, the Sorting Ceremony, the Houses… everything that Chaerin had learned on her first day up until today seemed to have been documented.  What’s more, the brief entries of each page seemed to grow clearer the longer she stared. So it was definitely not a one time thing, she thought, more information would be added here the more I know about a certain topic.

She quickly flipped to the back of the pages, and finally stopped when she reached a whole empty section. Different from the earlier pages, this one had headers that said – to be written by you.  So I’m supposed to fill this in myself, Chaerin realized, but by what?

Chaerin glanced up across the room, to where James Potter and Sirius Black were still smirking at each other like the chaos had been their crowning achievement. Her lips thinned. Oh, well. She as well might….

She turned back to her Hogwarts Study Guide, dipped her quill, and with deliberate strokes wrote at the top of one waiting page:

Black + Potter = Hazard.

She underlined it twice.

Avoid them at all costs, she added beneath, then snapped the book shut, turning her attention back to Slughorn.

“Welcome, students!” Slughorn beamed at them from the front of the class. The Potions Master was certainly glad to be back to work, he was always eager when teaching about his favorite subject. “Welcome back to another fine year of Potions. Now, this year, you would all be facing your important O.W.L exams –“ Chaerin heard several students groaning “– no excuses! You must all be working as diligently as Bowtruckles guarding their tree and I am going to make sure that you do it! Now, let’s see how much you still remember after a long summer, eh?”

He clasped his hands and peered down the rows. “Let’s start simple. Which ingredient, when incorrectly prepared, produces a toxic green gas rather than the expected neutral infusion?”

Several students shifted, avoiding his gaze. Lily Evans’s hand shot into the air. “Erumpent horn, Professor. If powdered too finely, it destabilizes, and the whole mixture turns volatile.”

“Ten points to Gryffindor!” Slughorn crowed, beaming. “Excellent recall, Miss Evans. Yes, indeed –  Erumpent horn is nasty business if one isn’t careful. Well done.”

Chaerin kept her quill poised over her open book, her expression carefully neutral. She had known the answer – Erumpent horn was notoriously unstable, she had learned it in her second year in Mahoutokoro. But she didn’t raise her hand. At her old school, it was considered boastful to wave your hand at every chance; mastery was measured in restraint, not in clamoring to be first. The Mahoutokoro way was to let skill show itself when it mattered, not in small demonstrations for attention.

So instead of attempting to answer the questions the professor threw to the students, she let her gaze wander down the page of her textbook, skimming the chapters earmarked for their year. Most of it was ground she had already covered back home: strengthening solutions, moderate sleeping drafts, the basics of antidote theory. But her eyes caught on something that made her smirk quietly – an advanced assignment later in the year: brewing the Draught of Peace. That was no small feat. She’d never attempted it, and Mahoutokoro had only introduced it to final-year students due to the draught’s complex brewing technique and its potentially dangerous side effects if brewed incorrectly. She was quietly pleased that Hogwarts had put it as an O.W.L. curriculum. This way, she would have the chance to attempt making the draught.

Meanwhile, Slughorn had now walked a few steps down the aisle, eyes flicking over the rows of students with a kind of eager delight, as though quizzing them was his favorite sport. Not every student mirrored his enthusiasm. A few slouched over their desks, quills idle; others exchanged resigned glances, already bracing themselves for the questions he was clearly itching to fire.

“Miss Lovegood,” Slughorn said at last, spotting Ilsa sitting at the very far end of the classroom. “Tell me – what effect results when asphodel is combined with an infusion of wormwood?”

Ilsa froze, her quill hovering. “It’s… er – ”

Chaerin glanced sideways and murmured, just for Ilsa: “A deathlike sleep – the base of the Draught of Living Death.”

Ilsa straightened. “It produces a powerful, deathlike sleep, Professor – the foundation of the Draught of Living Death.”

“Exactly,” Slughorn said, pleased. “Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

Ilsa gave Chaerin a sheepish smile, lips twitching as if she wasn’t sure whether to thank her or apologize. Chaerin only shrugged, tapping her quill against her parchment.

“And now,” Slughorn said, sweeping around toward the Gryffindor table, “Mr. Black. Let’s see what you know. What is the primary difference between powdered root of asphodel and sliced?”

Chaerin folded her arms, already smirking. She had watched him stir chaos into a cauldron not half an hour ago. No chance he’d know the answer.

But Sirius, who leaned back somewhat lazily on his bench, answered smoothly, “Powdered gives you full potency, but sliced keeps the solution stable for longer. Depends if you want strength or shelf life.”

Slughorn’s mustache quivered with approval. “Precisely! Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Chaerin’s brows shot up before she could stop herself. She had been certain he’d blunder it. Instead, he’d delivered the answer with the same ease as tossing off a joke. She pressed her lips together, irritation pricking sharper than before. So he did know his potions. He simply didn’t care enough to treat the craft with respect.

Worse than ignorance, Chaerin thought sourly, was talent wasted on arrogance.

She didn’t have the chance to be annoyed for long though, because just then Professor Slughorn turned his back to the class. With a flick of his wand, a piece of chalk leapt to the board and scrawled in bold, precise strokes:

STRENGTHENING SOLUTION.

“Today,” Slughorn said, his eyes were practically glowing with enthusiasm, “We will be brewing the Strengthening Solution – a tonic designed to fortify stamina and restore vigor. A practical brew, not too flashy, but demanding enough to remind you that precision is everything. And I assure you, precision is everything in Potions.”

He tapped the board once more, and the chalk obediently scribbled: Page 142.

“Open your books, if you please. And – ah, yes – since I don’t want you all growing stagnant beside your dearest friends, let’s stir things up a little. Why don’t I assign you in pairs to work on this solution?”

He waved his wand again, and with a sparkle of light, names began appearing in glowing lines on the blackboard. The sound in the room shifted at once: benches screeched across the flagstones, satchels thumped to the floor, and students shuffled about to find their partners. Chaerin, meanwhile, found herself freezing, scanning her name among the row of other names scribbled on the board. She found it eventually, but she frowned when she read the name next to hers.

Mary Macdonald.

Her eyes lingered on the unfamiliar name. Mary… who? She glanced around quickly, but the faces were a blur. Students were busy shuffling into places with their new partners. At her side, Ilsa was already rising from her bench. “Well then,” she said lightly, “Guess I’ll see you later, Chaerin.

“Hey, wai – ”, Chaerin was about to catch Ilsa by the sleeve, but her friend had already slipped off into the shifting crowd, swallowed among the shuffle of benches and voices.”Right,” Chaerin sighed. She only needed to find Mary Macdonald. Simple enough. But how should she start? The room was already breaking into pairs, laughter rising, chairs screeching across stone, ingredients being shuffled onto desks. Everyone seemed to know where they belonged. Everyone but her.

Her gaze darted across the classroom, scanning the faces. Which one was Mary? Should she stand and call out? Wait for Mary to approach her?

Just then, a hesitant voice broke through the din. “Um… you are Yi Chaerin, right? I’m Mary.”

Chaerin turned, feeling relief flooding through her. At last, her partner had sought her out. Chaerin’s eyes focused on the girl – pretty, with long, dark hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders. Recognition sparked almost instantly. “Oh – you’re the girl from the train,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

Mary giggled, cheeks pink. “Yes, that was me. And you caught me at quite an embarrassing moment, I must say – ” She slid onto the bench beside Chaerin with an open, bright smile that made Chaerin feel like she’d known her for a while, despite the fact that this was only the second time they’ve met. “Trust me, it’s not every day I manage to singe a seat trying to make my curls permanent…”

Chaerin smiled lightly despite herself. Mary’s bright personality and good humor undoubtedly help her ease the tension that she felt as an outsider.

As the benches quieted and pairs finally settled into place, Lily cast a glance across the classroom. Her green eyes lingered briefly on Chaerin, who was now preparing her ingredients while chatting with Mary, her expression a bit friendlier compared to the last time Lily had seen her on the train. Leaning toward Marlene, she muttered, “I thought the scholarship bearer would be a bit more… keen in class. She didn’t even answer one question asked by Professor Slughorn.”

Marlene arched a brow, a faint smirk forming at her mouth. “Oh? Think you’re sharper than her now, do you?”

Lily flushed pink, fumbling with her knife. “That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly, ducking her head. She cleared her throat and quickly changed the topic. “Anyway – what’s the latest with you and Black?”

