(Author's note: I am not a writer, just taking my first step into creating fanfiction. I heavily used ChatGPT, so if there's anything wrong or things I should add, inform me so I can fix it.)
The golden glow of enchanted candles flickered overhead, their flames suspended in the vast dark canopy of the bewitched ceiling, mirroring the night sky beyond the castle walls. The Great Hall hummed with the overlapping sounds of cutlery against plates, excited first-years whispering, older students laughing too loudly after their summer freedom, and the faint rustle of robes shifting against wooden benches polished by generations of witches and wizards. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with stars that looked close enough to pluck from the air, and for a fleeting, almost surreal moment, it felt less like a school and more like a gateway between worlds.
At the High Table, seated in the center beneath the crest of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet.
The noise softened instinctively, waves of conversation dimming as heads turned toward the front of the hall.
He looked exactly as she remembered — half-moon spectacles perched low on his crooked nose, long silver hair and beard flowing over robes of deep plum embroidered with faintly shifting constellations. There was a gentleness to him, a warmth that filled the space even before he spoke. And yet beneath it was something sharp — something ancient and powerful — like a wizard who had seen far more than he allowed anyone to notice.
"Before we all retire for the night," Dumbledore began pleasantly, his voice carrying without effort to every corner of the hall, "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
His tone was light, almost whimsical, but the words carried weight.
"The Forbidden Forest on the grounds is out of bounds to all students. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall, quickly fading.
"Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you all that no magic should be used in the corridors between classes. The list of forbidden objects has this year been extended to include Fanged Frisbees and self-propelling custard pies."
More laughter. The familiar cadence of canon.
And then his expression shifted — not darker, not truly — but more solemn.
"I must also inform you that the corridor on the third floor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Silence.
It was the exact phrasing she remembered from the pages of a childhood book. The same warning. The same dangerous absurdity delivered in a tone so casual it bordered on playful.
From the Ravenclaw table, she felt a faint chill creep down her spine.
So it truly is beginning.
The Philosopher's Stone. The protections. Quirrell.
Her gaze shifted — almost unconsciously — toward the back of the High Table where the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor sat. Quirinus Quirrell gave an awkward, twitching smile at something a neighboring professor whispered. His turban looked even more ridiculous under the floating candlelight.
And yet something in her stomach twisted faintly.
I know what's under that turban.
The thought felt distant and blurred, like a half-remembered dream from a childhood long past, but the discomfort lingered.
Dumbledore clapped his hands gently together.
"Now then, off to bed. Tomorrow we begin!"
The hall erupted again in motion — benches scraping, robes swishing, prefects calling for order as students began filing out.
The feast was over.
And the real beginning had arrived.
The Ravenclaw first-years gathered near the edge of the hall, clustering around a tall girl with neat blonde hair and a silver prefect badge pinned to her robes. Penelope Clearwater carried herself with calm assurance, her posture straight but not stiff, her eyes bright with quiet intelligence.
"First-years, over here please," she called gently, though there was steel beneath the politeness. "Stay together. The staircases like to be unpredictable."
A few nervous laughs followed.
They exited into the cool stone corridors of Hogwarts, torches flickering along the walls, casting shifting shadows across ancient tapestries depicting long-forgotten magical battles and whimsical scenes of scholars debating over scrolls. The castle felt alive at night — staircases groaning faintly as they shifted position, distant echoes of moving suits of armor clanking as they adjusted themselves, portraits whispering behind gilded frames.
The climb felt endless.
Higher and higher they went, spiral staircases narrowing as they ascended into the western tower. The air grew slightly cooler, thinner, quieter — as though separated from the rest of the castle's bustle.
Finally, Penelope stopped before a smooth wooden door set into a curved stone wall. There was no handle. No keyhole.
Only a bronze eagle knocker gleaming softly in the torchlight.
Its wings were half-spread, feathers detailed with exquisite craftsmanship, eyes sharp and intelligent.
Penelope stepped aside.
"Ravenclaw does not rely on passwords," she explained. "Instead, you must answer a question."
As if summoned by her words, the bronze eagle's beak opened.
"What comes once in a minute, twice in a moment, but never in a thousand years?"
A hush fell over the group.
Whispers began instantly.
"Time?" someone guessed.
"No—"
"Is it—"
She felt her mind sharpen automatically.
Riddles.
Logic. Wordplay.
Not time.
Letters.
"It's the letter M," she said calmly.
The eagle's eyes glinted.
"Correct."
With a soft click, the door swung inward.
Warmth spilled outward like sunlight.
The Ravenclaw common room was breathtaking.
