Rowan's internal clock woke him at six, just as it had every morning for years. He performed his Occlumency meditation before even opening his eyes. The familiar mental discipline clearing away sleep fog, organizing thoughts, preparing for the day ahead.

  When he finished and sat up, his mental clarity was absolute.

  His roommates were already stirring. Hector Fawley fumbled with his robes, muttering nervously about being late. Lawrence Goode dressed with methodical efficiency, checking his book bag twice. The other two boys, Amit Thakkar, a quiet half-blood, and Timothy Fletcher, a boisterous pure-blood who'd arrived only moments before the Sorting, were already arguing about Quidditch.

  "Ready for your first day?" Lawrence asked as they prepared to head down.

  "As ready as I'll ever be." Rowan secured his wand in its holster and slung his bag over his shoulder.

  The common room was already busy with students preparing for breakfast. Iris waited by the fireplace, clutching her bag nervously.

  "Morning," she said with a small smile. "Thought we could walk down together? I memorized the route from the library yesterday, but I'm still worried about getting lost."

  "Good idea. The staircases move."

  They joined the stream of Ravenclaw students heading to breakfast, following the prefects down the moving staircases. Rowan committed each turn to memory, building on the mental map he'd started yesterday. Left at the portrait of Vindictus Viridian. Right at the statue of the one-eyed witch. Straight down the corridor past the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

  The Great Hall was organized chaos. Students crowded the four house tables, eating breakfast and comparing schedules. The ceiling showed a perfect September morning sky. Wisps of white cloud against brilliant blue.

  Rowan and Iris found seats at the Ravenclaw table near Michael Cobb and Margaret Whitmore.

  "First day of classes," Margaret said cheerfully, passing them toast. "Don't look so nervous. First years always survive. More or less."

  "More or less?" Iris squeaked.

  "She's teasing," Michael assured them. "Though Professor Sharp can be intimidating if you're not prepared. And whatever you do, don't fall asleep in History of Magic. Binns might be boring, but he notices, and he will call on you."

  A barn owl swooped down and dropped parchment in front of Rowan. His schedule. He unfolded it eagerly:

  Monday:

  9:00 - Transfiguration (with Gryffindor)

  11:00 - History of Magic (with Hufflepuff)

  2:00 - Potions (with Slytherin)

  Tuesday:

  9:00 - Charms (with Hufflepuff)

  11:00 - Herbology (with Gryffindor)

  2:00 - Astronomy (evening session at midnight)

  Wednesday:

  9:00 - Defense Against the Dark Arts (with Slytherin)

  11:00 - Transfiguration (with Gryffindor)

  Thursday:

  9:00 - Potions (with Slytherin)

  11:00 - Charms (with Hufflepuff)

  2:00 - History of Magic (with Hufflepuff)

  Friday:

  9:00 - Herbology (with Gryffindor)

  11:00 - Defense Against the Dark Arts (with Slytherin)

  2:00 - Flying Lessons (all houses)

  Iris compared her schedule with his. Identical, as all first years in the same house would be.

  "Potions with Slytherin." She grimaced. "That's going to be unpleasant."

  "Professor Sharp is fair," Margaret interjected. "He doesn't tolerate house prejudice in his classroom. Cadmus Mulciber tried to harass a Muggleborn student last year during Potions, and Sharp gave him detention for a month."

  "Who's teaching Defense this year?" Rowan asked.

  "Professor Hecat. She's brilliant. Former Unspeakable, knows more combat magic than anyone else on staff. Bit theatrical, but effective." Michael checked Rowan's schedule. "You've got Transfiguration first. That's with Professor Weasley. Don't be late. She's punctual to the second and doesn't accept excuses."

  Rowan finished his breakfast quickly. Porridge, toast, and eggs far better than anything he'd eaten at the orphanage. Then he and Iris headed to their first class, following Margaret's directions.

  The Transfiguration classroom was on the first floor. Large room, high windows, desks arranged in neat rows. Professor Weasley stood at the front beside a collection of everyday objects spread across her desk. A teacup, a book, a quill, a small wooden box.

  As students filed in, she was arranging them with precise movements, occasionally adjusting their positions by fractions of an inch.

  Rowan took a seat in the second row, pulling out his copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration along with parchment, quill, and ink. Iris sat beside him. Across the room, he noticed Celeste settling in with two other Gryffindor girls, already engaged in what looked like a spirited conversation.

  At precisely nine o'clock, Professor Weasley surveyed the class with sharp eyes.

  "Welcome to Transfiguration. Before we begin, I want to be clear about expectations." Her voice stayed level, matter-of-fact. "This is challenging magic. Some of you will find it comes naturally. Others will need to work harder. Both approaches are perfectly acceptable, provided you put in genuine effort. What I won't tolerate is carelessness or half-hearted attempts. Sloppy transfiguration is dangerous transfiguration."