Marlene gave a long-suffering sigh, tossing a bit of ginger root onto the board. “Currently ‘on.’ Ask me again in ten minutes and it’ll probably be ‘off.’ He’s impossible – like trying to hold onto a broom in a gale.”

Lily gave her a look. “Honestly Mar. I don’t know how you put up with him.”

Marlene shrugged, lips twitching in a smile despite her earlier complaints. “When he’s not a menace, he’s a laugh. Worth the trouble… sometimes. What about you and Potter, then?”

Lily rolled her eyes and shook her head in clear disdain. “I wouldn’t go out with James Potter if it was between him and the Giant Squid.”

Marlene snorted, a giggle slipping out loud enough to earn a sharp look from Slughorn. She bent her head quickly, knives clicking on the woodboard as if she had been slicing ingredients all along.

A few benches over from the girls, the Marauders had gathered close. Adam McKinnon wedged himself between James and Sirius with a grin so wide it could have split his face in half.

“So,” Adam said under his breath, just loud enough for them, “How’re the champions of last night holding up? Still a bit green round the gills? I’ll remind you – ” he paused for effect, smirk widening, “ – you both keeled over before I did. Which means, lads, I get to pick your forfeit.”

“Go on then, Adam,” said James, slicing his ginger root, “We gentlemen don’t go back on our words.”

“What’s the punishment then, McKinnon?” Sirius wondered, the spark in Adam’s eyes suddenly made him wary.

Adam leaned in and smirked dangerously. “I was thinking pink tutus. Both of you. Centre of the Great Hall at supper. Pirouette and curtsey for the whole school.”

James went white. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I bloody well would,” Adam said, delighting in James’s horror. “And I’ll be sure Marlene’s there. Evans, too.”

Sirius straightened up so fast his chair screeched. “Absolutely not. I’d sooner hex myself bald. You’re not putting me in a tutu in front of – ” He broke off, throwing a desperate glance toward the Gryffindor girls’ table.

James looked scandalized. “If Evans ever saw me in a tutu I’d have no dignity left. I’d sooner drop out of school.”

“Like you have any dignity left to lose,” Remus remarked dryly from the table over while calmly grinding his scarab beetles. “I’d say, go on with it, Adam. Might teach these two a little thing called… humility.”

James shot him a mock hurtful look. “How could you, Remus?”

“Don’t look at me,” Remus said mildly, eyes back on his board. “You made your bed. Or your tutu, as it were.”

Sirius gave him a betrayed look. “Traitor.”

“Yours truly,” Remus shrugged, lips twitching, clearly enjoying this more than he ought to.

Meanwhile, back at Chaerin and Mary’s table, the two girls had started working on their Strengthening Solution, chopping, measuring, and grinding ingredients as they talked. Mary leaned closer, her voice lowered to keep out of Slughorn’s hearing.

“It must be strange for you,” she remarked, slicing her ginger roots a little unevenly. “Being the only new fifth-year. Everyone else here’s practically grown up together since we were eleven.”

Chaerin gave a small nod. “It is a little odd. But not something I can’t manage. In a way –  I was also an outsider in Mahoutokoro, being a Korean in a Japanese school. I just get used to finding my own place.”

Mary’s eyes widened with curiosity. “What was it like, then? Mahoutokoro?”

Chaerin heaved a deep sigh, and her expression suddenly turned toward one of longing. “The thing I love the most about it was the sea. The hall had arched windows that opened to the sea. The floors were volcanic stone, polished so smooth they reflected the lanterns like water. And always the smell of salt, carried in by the sea breeze. It was… beautiful.”

Mary’s lips curved in awe. “That sounds grand. I’d love to visit one day.”

Chaerin let out a faint smile. “You could. I’d take you.”

Mary beamed, but her attention drifted back to their cauldron as she tipped in her next measure. A second later, the potion hissed violently, bubbling high and turning an alarming shade of sickly violet.

Both girls jumped. Chaerin looked up sharply, scanning the frothing surface. “How did you prepare your valerian root?” she asked quickly.

“Ground,” Mary blurted, panic already in her voice.

Chaerin shook her head. “It should have been cut. Grinding releases too much of the active compound.”

Mary’s hands flew to her hair. “Oh no – no, no, no. We should trash this one and remake it. I’ll get more ingredients.” She darted toward the potions cabinet, rummaged desperately, and returned empty-handed, her face pale. “There’s nothing left! We’re ruined – we’ll get zero for this assignment – ”

“Don’t panic,” said Chaerin calmly, rolling her sleeve and taking a look quickly at the potion. Large bubbles were beginning to fill the surface, and judging from the smoke, it looked dangerously close to exploding. “We can fix this.”

Mary blinked, on the edge of tears. “How?”

“Add a pinch of powdered nettles,” Chaerin instructed firmly. “Then two drops of salamander blood. And stir counter-clockwise for fifteen minutes – don’t stop.”

Mary’s eyes went wide. “Counter-clockwise? But the book – ”

“I know what the book says,” Chaerin cut in. “Trust me.”

Mary’s hands shook as she followed the instructions, but the moment the nettles dissolved and the salamander blood hit the brew, the hissing began to ease. She stirred carefully, counter-clockwise, and after a few tense moments the potion calmed, settling into the deep-red color the book had described.

Mary’s relief burst out in a gasp. “Chaerin – it’s working! It’s actually working!”

Before Chaerin could reply, a shadow fell over their bench. Professor Slughorn loomed beside them, mustache twitching as he peered into their cauldron.

“Well, well,” he said, sounding both surprised and delighted. “That is… quite unorthodox. Not the textbook method at all. Who thought of that?”

Mary was still breathless. “Chaerin did, Professor. I made a mistake in preparing the ingredients that made the potion erratic. But she saved us.”

Slughorn’s gaze shifted to Chaerin, eyes bright with interest. “Did she, now? And how, may I ask, did you know it would stabilize?”

Chaerin sat straighter, her tone measured as she answered Slughorn, “Sir. My family has always worked with medicine. I myself have been experimenting with potions since I was young, so I’ve learned how certain ingredients behave – and how they react to one another. Salamander blood on its own would have made the reaction worse, but when balanced with powdered nettles it acts as a neutralising agent, burning out the excess released from the ground valerian. The counter-clockwise stir was to slow the reaction and reduce the potency of the unstable compound, giving the mixture time to settle. It is just something that I learned from my own experience.”

“Ah – and yet, like they said, experience is the best teacher!” Slughorn gave a pleased chuckle, patting his hands together. “Splendid, splendid. Twenty points for Ravenclaw for your superb brewing technique and deep knowledge for the arts, Miss Yi! I’d say – you must come to tea one evening this week with me. I should very much like to hear more about your work.”

“With pleasure, Sir,” said Chaerin, her face a little bit flushed from the professor’s compliment.

Mary shot Chaerin a look of wide-eyed amazement as the professor moved off. “You saved our grades,” she whispered fervently.

Chaerin smiled at her, shrugging lightly, “It was nothing.”

That night, the Gryffindor common room had emptied bit by bit until only a few remained by the fire. Sirius and James had managed to talk Adam McKinnon out of his tutu punishment, slipping him the last of their contraband firewhisky with solemn promises that “something much more thrilling” was coming. After a lot of convincing from James and Sirius’s side, Adam had laughed, shaken his head like he couldn’t believe them, and finally gone upstairs, bottle under his arm.

As soon as his footsteps faded, James leaned closer to Sirius and Remus, voice dropping to a murmur. “Well, that’s him dealt with. Now – what about our Project Moonrise?”

Remus quickly cast a wary look toward the surrounding. “Lower your voice, James,” he said. “We nearly got blown-out by some second-years last time, the way you talked loudly about it like no one was listening…”

“Luckily, Remus quickly told them the corridor’s out of access,” Peter grinned, recalling.

Sirius stretched out in his chair, grinning. “Relax, Remus. Did you see this deserted common room? No one’s here but us. And James is right – it’s about time we had another go.”

“I nearly managed the hooves last time,” said James, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Felt wrong in the joints, but I could tell I was close. I might need to look at some more references.”

“Count me in if you’re going to the Restricted Section again. I’ve been fighting with the snout myself,” Sirius admitted, running a hand through his dark hair. “It comes in, but won’t bloody stay. Collapses right back. Like it knows I don’t mean it.”

Peter, who had been fidgeting on the edge of his seat, piped up too loudly, “I got whiskers! Just for a second!”