Unlike the darker, medieval atmosphere of the lower towers, this space felt open, airy, almost celestial. Arched windows curved along the circular walls, revealing the vast night sky stretching over the Scottish Highlands. Shelves lined the stone interior, stacked with books both old and new. Bronze instruments ticked softly on polished tables — astrolabes, armillary spheres, telescopes angled toward the heavens.
Blue and bronze tapestries draped elegantly from the walls, embroidered with stars and constellations. Plush sofas formed cozy study circles around low wooden tables scattered with parchment and ink pots. The fire crackled warmly in a white marble hearth, casting golden light that blended with the cool moonlight spilling through the windows.
It felt like stepping inside a living mind.
A place built for thought.
For curiosity.
For endless possibility.
The ceilings were domed and painted with a faint mural of the sky at dawn — pale blues and soft gold — giving the impression that morning was always just about to arrive.
A warm scholar's dream.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
This… this is home.
The warmth of the common room gradually settled into something softer as the initial wave of awe faded into quiet murmurs and curious exploration. Some of the first-years wandered toward the bookshelves immediately, fingers brushing spines as though they had entered a sacred archive. Others gravitated toward the tall windows, pressing close to glimpse the distant mountains and the scattered lanterns flickering across the grounds below. A few simply stood still, turning slowly in place, trying to absorb every detail at once.
Penelope Clearwater waited until the room had stilled somewhat before speaking again.
"Dormitories are up the spiral staircase to your left," she said, gesturing toward a curved archway built seamlessly into the stone wall. "Girls' dormitories branch upward. Boys' are on the opposite side. The staircases are enchanted to prevent… wandering."
A faint knowing look crossed her face at that last word, earning a few snickers from older Ravenclaws nearby.
"There are no passwords here," she continued calmly. "You will always answer a riddle to enter. If you cannot solve it, you may wait for someone else to do so — or sleep in the corridor, if you prefer." Her tone was perfectly neutral, which somehow made the threat more effective.
A few first-years swallowed nervously.
"You are Ravenclaws now. Intelligence is valued here — but so is creativity. There is rarely only one way to reach the correct answer. Keep that in mind."
With that, she inclined her head and dismissed them.
The first-year girls began drifting toward the staircase in small clusters.
She moved with them, feeling the smooth stone beneath her fingertips as she traced the inner wall while climbing. The staircase spiraled upward within the tower, narrow but not cramped, illuminated by floating globes of soft blue light that hovered like captured stars.
The girls' dormitory door opened into a circular room divided by archways into several sleeping chambers. Each chamber contained four beds — though the arrangement clearly shifted depending on how many occupants were needed. The beds themselves were carved of pale oak, draped in rich blue hangings embroidered with tiny bronze stars. Each had a trunk placed neatly at its foot and a small writing desk tucked beside it, complete with quill, parchment, and a shelf already stocked with standard school texts.
The air smelled faintly of parchment and lavender polish.
Three other girls entered behind her.
One was tall and thin, with dark curls pinned hastily back and intelligent gray eyes that missed very little. She moved with sharp, deliberate gestures, already scanning the room like she was cataloging it.
Another was shorter, sandy-haired, freckled, her expression open and curious rather than guarded. She turned slowly in place, clearly impressed.
The third girl lingered near the doorway, quiet, observing rather than speaking.
"Well," the curly-haired girl said at last, crossing her arms lightly. "I suppose this is ours."
Her tone carried confidence without arrogance — the kind that suggested she expected to excel here.
The freckled girl smiled. "It's beautiful."
"It's efficient," the curly-haired one corrected mildly, though her lips twitched.
They each chose a bed with the careful diplomacy of strangers aware they would be sharing space for an entire year.
When it came to introductions, they unfolded gradually rather than all at once.
Names were exchanged. Hometowns mentioned. Parents' occupations vaguely described.
The conversation wasn't loud or chaotic the way she imagined Gryffindor's dormitory might be. It was measured. Analytical. Even curiosity here had a method to it.
As they spoke, she responded naturally, offering enough truth to remain authentic, withholding enough to protect the impossibility of her existence.
No one could know she had lived another life.
No one could know she remembered events that had not yet unfolded.
The tower was quiet by the time the last candle dimmed.
One by one, the girls climbed into their beds and drew the blue curtains closed around themselves, sealing off their small, private worlds.
She waited.
Listened.
Breathing slowed around her.
Soft rustling ceased.
The tower settled into stillness.
Only then did she pull her own curtains shut completely.
Darkness embraced her.
And she finally allowed herself to be alone.
I exhale slowly.
"All right," I whisper into the darkness.
The word feels heavier than it should.
"System."
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then—
A faint shimmer flickers across my vision, not outside of me, but layered gently over reality itself. Lines of soft blue light trace across the inside of the bed curtains, forming a translucent interface only I can see.