  She picked up the teacup from her desk. "Now, let me show you what proper transfiguration looks like."

  With a smooth wand movement, the teacup transformed into a tortoise. The small creature blinked, stretched its legs, and began walking slowly across the desk. Another flick, and it became a pocket watch, ticking steadily. Then a flower in full bloom. Then back to a teacup.

  "Transfiguration is about understanding what something is, its essential nature, and convincing it to become something else entirely. Appearance, substance, function, properties. All of it changes." She set the teacup down. "The theory is complex. Gamp’s Law governs what cannot be transfigured at all. Beyond that, successful transfiguration depends on precision, intent, and choosing transformations of comparable complexity."

  She spent the next forty minutes walking them through theoretical foundations, occasionally pausing to demonstrate points with quick transformations or to answer questions. She moved through material at a steady pace, expecting students to keep up. When someone looked genuinely confused, she'd circle back and explain the concept differently.

  Finally, she distributed matches to each student.

  "Today, you'll be transforming matches into needles. The wand movement is a sharp tap followed by a smooth forward thrust. The incantation is Transformo Acus. But before you start waving your wands about..." She raised a hand as several eager students reached for their matches. "Think about what you're doing. A match is wood and phosphorus. A needle is metal. Shape, substance, structure. Everything transforms. Visualize the transformation completely. Then, and only then, attempt the spell."

  Rowan examined his match carefully. Ran his fingers over the rough wood, noted the red tip of phosphorus. Then he closed his eyes and visualized. The wood becoming metal, the shape elongating and thinning, the surface smoothing into the polished sheen of steel.

  He tapped the match sharply with his wand and thrust forward. "Transformo Acus."

  The match shimmered.

  And became a needle.

  "Well done, Mr. Ashcroft!" Professor Weasley appeared beside his desk, examining his work with evident approval. "First attempt, and you've achieved a complete transformation. That's quite impressive." She picked up the needle, studying it closely. "The shape could use some refinement. The eye is slightly irregular. But the fundamental transfiguration is sound. Five points to Ravenclaw."

  She set it back down with an encouraging nod. "Keep practicing. See if you can perfect the details."

  Rowan returned to work. The transformation was complete. Professor Weasley was right, though. It wasn't perfect. His needle was slightly bent, the point wasn't quite sharp enough, and the eye was irregular.

  He pushed it away with a flick of his wand and started again.

  This time, he focused on the overall transformation and every detail. The exact straightness of the shaft. The precise taper toward the point. The perfectly circular eye at the top, sized correctly for thread to pass through.

  The second attempt was better. Straighter, sharper. But the eye was still slightly oval rather than round.

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  Third attempt. Fourth. Fifth.

  Around the room, other students were having less success. Most matches had merely changed color or developed a slightly shinier surface. A few had become partially needle-like but were still clearly matches. One Gryffindor boy named Leander Prewett had somehow made his match sprout tiny metal spikes.

  Professor Weasley moved from desk to desk, offering guidance. "Remember, it's not about forcing the change. You're guiding it. Persuading the match that it wants to be a needle." To a struggling Gryffindor: "You're too tentative with the wand movement. Be confident. The magic responds to certainty."

  Iris's match had turned silver but retained its original shape. She looked over at Rowan, who was now on his seventh attempt, and her frustration deepened.

  "How did you do it so quickly?"

  "Visualization," Rowan said quietly. He moved his latest needle to the side. Nearly perfect but with a microscopic flaw in the point's sharpness. "Don't just think about what a needle looks like. Think about what it is. Metal, cold, smooth, sharp. Think about its purpose, its weight, its substance. Then will the match to become that."

  She tried again, face scrunched in concentration. This time, her match elongated slightly and took on a more metallic appearance, though it still wasn't fully transformed.

  "Better," Rowan encouraged, already turning back to his own work. "Keep practicing. Try getting your magic to understand what you want, rather than what you're saying."

  He continued refining his technique throughout the lesson. Each transformation became incrementally better. Straighter, sharper, more symmetrical. By his fifteenth attempt, he'd produced a needle that looked flawless.

  Professor Weasley returned to his desk, picking up the latest needle and examining it carefully in the light. "Excellent work, Mr. Ashcroft. This is precisely what I'm looking for. Not only achieving the spell, but mastering it." She set it down with a satisfied nod. "Another five points to Ravenclaw."

  Rowan allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction before moving the needle and starting again. Repetition built consistency. One perfect needle was an accomplishment; producing them flawlessly, every time, was mastery.

  By the end of class, only three students had achieved complete transformations. Rowan, Iris, who'd finally managed it on her twentieth attempt with a relieved gasp, and Celeste, whose needle gleamed with sharp precision.

  Professor Weasley stood at the front as class wound down. "For homework, I want twelve inches on the theoretical foundations we discussed today. Gamp's Law, Comparable Exchange, and the importance of understanding material properties. Due Friday. And everyone who hasn't achieved the transformation yet, keep practicing. You'll get there."