“Keep your voice down, Wormtail,” Remus hissed, casting a worried glance at the staircase. “Honestly. You’ll wake even the portraits if you carry on like that.”

Peter shrank a little, his face red.

James stood abruptly and ruffled his hair. He seemed to have a sudden burst of energy thrumming through him. “We’re not going to get anywhere down here. Too many ears. Let’s move it upstairs.”

His friends nodded. They all rose quickly, slipping past the embers of the common room fire and up the spiral staircase. Inside their dormitory, Sirius flicked his wand at the door to set up a quiet alarm charm. That would tell them when anyone was getting near their door. Another wave of Silencio and a hush fell – now no one would ever see or hear them experimenting with illegal animagi transformation.

“Better,” Sirius said, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Out of prying eyes over here.”

James’s grin widened. “Right, lads. Let’s see if we can push it further this time.”

The four of them then huddled close, ready to resume their ‘secret’ project: the project that would later give birth to Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs – Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers – but first and foremost, the faithful and loyal guardians, and companions, to Moony.

But that was a story for another time.

Chapter Text

Professor Horiyuki Takahashi’s office always smelled faintly of traces of metal, with bitter undertone of dried herbs, as though centuries of experiment in this very room had made the smell seep to the pores of the gleaming volcanic stone walls. Scrolls were stacked in uneven towers along the walls, some tied neatly with silk cords, others spilling open in curling waves of ink, bringing with it smells of mold and dust. Shelves groaned beneath jars of rare minerals, boxes of powdered roots, and vials of liquids that glimmered faintly in the lamplight. At the very center stood a heavy lacquered desk, its surface polished to a dark sheen, scattered with quills and alchemical diagrams drawn in delicate brushstrokes.

Behind it sat Professor Takahashi, Mahoutokoro’s Master of Alchemy. His hair was long and white, gathered at the nape in a simple tie. Despite his age, his back was still straight as a stave. Deep lines etched his face, but his eyes were keen and bright, as if they had long ago learned to pierce through both stone and soul. A bronze ring gleamed faintly on his finger – etched with sigils that no students seemed to have deciphered.

That evening, Professor Takahashi was alone in his office, burning incense of agarwood to calm his mind, while studying complex alchemical diagrams. He was alone not for a long time though, for a  knock came at the door. He raised his head from the diagram he had been observing, and kindly called, “Enter,” to the visitor. He had been expecting someone indeed.

The door slid open, and in came Chaerin. Her straight black hair was tied neatly behind her back, her golden Mahoutokoro robes shimmering as she stepped inside Takahashi’s room. The professor gestured for her to come nearer, and she nodded. She bowed respectfully before moving closer.

“Sit, child,” he said kindly, gesturing toward the cushion before his desk. His hand, thin and wrinkled with age but still steady, reached for a parchment scroll lying among his papers. He passed it to her without any preamble. Chaerin accepted it, frowning as she unfolded the scroll. She observed the top of the parchment, bearing a crest of a lion, eagle, badger, and serpent arranged around a shield. Under the crest, in bold lettering, it read: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“Hogwarts?” she recognized the name at once, and blinked, lifting her gaze to the professor. “What do you want me to do with this, Professor?”

Instead of answering, Takahashi simply smiled at her. “You have learned all that I can offer you,” the professor said gently, folding his hands atop the desk. “Your mastery here is unquestionable.I feel that you are now ready for something more – something that I, myself,  cannot give.”

Chaerin took a few moments to let the professor’s words sink in. When she spoke again, it was slow and calculated, as though she was trying to gauge the Professor’s meaning.

“So – do you want me to…,” she flicked her gaze once more to the parchment scroll. “To attend Hogwarts? To transfer there?”

“Precisely,” said Takahashi, and Chaerin shook her head at once. “But… Professor, I couldn’t. It would be too difficult. I don’t think Hogwarts would accept a transfer student so far into their studies. And also, financially– ”

“That can be arranged,” Takahashi raised a hand to stop Chaerin from talking further, and gently said, “Have you heard of the Laurea Arcanum?”

“The prestigious scholarship?” Chaerin’s eyebrows immediately shot up. “I’ve heard there have been no successful applicants in the past century.”

“That’s because no one has been worthy enough for it to be bestowed upon,” Takahashi said calmly. “But I believe you can, Chaerin.”

“Oh no,” she shook her head. “I – I can’t possibly, Professor. Only the most brilliant of minds are bestowed that scholarship, and I –“

“And are you not the most brilliant of minds?” Takahashi smiled slightly at her, eyes glinting as he looked at her pupil with a sort of fatherly fondness. “You have obtained the Mahoutokoro Golden Robe toward the end of your fourth year… I would say, not many students can achieve that.” Chaerin blushed pink. Compliments didn’t come often from Takahashi, so Chaerin knew just how meaningful it was.

“The Laurea Arcanum is a prestigious scholarship indeed. And like any other prestige, it is awarded only to the rarest of talents, to make sure they can pursue the right kinds of education, no matter where it is in the world,” Takahashi continued. “It was a pact, established long ago by the people of our kin, and perhaps one of the rare examples where wizards and witches all over the world had truly agreed on something,” he tapped his fingers slowly to his desk, and looked straight at Chaerin, as though trying to erase doubts from her mind. “With this,” he said kindly, “you would have the means to continue pursuing your study at alchemy.”

Chaerin’s fingers hesitated on the parchment, her breath catching. “But… say that I do win this scholarship to study at Hogwarts… why must I study so far away? Why can’t I continue here, in Mahoutokoro?”

Takahashi’s eyes twinkled faintly as he answered Chaerin’s question. He stood up behind his desk, and began to pace lightly around the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “Do you still remember the philosophy of Eastern Alchemy that I taught you at the very beginning?” he asked finally to Chaerin, who nodded solemnly.

“Eastern Alchemy teaches harmony – that strength lies in patience, in preserving balance, and in honoring the whole before the self,” she recited it fluently, as though reading from an open book. “The philosophy of ‘harmony as a whole’ is also the foundation of much of our magic works, from spellworks to potions.”

“Indeed, you’ve never lost your edge,” Takahashi smiled, and Chaerin straightened herself, looking proud. “But I believe you have yet to learn about the Western alchemy. Western philosophy in the fields of magic celebrates the individual – that each person’s path, talent, and will is unique, and it is to be pursued and refined. One is shaped by community, the other by individuality. Neither is lesser than the other. Together, they do not cancel each other, but complete each other. An Alchemist who learns both will not only mix ingredients, but unite philosophies – and in that union lies true mastery.”

Her brow furrowed, but she listened as he leaned forward slightly, trying to digest his words.

“If you wish to master the art – truly master it – you must walk both paths. Learn their language of magic, as you have learned ours. Only then can you weave them together into something greater than either alone.”

Chaerin stared down once more at the Hogwarts crest on the parchment. For a long while, she didn’t say anything. Takahashi observed her silently, knowing how tangled her thoughts must have been. Then, as though to supply his own help to her, Takahashi’s voice softened, almost fatherly. “Alchemy at Hogwarts is not taught until the seventh year. But… I have spoken with old colleagues. Arrangements can be made. You would be given special private lessons beginning in your fifth year. It is an opportunity few are ever granted.”

Chaerin looked up. Takahashi could almost see something like a fire in her eyes, or even if it wasn’t there, he knew that the embers had been lit.

“Do not answer now. Take your time. Think. But remember, child… chances like this do not come twice. When they appear, you must decide if you will take them – or let them slip away.”

This morning was Herbology in the outdoor greenhouses, and she was late.

Chaerin was moving quickly down the long stone corridor, her book bag swaying on her right shoulder, when an explosion of noise drew her attention. She heard laughter, and cheers, which made her wonder if something extraordinarily good was happening. She slowed as she rounded the corner, but the next sight that she witnessed made her raise her eyebrows in question.

Up ahead, in the midst of the crowd of people, she saw James Potter and Sirius Black. That didn’t make her surprised, because she’d known their reputation as mischief-makers, and just how much they loved being the center of attention. What really caught her attention was that they had another student with them. And judging from the silver and green on his robes, he must have been a Slytherin.

And not only that, they were pranking him.

James had his wand out, and had used a spell to send the Slytherin’s stack of books hovering several feet above his head, bobbing cruelly just out of reach. Each time the boy jumped for them, James flicked his wand to make them drift higher, smirking all the while. His partner in mischief, Sirius Black, stood close by with his arms folded. Chaerin noticed an unmistakable glint of delight in his grey eyes.