It is not loud.
Not intrusive.
It feels… academic.
Organized.
Elegant.
Knowledge Mastery Interface
Spells:
• Lumos — 5%
• Wand Handling — 3%
• Magical Theory — 2%
Runic Comprehension: 0%
Latin Root Acquisition: 1 Fragment
Fragments Available:
• Latin Fragment (Lumen) — 1
I stare at the numbers, heart beating faster.
So it's real.
Not a dream.
Not imagination.
The first time I successfully cast Lumos — truly successfully, with intent and control — I earned a fragment. Not full mastery. Just five percent.
Five percent for a genuine breakthrough.
That means this system doesn't reward repetition alone. It rewards understanding.
Breakthroughs.
It tracks comprehension.
It tracks refinement.
Rune fragments are listed separately. Harder to obtain.
Which means Latin fragments come from spell mastery… and rune fragments likely come from deciphering magical structure itself.
That's… powerful.
Dangerous.
I focus on the Latin Fragment labeled Lumen.
The interface responds instantly.
A breakdown appears:
Lumen — Meaning: Light
Compatibility: High
Potential Applications: Illumination, Revelation, Clarity
If I combine fragments…
If I truly understand their structure…
I could build spells.
Not copy them.
Create them.
My pulse quickens.
But the system warns subtly beneath the interface:
Fragments used in creation are consumed. No fragment returned for derivative spells.
So experimentation has cost.
Good.
That means it won't spiral into infinite abuse.
This is not a cheat.
It is a scholar's tool.
A reward for comprehension.
I close the interface slowly.
The blue shimmer fades like starlight dissolving before dawn.
I lie back against the pillow, staring into darkness.
This world is not a game.
There are real dangers here.
Quirrell.
The Stone.
Future years I barely remember clearly.
If I interfere too much…
Will events shift?
Will consequences spiral?
I can't rely on canon unfolding perfectly.
And yet… I cannot sit idle.
Not with this.
Not with knowledge.
My eyelids grow heavy despite the racing thoughts.
I've stayed awake longer than the others.
Too long.
Tomorrow begins classes.
Tomorrow begins progress.
Tomorrow begins… control.
Sleep takes me mid-thought.
She woke before dawn.
The room was dim and blue, the first hints of morning just beginning to lighten the edges of the curtains. For a moment, disorientation flickered across her mind — then memory returned like pages turning.
Hogwarts.
Ravenclaw Tower.
The system.
She slipped quietly from bed, dressing in her uniform with careful efficiency so as not to wake the others. The tower at this hour felt entirely different — not silent, but contemplative. Like a library holding its breath.
Descending to the common room, she found only two older students already present, seated near the eastern windows with textbooks open and teacups steaming beside them.
One glanced up briefly, assessing her with mild curiosity, then nodded once in approval before returning to his notes.
Early rising was not unusual here.
It was expected.
She descended from the tower into the winding corridors, navigating the shifting staircases with surprising ease. The castle felt more cooperative at dawn — as though appreciative of those who rose early.
By the time she entered the Great Hall, only a handful of students were present.
The enchanted ceiling glowed with soft sunrise hues — pinks and gold bleeding across drifting clouds.
Breakfast was laid out modestly at this hour: toast racks, porridge, fruit bowls, steaming kettles of tea.
She seated herself at the Ravenclaw table.
Moments later, owls began pouring into the hall in a flurry of feathers and letters.
Schedules dropped neatly in front of each student.
She unfolded hers carefully.
And her mind immediately began analyzing.
Third person faded.
First person returned.
I smooth the parchment flat.
Monday:
Charms — with Gryffindor
Transfiguration — with Hufflepuff
Herbology — with Slytherin
Tuesday:
Defense Against the Dark Arts — with Gryffindor
Potions — with Hufflepuff
History of Magic — Ravenclaw only
I inhale slowly.
This aligns.
If Harry has Charms with us, then Slytherin shares Herbology with us later in the week.
If Gryffindor shares Defense with us…
That places Slytherin opposite in another slot.
The pattern is elegant.
Interwoven.
The houses rotate pairings strategically.
Which means if he is with Slytherin for Potions…
I am with Hufflepuff at that time.
Information flows indirectly.
If something happens in his class with another house, I can triangulate where I am.
The schedule is not just routine.
It is positioning.
Strategy.
And I need to map it carefully.
Because timing will matter.
Everything in this school runs on timing.
I fold the parchment carefully.
Today begins with Charms.
With Professor Flitwick.
And my first true opportunity to test this system properly.
I allow myself a small, controlled smile.
Let the year begin. @pipplays3748 on YouTube