The next morning, I woke to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the Ravenclaw windows. The dormitory was already half empty—Badeea and Tulip had left early for breakfast, whispering about Charms homework and whether today's Transfiguration would be worse than the last.
I stretched, tied my hair back, and gathered my books.
Routine. Calm. Normal.
At least, it should have been.
When I reached the dormitory door and turned the handle, it didn't budge.
I frowned and tried again.
Nothing.
"…Really?" I muttered.
I drew my wand and flicked it casually. "Alohomora."
The spell slid off the door like water on glass.
Interesting.
I tried again—more focused this time. Same result. A warded lock, layered just enough to stop first years without being obvious. I tested two more spells I knew, probing carefully.
Still nothing.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
Then, instead of anger, a small smile crept onto my face.
So this was their idea of maturity.
Petty. Childish. Predictable.
Before Hogwarts, I might have panicked. Before Alastair, I might have stood there fuming, feeling trapped and helpless. But instead, I turned back toward my trunk, already knowing exactly what I needed.
I opened it and reached past robes and books until my fingers closed around something very un-magical.
A muggle lockpick set.
I almost laughed.
I remembered the look on Al's face months ago, sitting cross-legged on the orphanage floor, patiently explaining tension tools and pins while I teased him relentlessly.
"Planning a career as a thief now?" I'd asked back then.
He'd just shrugged and said, "Magic fails. Tools don't."
I knelt by the door, slipped the pick into the lock, and listened.
Click.
A pause.
Click.
The mechanism gave way smoothly, the ward never even noticing it had been bypassed.
I stood, dusted off my robes, and opened the door.
As I stepped into the corridor, voices drifted toward me—mocking, smug, careless.
"Oh, the training place is so cool."
"Slytherins are so amazing, aren't they?"
"Hm, she'll enjoy it when she's stuck in her room and gets detention from Snape for missing class."
I rounded the corner.
And there I was.
Smiling.
The silence was immediate.
Their faces froze in perfect disbelief—eyes wide, mouths half-open, brains desperately trying to reconcile what they were seeing with what they knew had to be true.
For a fleeting second, I honestly considered pausing just to savor it. Maybe even asking someone to take a picture.
Instead, I tilted my head slightly and said pleasantly, "Morning."
They stared.
They couldn't understand it. Couldn't imagine a solution that didn't involve wandwork or brute-force magic. The idea that I'd escaped using nothing more than a muggle tool simply didn't exist in their world.
And that, more than anything, told me exactly how limited their thinking was.
I walked past them, calm and unhurried, books tucked under my arm—already late for class, but very much on my own terms.
I slipped into the Potions classroom just as Professor Snape was midway through his explanation, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.
"…and if even one of you adds the porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the flame, you will not get a second chance."
A few students flinched.
Snape's dark eyes flicked toward the door as I entered. They lingered on me for half a second longer than necessary before he gave a barely perceptible nod and continued as if nothing had happened.
No comment.
No deduction.
I scanned the room.
Alastair was seated alone, an empty stool beside him, parchment already laid out, quill aligned with irritating precision. He wasn't looking at me, but I knew he'd noticed the instant I walked in.
I slid into the seat next to him quietly.
He leaned just enough to speak without drawing attention. "You're late. Was there an issue?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle," I replied just as softly, eyes on my cauldron.
His quill paused.
"Do you want me to intervene?" he asked, tone calm, as if he were offering to borrow a book.
I didn't look at him. "Don't worry. I'll handle it."
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, I'm not worried about you," he murmured. "I'm worried about whoever thought pissing you off was a good idea."
He slid his notes toward me without looking—clean, structured, already annotated—and turned his full attention back to Snape as if the conversation had never happened.
I picked up my quill, lips curving just slightly.
Yes.
They were definitely going to regret it.
I weighed my options carefully while Snape spoke.
There were many ways I could make them pay.