She felt sick immediately. She had known them as arrogant pranksters, loud and reckless – but this? This was bullying. No other than cruelty, plain and sharp. Her stomach clenched.

The Slytherin lunged once more, fingertips grazing the lowest spine of his books. In that instant Sirius’s wand darted up. “Petrificus Totalus!”

The effect was immediate: the boy’s limbs snapped stiff as boards and he toppled forward, hitting the flagstones face-first with a sickening thud. The corridor rang with laughter as several Gryffindor onlookers doubled over, clapping each other’s shoulders. James and Sirius leaned on each other, howling.

“See ya later, Snivellus!” Sirius called, grinning wide. James added, “Hope you’re not late to class!” Then, still laughing, the two of them swaggered off, robes billowing behind them.

Chaerin stood frozen for a heartbeat. Pushing through the crowd, she knelt beside the fallen boy and flicked her wand to release the jinx. His limbs loosened immediately, and she quickly gathered the books that had clattered around him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice low, as she touched his shoulder lightly.

The boy pushed himself up, his face pale and sallow beneath lank curtains of black hair. His nose was long, his expression sharper still, and his dark eyes burned with something between fury and humiliation. He glanced at her hand, still resting on his shoulder, as though it were a stain.

“I don’t need help,” he said stiffly, shaking her off. He stood at once, dusting his robes with brisk, sharp motions. When he brushed the spot she had touched – as if to erase the contact – his lip curled in open disdain. Without another word, he gathered his books to his chest and stormed away, his steps echoing down the corridor.

Chaerin straightened slowly, blinking after him. She didn’t want to admit it, but being turned down so harshly by someone she thought she was helping did sting quite a bit. Wow, she thought, offended surprise flickering through her. Rude.

The crowd had already thinned, leaving her with only the lingering echo of laughter. She exhaled, squared her shoulders, and turned toward the greenhouses. When she finally arrived at Greenhouse Five, it was one minute toward the start of the lesson. Students had already taken their seats, and she quickly slipped in beside Ilsa, huffing as she sat down.

“Home run,” Chaerin whispered, trying to make a joke out of her situation, but Ilsa only looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean? Are you running back home?” she asked, and Chaerin immediately realized her mistake bringing Baseball terms up to a pureblood witch. She quickly shook her head. “Nevermind,” she said. In front of the class, Professor Sprout had started her lesson.

“Welcome back, everyone,” Professor Sprout’s voice rang warmly through the greenhouse, though there was a firmness beneath it that brooked no nonsense. She clapped her hands together once, sending a few stray spores drifting off the cuffs of her sleeves. “This is your fifth year at Hogwarts, and I must remind you – there will be no time to rest. Your O.W.L.s are coming.”

A chorus of groans rose from both the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables. Chaerin noted with amusement that it wasn’t only the usual slackers who winced; even some of the more studious types let their heads thump against the table in despair. Every professor they had met so far that week had mentioned the looming exams, as though repeating it often enough might make students absorb their knowledge faster by the sheer force of dread.

Chaerin didn’t quite know what she thought about the exams. Obviously, being a transfer student at Hogwarts in her fifth year, she didn’t have as much time as she would have liked to prepare for them. And yet, she considered herself quite lucky that she wasn’t behind on lessons here. She was pretty confident she would pass if she studied for it diligently.

Shifting in her seat, Chaerin took a moment to look around, to commit faces and names to memory. Rows of Ravenclaws she mostly recognized already – sharp-eyed girls bent over their notes, boys already elbowing each other under the table – but it was the Slytherin table opposite them that drew her curiosity.

Her gaze swept over them one by one, until she saw something that unbearably caught her attention. She blinked once, twice – but sure enough, there he was.

Pale skin, dark lank hair framing a long nose and a pinched expression. The very same boy that she had just helped on the corridor earlier. There was a certain stiffness in his posture, as though he half expected someone to attack him with a hex. Couldn’t be helped, considering what just happened to him in the corridor. Chaerin’s eyes widened despite herself. So he’s a fifth year too, she thought inwardly.

As if sensing the weight of her stare, the boy looked up. Their eyes met across the rows of potted plants. For a heartbeat, recognition flashed between them. Chaerin’s surprise was plain, but his face closed almost instantly, offended, defensive. He held her gaze just long enough to make it uncomfortable, then turned sharply away, focusing on the soil-filled pots in front of him.

Chaerin blinked, drawing back slightly in her seat. Whatever gratitude she thought she might see was nowhere to be found. Only that same wall of disdain.

Meanwhile, Professor Sprout’s voice carried on above the students’ murmurs, oblivious to the quiet clash of glances happening in her class. She clapped her hands once, sharply, and the noise of the greenhouse hushed.

“Now,” she began, her round cheeks ruddy beneath the wide brim of her hat, “Herbology is not simply about keeping magical plants alive and watered. It is also about knowing what they can do – their uses, their dangers, their… potentials. Any good witch or wizard can pull weeds. But a true Herbologist knows how to wield what grows.”

She shuffled her parchment roll, eyes scanning the attendance list until her gaze caught. “Ah. Why don’t we ask our new transfer student, now? Miss Yi Chaerin.”

Chaerin straightened in her seat, suddenly aware of dozens of heads swiveling toward her.

“Tell me, Miss Yi,” Professor Sprout asked, “what is the Venomous Tentacula most commonly used for?”

The answer rose unbidden to her tongue. “Its fangs and juices are prized for certain defensive potions, like Antidotes to Uncommon Poisons. But in some regions, parts of the plant are also used in er – ‘carefully controlled’ elixirs to enhance magical strength.”

Professor Sprout’s eyes brightened. “Excellent! Ten points to Ravenclaw.”

A ripple of murmurs rose across the greenhouse, but amid them Chaerin caught a distinct sound: a quick, muffled snicker. It wasn’t loud, but sharp enough to sting her ears. She turned at once, scanning the rows of faces – all were blankly polite, some bent studiously over their gloves. No sneers, no laughter. Just… nothing.

Chaerin frowned and turned back, uneasy.

“Your task today,” Professor Sprout ordered briskly. ”Is to trim and care for your Venomous Tentacula. I want their thorns clipped neatly, the roots checked, and no injuries if you please. Now, get your gardening tools and pair off!”

Chaerin worked with Ilsa, who was eyeing their plant – a thick mass of tendrils already twitching restlessly – with obvious reluctance.

“Not my favorite,” Ilsa muttered, tugging her gloves higher up her wrists. “Got stung once last year. Nasty welt.”

“It can sense fear, “ Chaerin said, putting her own gloves on. “If you stay calm, it won’t lash out.”

Ilsa shot her a doubtful look, but followed her lead. Slowly, carefully, they trimmed the writhing vines, dodging the occasional lash. By the time the bell rang to signal the end of class, their Tentacula gleamed with neat, orderly cuts.

“Good work, you two,” Professor Sprout praised as she moved past, inspecting.

Ilsa grinned, relieved that they were both able to finish the task without any accidents, and Chaerin smiled back at her. “I know you can do it,” she said proudly to Ilsa. She then gathered their tools and carried them back toward the tool shed.

When she was finished and was going to return to her table, her path was unexpectedly blocked. A tall Slytherin bloke stood squarely in front of her, arms crossed, his pale eyes fixed on her with something colder than curiosity.

“Excuse me,” Chaerin said, polite but firm. “I need to get through.”

He didn’t move. “Where did you say you came from again?” he said, and Chaerin immediately furrowed her brow. She didn’t like his condescending tone, nor did she feel like she had to answer it. “Move, please,” she said once again, still politely. But the student didn’t move. Instead, he took one step closer toward Chaerin, his tall figure looming over her. Chaerin tilted her head up just in time to see the boy’s eyes gleaming with hostility. Then he leaned in just slightly, lips curling as he spat what was clearly poison to her face.

 “You don’t belong here. Hogwarts isn’t for Mudbloods like you. Best run back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of!”

Chaerin could hear the class collectively gasping. The boy’s lips curled as stared at Chaerin, clearly satisfied at his attempts to make himself feel superior. Chaerin didn’t pay attention to any of it though. Immediately after she heard the word ‘Mudblood’, her ears were filled with strange ringing. She could hear her heart beating loudly inside her chest, pounding on her eardrums. Her pulse spiked hot. Her body must have reacted before her mind, because the next thing she knew, she had pulled out her wand and muttered a quick incantation under her breath. The student didn’t have time to react before a flash of purple-white burst from the tip of her wand, striking him square in the chest.

He flew backward as if hurled by an invisible hand, skidding across the greenhouse floor. Gasps erupted all around as students scrambled to make room. After a few seconds of horrified silence, the boy, who was lying still, flat on his face on the greenhouse floor, finally moved. He staggered upright, fury burning on his face. He opened his mouth to curse her, and then, unmistakably –

– a croak came out.

A wet, guttural frog’s croak.

He looked horrified. He clutched at his throat, then tried again to speak, only to let out another croak, bubbles of sound gurgling out uselessly. His eyes widened in horror as the realization sank in.

The onlookers immediately roared with laughter. Ravenclaws pounded the tables, even a few Slytherins snorted behind their hands. The boy’s rage only deepened with each ridiculous croak. Chaerin lowered her wand, her expression calm, almost satisfied, though her heart still hammered in her chest.

Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, when a shadow fell across the crowd.

“That’s enough!” Professor Sprout’s voice cracked like a whip as she parted the sea of students, eyes blazing. “Show’s over!” Her gaze locked onto Chaerin. “Miss Yi Chaerin, to the Headmaster’s office. Now!”

Back in Mahoutokoro, Chaerin rarely got into trouble. She was a good model student, adored and respected by peers and teachers. Now it almost seemed like she had changed into a completely different person. If anything, Chaerin never expected her first visit to the Headmaster’s office would be because she’d hexed someone on only her first few days here.

She had been sitting for what felt like forever on the cold stone steps at the base of the gargoyle statue that led to Dumbledore’s office, hands folded in her lap, eyes flicking up at the silent sentinel. She had almost begun to wonder if she had been forgotten entirely when, without warning, the gargoyle creaked, shifted, and suddenly hopped aside.

Chaerin blinked. The door behind it swung open, revealing a narrow, coiling staircase spiraling upward. She rose at once, smoothed her robes, and climbed the steps. At the top, she paused before the tall wooden door, lifted her hand, and knocked.

“Enter,” came McGonagall’s sharp, unmistakable voice.

She pushed the door open. The circular office was grand, shelves lined with curious trinkets and ancient tomes. But what caught her eye was the figure seated behind the headmaster’s desk: Professor McGonagall, stiff-backed and severe, flanked by two others – Professor Slughorn, the Head of Slytherin on one side, and Professor Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw on the other. The headmaster himself, Professor Dumbledore, didn't seem to be in the office today.

Chaerin stepped forward, hands clasped politely in front of her. She stopped before the desk, head bowed in a respectful incline.

“Miss Yi Chaerin?” McGonagall’s voice cut through the air.

Chaerin straightened quickly. “Present,” she said before she could stop herself.

The deputy headmistress’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, flicked to her. “Well, Miss Yi, you may be interested to know that Mr. Selwyn has been sent to the hospital wing. It took three hours and two professors to undo the hex you placed upon him.”

Chaerin gave a small nod, that was neither an apology nor acknowledgement. Behind McGonagall, Professor Slughorn gave a genial chuckle. “Curious choice of hex, if I may say so myself. Not one I’ve seen in quite a while. Eastern, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” McGonagall said sharply, cutting him a look.

Chaerin nodded slightly at Slughorn’s question. “The Hex of Croaking Oblivion,” she answered. “In the East, we use it on people who speak too much. Particularly those who don’t know when – or where – to keep quiet.”

From behind the deputy headmistress, Chaerin thought she caught the tiniest snicker, quickly smothered by Professor Flitwick as he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t start it,” Chaerin continued, heat rising in her voice. “He provoked me first. Called me a Mudblood and told me to go back to the hellhole I crawled out from.”

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, silence weighed down the room. Then she said, “Be that as it may, we cannot condone the unauthorized use of hexes during class. Ten points will be taken from Ravenclaw. And you, Miss Yi, will serve detention – helping Professor Slughorn log his potion ingredients, every day for a week, during your free time.”

Chaerin’s eyes flared, but she inclined her head. “Fair enough for me.” Her gaze flicked upward again. “And Selwyn?”

“He will be dealt with accordingly,” Slughorn assured her. “Once he gets out from the hospital wing, that is. You did put quite a number on him, after all.” He gave Chaerin a secret wink, and Chaerin quickly pressed her lips together to hide a smile.

“Excellent choice of hex, though, Miss Yi,” Slughorn remarked with a satisfied sigh, “Remarkably effective – ”

“Indeed, indeed,” Flitwick piped up, eyes glinting. “I’m pleased to see a most brilliant application of Eastern magic.”

“Gentlemen,” McGonagall’s gaze snapped to them both, sharp enough to silence them. Then she looked at Chaerin, nodding with her chin to indicate that her business there was over.

“That would be all,” she said, and Chaerin nodded. She slipped through the door with a small smile tugging at her lips. She might have got herself a detention, but for all that it’s worth, she wouldn’t have done it any other way.

Chaerin made it back to the Ravenclaw Tower right before dinner. The bronze eagle knocker had scarcely finished posing its riddle when she hurriedly answered it. The door to the Ravenclaw common room swung open, and Chaerin stepped through, adjusting her bag over her shoulder. She had meant to drop by quickly to her room and wash before dinner – when she was met with an explosion of sound.

“There she is!” someone shouted, and at once the whole common room erupted in cheers.

Startled, Chaerin froze mid-step. In a rush, students crowded around her, clapping her on the back and pressing all manner of snacks into her hands – Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Sugar Quills. Someone even poured a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans on her lap. She blinked down at the pile growing in her arms, bewildered.

“What –?” she began, but her words were drowned out by more cheers.

“We heard everything about Selwyn,” Chaerin spotted Ryder’s grinning face from among the crowd. “We all thought it’s brilliant, by the way.”

“You did?” Chaerin’s eyes grew wide. She looked around with surprise, and was met with grinning and smiling faces.

“Selwyn’s always such an awful bully,” said Ilsa. “But no one dares to lie a finger on him – until you did.” Chaerin looked at her as though she was joking. “But I lost us some points,” Chaerin said. “You can’t be too happy about that.”

“You’ll get us more, we all know you’re brill in class,” said a sixth-year Ravenclaw male student with sharp, angled features and dark, curly hair. “And a few point’s always worth it to see Selwyn getting hexed. I wish I was there to see it in person.”

“Oh, it was grand,” said a fifth-year Ravenclaw girl that Chaerin noticed was there during Herbology. “Definitely was the peak of our morning!”

Chaerin’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t quite find words. She simply stood there, caught in the current of excitement, her cheeks flushed. Finally, after rounds and rounds of getting pats in the back, congratulatory remarks for finally making it home at Hogwarts, and more snacks and treats dumped on her lap, Chaerin finally made her way across the sea of people and reached the bottom of the spiral staircase that would lead to her room. She quickly excused herself and climbed up. She was sure dinner’s passed by then, so she climbed up to bed after taking off her school robes, and started munching on some Pumpkin Pasties to curb her hunger. A few minutes later, the door opened, and in walked Ilsa.

“I thought you were going to dinner,” she said. Chaerin shrugged. “Can’t be bothered now – I’ll just have my dinner here and finish the snacks people gave me. Pumpkin pastie?” Chaerin offered a piece to her roommate, which Ilsa took gratefully. She then dropped her bag onto her bed and tugged off her outer robes with a tired sigh. For a moment, the room was filled only with the rustle of fabric and the soft munching sound of the two girls. Chaerin sat cross-legged on her own bed, a half-eaten Pumpkin Pastie in hand, the wrappers of several Chocolate Frogs already scattered on her blanket.

“Ilsa,” Chaerin said suddenly, her voice thoughtful. “Why is it that no one has ever done anything to Selwyn before? If he’s such an awful bully, surely someone should’ve hexed him long ago.”

Ilsa stilled. Her back was to Chaerin as she carefully folded her robes and laid them at the foot of her bed, but Chaerin noticed the faint hesitation in her movements.

For a long moment, Ilsa didn’t reply. When she finally turned, her smile was back in place, though it seemed a little strained at the edges. She tucked a strand of her curly dark hair behind her ear and sat down on the edge of her mattress.