I could write to Arcturus and let a Black's displeasure ripple through the right channels. I could arrange something quieter, sharper—corner a senior in a dark stairwell and remind them that first years were not as helpless as they assumed. But that kind of retaliation wouldn't scale. One senior, maybe two. And more importantly—it wasn't the Ravenclaw way.
Power in Ravenclaw didn't come from fear.
It came from usefulness.
If I wanted them off my back, truly off my back, then I needed to become an asset the house couldn't afford to lose. Someone professors noticed. Someone whose presence brought points, prestige, and opportunity.
I had always earned points.
So the answer was obvious.
Professor Flitwick.
I leaned slightly toward Alastair, keeping my voice low. "I'm going to use our Lumos variant in Charms today."
He didn't look surprised. He rarely did.
"Of course," he said quietly, eyes still on Snape. "It'll get them off your back for now. Won't fix their attitude."
"They don't matter to me," I replied simply.
That finally earned me a glance.
"Well," he said after a beat, "if it works for you."
Charms came after lunch.
The classroom buzzed with the usual restless energy—wands tapping, chairs scraping, Ravenclaws murmuring theories while Gryffindors whispered bets about who would mess up first. I could already feel the weight of attention from a few older Ravenclaws, subtle but sharp, like needles pressed gently into my back.
Professor Flitwick perched atop his stack of books, clapping his hands together.
"Today," he announced cheerfully, "we will continue refining illumination charms. Control, intent, and creativity—remember, magic responds best when all three are aligned."
Students began casting.
Basic Lumos filled the room with uneven light—some steady, some flickering, some far too bright. I waited. Let them go first. Let expectations settle low.
When Flitwick passed my desk, I stood.
"Professor," I said politely, "may I demonstrate a variation?"
His eyes brightened instantly. "Oh? A variation, Miss Black? By all means."
The room quieted.
I raised my wand, steadying my breath—not pushing power, just shaping it.
"Lumos proiectura"
Soft white light bloomed.
Then I shifted my intent.
The light flattened, spread, and shimmered—no longer just illumination but a surface. An image formed within it: Professor Flitwick himself, perfectly rendered, adjusting his spectacles with the same habitual motion he'd made moments earlier.
A ripple of gasps moved through the class.
I rotated my wrist slightly.
The image shifted—an owl took form, wings spreading as it glided through the air, feathers catching the light realistically. Then it dissolved, reforming into a dragon, scales gleaming, eyes bright with cunning intelligence.
Finally, I ended with a flourish of will.
The dragon inhaled.
And breathed fire—harmless, illusory flames that roared silently across the projection before collapsing neatly back into a soft glow.
I let the spell fade.
Silence.
Then—
"Extraordinary!" Professor Flitwick exclaimed, nearly tumbling off his books as he hurried closer. "Absolutely extraordinary! Projection-based photonic transfiguration layered onto a stable charm matrix—at your age!"
He turned to the class, eyes shining. "Did you see the control? The clarity? The imagination!"
The whispers didn't come from the classroom itself—but I knew they would come. By dinner, the story would already be circulating among the seniors who had made it clear I didn't belong.
Flitwick cleared his throat, composing himself. "Miss Black, if you wouldn't mind staying after class—I would very much like to discuss this spell."
"Of course, Professor," I said calmly.
After the lesson ended and students filtered out—many casting me sideways glances now—Flitwick ushered me closer, already scribbling notes.
"Tell me," he said eagerly, "how did you conceptualize the display? Most witches and wizards struggle to decouple light from simple illumination."
"It's inspired by Muggle television," I explained. "The way light is manipulated to create moving images. Alastair and I adapted the principle—using intent to define surface, then layering illusion within Lumos rather than building a separate spell."
Flitwick blinked. "Jointly discovered, you say?"
"Yes, Professor."
He smiled broadly. "Even better. Collaboration is the soul of innovation."
He paused, studying me with new eyes.
"I would be honored," he said carefully, "if you would consider joining the Charms Club. We encourage advanced exploration there, under supervision, of course."
I inclined my head. "I'd be honored to join."