“Because not everyone looks at the sky the same way,” she said quietly. “When you’ve been here longer, you start to see… patterns. The kind that tells you where the storms gather, and where it’s safer not to walk.”

Chaerin tilted her head, puzzled. “That… doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does,” Ilsa murmured, her tone calm as still water. She tilted her head, studying Chaerin with quiet intensity. “You’re new, so… you haven’t really learned which shadows people step around. You only see the wrong, less the weight it carries.”

Chaerin opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Ilsa smiled then, a faint curve of her lips, the kind that seemed half here, half elsewhere. “You’ll understand in time. But don’t rush toward the answer just because the question burns. Sometimes… it’s safer to sit with the not-knowing.”

Chaerin frowned faintly, chewing slowly on the rest of her pastie. She didn’t understand, not at all. But the way Ilsa had said it – it seemed like there was a lot more to know about Hogwarts than what people let on.

For now, though, she only sighed, flopped backward on her bed, and stared up at the canopy above.

That night, Chaerin had a nightmare. She lay still in her bed, the rhythm of her breathing uneven, her eyelids fluttering as though resisting what played behind them.

Fragments came first. A sleeve trailing in the water. Pale face, bright as porcelain. Dark, bottomless eyes, unblinking as they stared at her. The river was quiet, too quiet. Her mother’s voice, whispering like an echo down a long corridor: White clothes are the clothes of the dead.

And then… Chaerin was back in it. Back to the same river that she’d always visited in her dreams.

The moon hung high and heavy above the river, its reflection spilling like molten silver across the surface. She was moving, her feet sinking into the shallows, the water curling around her ankles. Ahead of her, the girl in white walked through the mist, smoothly as though she was gliding. Chaerin followed, each step deeper into the river, making the current swirl against her calves. She stared at the back of the girl’s head, dark hair bound loosely, her pale nape gleaming under moonlight. The world was silent save for the faint gurgle of the river and the soft crunch of pebbles beneath Chaerin’s feet.

“Hi,” Chaerin called softly, her voice trembling but childlike, curious. “Are we still far from your house?”

The girl in white did not turn her head. She kept drifting forward, the river parting soundlessly around her form. Chaerin looked behind her, but the banks were gone now, swallowed in the fog; there was only the silver wash of moonlight on water and the girl in white leading her on.

“Just a little bit more,” the girl’s voice floated back, soft and distant, as though it had traveled a long way to reach her.

Chaerin’s breath quickened. She reached a hand forward, heart hammering –

And then, from the back of her mind, someone screamed.

Chaerin jerked awake, breath caught in her throat. For a moment she lay still, listening to the quiet. Pale golden light seeped in through the curtains, she knew it was morning already, but the clock on the side of her bed told her it was still too early. Beside her bed, Ilsa was still asleep, her breathing even, one arm tucked beneath her cheek.

Chaerin swung her legs over the side of the bed and slipped into her sweater and trousers. She pushed open the window a crack, letting the cool air brush her face. Beyond, the grounds stretched in silence: fields rolling into shadowed slopes, a thin veil of mist trailing along the ridges. In the distance, the Great Lake gleamed under the sunshine. Her eyes lingered on the large body of water for only a second before she looked away with a shiver.

She knew she wouldn’t sleep again. So she took her study guide, and went outside.

The corridors were hushed as she left Ravenclaw Tower, her footsteps soft against the stone. Soon she was outside, greeted by the damp morning air. Hogwarts rose behind her, its towers jagged against the morning sky, proud and a little forbidding. From here the castle looked less like a school than a fortress carved into the Highlands themselves, ancient and watchful.

The grounds opened around her as she wandered. Chaerin’s pace slowed, her gaze lowering to the earth out of habit. Back in Jeju, she would often wander the grounds and the mountains with her father, looking for herbs and medicinal plants. He would make her pay attention to the ground, to the roots of trees, where those plants would be sprouting. She spotted clusters of dittany by the base of a wall, their leaves glistening with resin. Valerian nestled at the roots of an oak, its pale buds drooping like sleepy bells. A patch of mugwort spread in shaded soil, its mottled leaves cool beneath her fingers. She hadn’t planned this outing so she didn’t bring her herb basket with her. She should come back here next time.

Hogwarts seemed to have a rich variety of herbs and medicinal plants, and it excited Chaerin. She filed each discovery away silently, feeling her chest lighten as the landscape revealed itself plant by plant. Without noticing how far she had gone, she found herself at the edge of a vast oval field. High above, she noticed six goalposts rose like thin spears into the pale sky.

Chaerin drew in a slow breath. She had reached the Quidditch pitch. And surprisingly (or perhaps not, because Quidditch teams always start notoriously early), Chaerin was not the only one there. Ravenclaw players were already darting about, their blue-and-bronze robes flashing against the pale morning sunlight.

Chaerin stopped at the edge, shading her eyes with a hand. She had always liked watching Quidditch at Mahoutokoro; the school had a strong tradition of the sport, their internal league as competitive as it was dazzling. Even those who weren’t players knew the rules inside and out, and Chaerin had grown accustomed to analyzing a game with a critical eye. Out of habit, she began evaluating the Ravenclaw team’s abilities.

Ravenclaw’s chasers were clean and fast with their passes, and discipline with their formation too. They could easily score even against a good team. The beaters were steady, but a tad second too slow with their swings. And the seeker – Chaerin bit her lip – was quick enough, but lacked sharpness, often drifting too wide in his turns. Against a strong team, that would be costly.

Her gaze lifted again, just as a sudden blur of scarlet and gold streaked across the field. Chaerin looked down and frowned at the sight she just witnessed. Gryffindor team had arrived, led by none other than James Potter, broom slung over his shoulder, with Sirius Black close at his side, laughing at something only the two of them found funny.

Just as they entered the pitch, Marcus Ellis, Ravenclaw captain, flew down to meet them. He was the Keeper, a tall sixth-year with square broad shoulders, the kind of presence that was intimidating on the pitch. Ellis descended in a clean arc and touched down right in front of where James and the Gryffindor team stood waiting. Chaerin heard him speak, low and firm.

“Our slot’s not up until five, Potter. We’ve still got time.”

James cocked his head slightly to the side, his hand loose on the broom handle. “Alright then – five minutes.” He said it as though he were granting permission, not acknowledging it. The Ravenclaw captain nodded, and wasted no time. He kicked back off the ground and rejoined his team hovering mid-pitch, bellowing to each of his team members. “Alright, lads and lasses! One last drill! Chasers – Hawkshead formation, sharp and fast now! Beaters – I want you to get aggressive with the Bludger this time. Seeker – eyes on the Snitch! Nothing else matters. Catch it at all costs!”

The Ravenclaws shifted into formation at once. Below them, the Gryffindors tilted their heads up to watch. The Ravenclaws broke into motion. Three Chasers darted down the field in a tight triangle, the Quaffle flashing between them in practiced rhythm. Their Seeker soared higher, banking hard into a searching turn, while the beaters wheeled lower, their bats raised, ready to meet any Bludgers whistling past their ways.

James shaded his eyes, watching as one Chaser almost missed a pass from her teammate. “Merlin’s sake,” he commented,” couldn’t even catch a pass as slow as snail. I’d have nicked it clean before it even left his fingers.”

Sirius didn’t say anything. He was busy watching Ravenclaw’s Seeker make too wide of a turn. “Holy cow,” he whistled, “that Seeker turned so wide he’ll end up in Hogsmeade before he spots the Snitch.”

The whole team cackled at Sirius’s remarks. Gryffindor Keeper, a burly boy with sandy hair, gave a loud guffaw. “My gran could do better, and she hasn’t been on a broom in thirty years.”

Just then, a Bludger came whizzing toward a Ravenclaw Beater. He swung late – far too late – and the ball rocketed past his ear, drawing ire from his own teammates.

“Bloody hell!” Sirius slapped his thigh, cackling, still continuing with his merciless commentaries. “He’s swinging at shadows! I’d have him flat on the grass in five minutes.”

“You’d have him flat in one,” James said, smirking. “Easiest mark you’ll ever get, mate.”

One of the Gryffindor chasers – tall, wiry, and grinning – cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Oi, Ravenclaws! You practicing Quidditch or charades up there?”

More laughter rippled through the red-and-gold huddle. The Ravenclaw Captain shouted at his teammates to tighten up, urging the chasers forward again. They pressed hard, Quaffle passing quicker now, but the rhythm cracked under pressure – one of them bobbled the ball, nearly losing it mid-air.

James groaned in mock agony. “What did I tell you? Formation’s neat enough, but all textbook. Give ’em a shove and they crumble like a card house. No improvisation.”

Sirius gave a slow, sarcastic clap, shaking his head in mock admiration. “Bravo, Ravenclaw. All drills, no instinct.”

“They’re the weakest team anyway,” James said with a bored voice, pretending to stifle a yawn.

“I’m with you on there, mate,” Sirius lazily ran a hand through his hair. “They’re all brains and no guts.”

Their teammates roared with laughter, nudging one another as though the outcome of the next match had already been decided. From where she stood at the edge of the pitch, Chaerin heard everything. She felt her ears grow hot at their scathing commentaries. Every word made her blood boil. How typical of these arrogant bullies to mock the whole house instead of the team. And to think the whole Gryffindor treats these two arrogant pranksters like some kind of heroes! There must be something wrong with their brains.

“Well if Black said we’ve got no guts,” Chaerin gritted her teeth, annoyed, “at least it’s still better than all guts and no brain like him.”

The Ravenclaws’ five minutes were finally up. Marcus Ellis, Ravenclaw’s captain, blew the last whistle. Its shrill sound blast cut across the pitch, and the Ravenclaw players broke formation at once. Brooms dipped and boots hit the grass. At once, the pitch was filled with chatter as the Ravenclaws wrapped up their practice session.

“Merlin’s beard, Cathy,” said a female dark-haired chaser to her teammate, “I’d have thought you were aiming to pass to the opposing team, the way you miss me every single time.”

“Well, all you have to do is catch the ball, Angela! And score. But you can’t even hold it for more than ten seconds!” her teammate, a girl with short black hair shot back, “I’d say learn to hold the ball first…”

“If I hadn’t been there-,” the third chaser, a girl with sandy-blonde hair interjected. “You would have…”

“You’d have botched it worse, Isabel,” Angela grinned. “Anyway I think we can all agree that wasn’t our best.”

“You bet,” Isabel sighed. “I just want to go back to the dorm and shower.”

“Oh well, some days are worse than others,” said Cathy, shrugging. “Let’s all pack up and head back and have a nice, long shower.”

They all agreed. It felt like the end of any hard session: loud, sweaty, and full of banters. The team quickly cleaned up. Quaffle was put back into the crate, the Beaters wrestled with Bludgers, and the struggling Golden Snitch was put into its tiny slot inside the crate. The team then proceeded to cool down, tossing back jokes to keep the ache of training from settling too deep.

Across the pitch, the Gryffindors were already warming up. Beaters swung their bats through the air, while the Seeker started stretching. Another Gryffindor jogged backwards, broom balanced across his shoulders. “Hope you Ravenclaws left the hoops standing for us,” he called, grinning.

“I’d worry more about your aim, mate,” came a retort from the Ravenclaw Beater, which only made the Gryffindors laugh louder.

James was rolling his shoulders, arms stretched wide. “Five minutes on the clock and we’ll have you lot flattened,” he boasted to no one in particular, voice carrying easily. One of his chasers mimed a dramatic dive across the grass, ending in a pretend crash that earned his teammate’s laughter.

Then Sirius kicked off, leaping skyward with his broom. He should have just done a simple warm-up lap or two, but instead he bent low, banking sharp around the goalpost, dived down low enough to touch the grass before climbing up again to reach the goalpost in record-breaking speed. It was less a warmup and more a performance, the kind of flying that begged to be noticed. Ellis shook his head as he hauled the ball crate and his broom. “Show-off,” he muttered.

James, smirking, swung his broom across his back and called after him, “See you later, Ellis.”

Chaerin lingered at the edge of the pitch as the Ravenclaw team made their way toward the gate. Arms folded, she watched the Gryffindor team warm up with anger still bubbling in her chest. They were completely oblivious to it, of course. Neither of them was aware of how much their scathing comments earlier pissed her off. Above her, Sirius banked his broom into yet another needlessly sharp arc just to draw attention. Their earlier jibes still hovered in her mind: all brains, no guts. Weakest team. No improvisation.

Her lips pressed together. The comments stung, not deeply, but enough to nettle her pride. She exhaled sharply through her nose, gaze narrowing on the red-and-gold cluster, and particularly on a certain boy who was now doing spirals with his broom up in the air. Maybe he could use a reminder.

She stood there a moment longer, the sound of Gryffindor’s team’s laughter drifting across the pitch, before spinning on her heel. The Ravenclaw squad were on their way toward the gates, still bantering amongst themselves as they hauled the ball crate and broomsticks. Chaerin strode after them, her steps quick and purposeful.

“Hey – hey, you!” she called, catching the attention of one of the Beaters. He stopped mid-step, brow furrowed, still gripping the struggling Bludger’s handle.

Chaerin jabbed a finger at him. “You’re Ravenclaw’s Beater, right?”

The boy blinked, bewildered. “…Er – yeah?”

“Five Galleons for you,” she said heatedly, “if you can knock Black off his broom in the next match.”

Now she had successfully earned the attention of several other Ravenclaws in the team. They all froze, staring at her. Chaerin didn’t pay attention, however. She simply turned her gaze on the other Beater. “That goes for you as well,” Her eyes gleamed with determination now. “And if either of you can also knock Potter down  – I’d double the wager.”

The Beaters gaped, looking at each other, then to Chaerin, then back to each other again as if they wanted to make sure she was joking. But Chaerin was dead serious. “Better consider it,” she said with a tone of finality. Then she spun away, leaving behind a team of utterly confused Ravenclaws in her wake.

That afternoon, the drowsy heat of the castle settled into the classroom like a heavy blanket. Dust motes floated in the weak shafts of sunlight slanting through high windows, turning in slow circles, as if time itself had grown sluggish.

Professor Binns was already speaking when Chaerin slipped into her seat beside Ilsa. Students often make jokes that it didn’t matter if you were late to Binn’s, since he would start the class with or without any students in attendance. His voice, papery and flat, rattled through the air like the endless rustle of parchment: monotonous, never changing pitch, and most importantly… never-ending.

“…the establishment of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was first noted in a publication of Pure-Blood Directory, 1930s edition…”

His spectral form hovered a few inches above the desk, one translucent hand clutching his ghostly roll of notes. He didn’t glance at the students. He never did. His words poured on, steady and soporific, like the buzzing of bees in summer. It was the perfect lullaby, especially considering the hot and stale September air inside the castle.

All around the classroom, heads lolled. One Gryffindor boy had his chin propped on his palm, eyes half-lidded. A girl near the back openly let her quill slip from her hand, the scratch halting mid-word as her forehead sank to the desk. Even Chaerin, who had sworn to herself she’d be attentive, found herself stifling a yawn, again and again. She shook her head quickly, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand, and then blinked a few times, trying to stay focused.

Beside her, Ilsa had surrendered to boredom in her own way. Her quill skated idly across the margins of her textbook, sketching lazy swirls and stars that blossomed into flowers. Chaerin peeked at them and nearly smiled, though her own head felt too heavy to keep upright for long.

“…the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood family lines of Britain include Rosier, distinguished for their considerable influence within the Ministry…”

At that name, Chaerin frowned faintly. She was sure she’d heard that name mentioned somewhere, though she didn’t remember when. Then came another:

“…Selwyn…”

Her frown deepened now. That surname she knew too well already. Her quill hovered restlessly above her parchment, and yet, no notes were taken.

“…the Talfryn clan of Wales, noted for their long-standing stewardship of enchanted borders and wards…”

Talfryn? Wasn’t that Awen’s surname? Chaerin’s mind stirred. So that explained Awen’s haughtiness.

“…Penhalion of Cornwall, a family of strategists and innovators, whose contributions to magical warfare were known far and wide – ”

And then, unexpectedly –

“…the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black…”

Black?

Chaerin sat up straight, the lethargy gone in an instant. Her eyes darted across the classroom to where Sirius lounged in his chair, arms crossed, posture radiating the practiced carelessness of someone who refused to show what he was thinking.

But his face betrayed him, if only slightly. His jaw clenched, and his expression – though carefully neutral – had an edge to it, a bitterness barely hidden. Ilsa must have noticed the way Chaerin was staring, because she nudged her gently with the end of her quill. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

Chaerin blinked, then shook her head as if to dismiss the thought. Still, her voice slipped out, “I never expected Sirius Black to come from a long line of… royalties. If anything, he doesn’t... behave like it.” She studied him a little longer and realized that, in stillness, there was an unmistakable trace of aristocracy in the set of his features. But the moment he slipped into his usual antics – laughter, bravado, and chaos – any hint of noble bearing vanished, as though the claim to such lineage had burned away in the fire of his defiance.

Ilsa gave a soft huff, almost a laugh. “They’re not royalties, Chaerin. Just blood purists. Their families might be old, full of history. But they cling to this false notion that blood purity matters. It’s their excuse to look down on the rest of us.”

Chaerin’s brows lifted. The idea struck her as strange, almost absurd. “Do people really believe that?” she asked. She found it hard to believe that people would be judged by their blood heritage here. In Mahoutokoro, she’d had it drilled into her that the only thing that mattered was her skill and the mastery of her crafts. Her work would speak for her status. But, it seemed that wasn't the case with Hogwarts.

Chaerin’s mind replayed the scene from last night in her dorm room. The conversation with Ilsa about Selwyn. She’d wondered why no one dared to touch him, despite the fact that he was obviously an awful bully. And now, she felt like she might just begin to understand the reason. Turned out, that reason might be more ingrained than she’d thought.

“Too many of them do,” Ilsa murmured, doodling another spiral in her margins, shading it into a flower. “Not everyone, of course. There are plenty who know it’s nonsense. But still… old habits die hard. And most of the ones who cling to this old belief about blood purity end up in Slytherin. Like the Black Family, you know. All of them have been in Slytherin, except for Sirius.”

“Really?” Chaerin’s gaze slid back to Sirius. His face gave nothing away now, but she remembered that flicker of bitterness, the way he had clenched his jaw. He looked like someone enduring a name he didn’t want, a history he hadn’t chosen.

“Mustn’t have been easy for him then,” Chaerin remarked, then raised her eyebrows in surprise at her own words. She didn’t know why she said that – only an instinct that crossing to a new territory, leaving behind the only world he’d ever known all his life, must have taken a lot of courage. Suddenly, she felt she might have been more similar to Sirius than what she thought.  Didn’t she also leave behind a world she’d known all her life – only to start a new life here in this faraway land? Didn’t she step outside the territory that had defined her for so long?

Did Sirius also go through the same struggle that she did? For the first time, Chaerin wondered what it must cost him to laugh as loudly, to act as carelessly as he did.

By the time the bells rang and Binns’s voice finally dwindled into dismissal, half the class jolted awake with smothered yawns. Chaerin packed her things quickly and waved goodbye to Ilsa. It was a free period next before dinner, but she would be spending it in the dungeon with Slughorn, logging his potion ingredients. Not that she was complaining, if there was ever any perfect detention, this was it. There was nothing Chaerin loved more than the smell of bitter herbs and ground potion ingredients. She arrived earlier than expected, received instructions from Slughorn, then got to work right away.  For hours she hunched over shelves in his office, quill in hand as she logged jars of powdered ingredients. She proceeded carefully, scribbling down measurements, making sure not to smudge her parchment with asphodel dust.

When she was finally released, the corridors had begun to be filled with students going for their early dinner. But Chaerin wasn’t planning on joining them. There was still a bit of time until dinner ended, and she had another plan in mind. This morning, she’d spotted some herbs and plants growing near the castle on her way to the Quidditch pitch. Now was the perfect time to start collecting them. Plus, she might have one or two pages unlocked from her study guide as she explored the castle.

So, after a quick trip to the Ravenclaw tower, Chaerin slipped out of the castle with her little willow basket hooked on her arm and her study guide under her other arm. She’d had several entries already – like the Greenhouse, the Quidditch Pitch, and even an amusing bit of history about how Quidditch was once banned in Hogwarts for being ‘too dangerous’.

Quidditch Pitch. Site of house practices and inter-house matches. Established in the fourteenth century, restored and expanded multiple times.

Chaerin then read the next bit of information with a grin plastered on her face.

Quidditch was famously banned at Hogwarts during the school year of 1890–1891. Officially, the ban was declared for “safety reasons” after an incident during a Gryffindor- Slytherin match. A Slytherin Chaser, hoping to repel Bludgers, enchanted his robes with a deflection spell. The enchantment worked  –  rather too well. The next Bludger to hit him ricocheted violently, struck the goalpost, and exploded with enough force to shatter half the stands. No lasting injuries were reported, though the student in question lost his eyebrows for the remainder of the term. Headmaster Black suspended the sport for the year, citing ‘unacceptable hazards.’

Chaerin put the book back under her arm, still grinning. Such things could only happen in Hogwarts, not at Mahoutokoro where Quidditch’s safety was taken very seriously. But she might have been falling in love bit by bit with Hogwart’s organized chaos. There was something frustrating about it indeed, but at the same time, she couldn’t deny the charm. And the fact that the Headmaster would even dare to ban Quidditch was something new to her. In Mahoutokoro, if any Headmaster ever dared to pull such stunts, they would be sacked immediately.

She wandered further, past the sloping lawns, until the trees of the Forbidden Forest loomed near at hand. The shadows pooled thick beneath their branches, a darkness that seemed to breathe with the forest itself. At the roots of an ancient oak tree, she spied mushrooms glowing faintly like scattered embers. She crouched, basket balanced against her knee, and clipped them carefully, already cataloguing their use in soothing draughts.

As she straightened, her eyes caught on something else: the bark of the oak was marred by deep, jagged carvings. Symbols were cut into its surface, rough and careless. Chaerin’s brows knit in irritation. To her, the living tree was as much a part of the castle’s heritage as the stone towers  –  and here someone had gouged it with thoughtless hands.

She stepped closer, tracing the ugly lines with narrowed eyes. “Vandalism,” she muttered disdainfully under her breath, shaking her head. With a flick of her wrist she drew her wand from her sleeve. The tip glimmered as she angled it toward the markings. One precise swish, one sharp incantation, and she intended to scour the bark clean.

“Stay away from the Forest!”

The booming voice cracked the stillness. Surprised, Chaerin jerked upright, her wand arm falling back to her side. A lantern’s glow bobbed through the undergrowth, and the groundskeeper emerged, massive shoulders blotting out the last of the twilight behind him.

He waved a broad hand, stern and uncompromising. “Back to the castle, miss. That place isn’t for wandering.”

Chaerin bristled but snapped her wand back into her sleeve, hugging her basket close. Without a word, she turned, boots crunching over the grass as she trudged back across the lawns. At her side, she could feel her study guide’s pages rustling, and new lines of ink emerged:

The Forbidden Forest. Note: strictly off-limits to students. Creatures within deemed hazardous.

Chaerin huffed through her nose, though the corner of her mouth tugged upward despite herself. Even her near-misstep, it seemed, had been recorded.

By the time Chaerin climbed the spiral stair to the Ravenclaw dormitory, dusk had thickened into night. The windows glowed faintly under the silvery moonlight, the sky beyond them already studded with early stars. She set her basket carefully on the table by her bed, arranging the sprigs of dittany and knotgrass in neat bundles to dry. The mushrooms she laid out on a scrap of parchment, their faint glow slowly fading.

A soft rustle of wings drew her gaze upward. An owl swooped through the open window, a parchment envelope dangling from its talons. It landed with an imperious tilt of its head, waiting for her to take it.

Chaerin untied the ribbon, smoothing the wax seal stamped with a familiar “S.” The note inside was written in Slughorn’s florid hand:

My dear Miss Yi,
Do join me for tea tomorrow afternoon. I should like to hear more about your studies thus far. Three o’clock, my office.  –  H.S.

Chaerin read the note twice, then folded it neatly back into its envelope. She did remember about him inviting her for tea during Potions class, but hadn’t expected a personal invitation from Slughorn himself. She crossed to her desk, pulled a scrap of parchment from her bag, and quickly wrote a reply. It was short, though no less enthusiastic.

Professor Slughorn,

Thank you for your kind invitation. I will be there tomorrow at three.

Sincerely,
Yi Chaerin

She sanded the ink, folded the parchment, and sealed it with a small press from her Study Guide’s strap. When she held it out, the owl shifted on the back of her chair, amber eyes glinting.

“There,” she murmured, tying the letter to its leg. “You may return with this.”

The bird gave a low hoot, nipped her finger in what felt like approval, and launched back out the window, wings vanishing into the night sky.