  As students filed out, Celeste caught up with Rowan and Iris in the corridor.

  "Not bad, Ashcroft," she said with a grin. "Didn't expect a Muggleborn to nail it on the first try. No offense. Just most of us half-bloods have been around magic our whole lives. You're starting from scratch."

  "None taken," Rowan replied evenly. "Hard work compensates for late starts."

  "Clearly." She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. "Keep it up. It's good to see someone proving blood status doesn't matter. That'll drive the Slytherins mad."

  She walked off to rejoin her Gryffindor friends, leaving Iris looking bemused.

  "She's... direct," Iris said.

  "Refreshingly so," Rowan agreed. Celeste's blunt acknowledgment of his Muggleborn status while praising his skill was far better than the careful avoidance or sneering judgment he'd gotten from others.

  History of Magic was taught by Professor Binns, who was dead.

  Rowan had read about ghosts in his textbooks, but reading about them and actually sitting through a lecture delivered by one were entirely different experiences. Professor Binns drifted through the blackboard at eleven o'clock precisely, began speaking in a droning monotone, and continued for a full hour without pause or variation in tone.

  The subject was the Goblin Rebellions of the fourteenth century. It should have been fascinating. Wars, political intrigue, the complex relationship between wizards and goblins. Instead, Binns made it sound like reading a particularly dull ledger.

  Rowan forced himself to take notes, using his Occlumency discipline to maintain focus while half the class nodded off. Iris lasted twenty minutes before her head began to droop.

  A few rows back, Edmund was fighting a losing battle to stay awake, while his seatmate Poppy Sweeting had given up on taking notes entirely and was sketching what looked like magical creatures in the margins of her parchment.

  When the bell finally rang, students stumbled from the classroom like survivors of a natural disaster.

  "That," Iris said weakly, "was torture."

  "You'll need to read the textbook on your own if you want to actually learn anything," Rowan advised. "Binns is apparently always like this."

  After lunch, shepherd's pie and vegetables, they descended to the dungeons for Potions.

  The Potions classroom was cool and dimly lit, reached by descending several flights of stairs into the castle's depths. The walls were lined with shelves containing jars of pickled ingredients. Some recognizable, others disturbing.

  Professor Aesop Sharp was already present. A man in his forties with a weathered face and a pronounced limp. He stood behind his desk, organizing ingredient containers with methodical precision, barely acknowledging students as they filed in and took seats.

  The Ravenclaws sat on one side of the room, the Slytherins on the other. Rowan noticed Sebastian Sallow and Ominis Gaunt taking seats near the middle. Sebastian caught Rowan's eye and smirked, giving a quick wave that Rowan couldn't quite read. Was it friendly or mocking?

  When everyone was seated, Professor Sharp looked up.

  "Potions." He set down a vial of powdered bicorn horn. "I won't waste your time with dramatic speeches about the subtle science or the exact art. Potions is practical magic. You follow the instructions precisely, you monitor your work constantly, and you produce something useful. Or you don't, and you fail."

  He limped to the blackboard, his gait suggesting old pain that hadn't healed properly. "I was an Auror for fifteen years before an assignment went wrong. My partner and I walked into a potion trap. Unstable Draught of Living Death mixed with something else, something the Dark wizard had modified. My partner died. I survived, but..." He gestured to his leg. "Healing potions can only do so much when the damage is deep enough."

  Sharp turned back to face them. "I tell you this because precision matters. A decimal point in the wrong place, a temperature five degrees too high, an ingredient added ten seconds too early. These things have consequences beyond a failed assignment. In the field, mistakes cost lives."

  He gestured to the blackboard, where instructions appeared in neat chalk handwriting.

  "Today you'll brew a Cure for Boils. Simple enough that even first years should manage it, provided you pay attention. Instructions are on the board. Ingredients in the cupboard. Take what you need, nothing more. You have one hour."

  Students scrambled to gather ingredients. Rowan moved methodically, collecting dried nettles, snake fangs, stewed horned slugs, and porcupine quills. He noted the quantities carefully, remembering Jigger's emphasis on precision.

  Back at his cauldron, he reviewed the instructions:

  Add 6 snake fangs to mortar

  Crush into fine powder

  Add 4 measures of powder to cauldron

  Heat for 10 seconds

  Wave wand

  Leave to brew for 10 seconds

  Add 4 horned slugs

  Take cauldron off fire

  Add 2 porcupine quills

  Stir 5 times clockwise

  Wave wand to complete potion

  Simple enough. But the timing and precision were crucial.

  Rowan crushed his snake fangs carefully, ensuring they were ground to uniform powder. He measured exactly four measures into his cauldron and lit the fire beneath it.

  Ten seconds of heating. He counted in his head, using mental discipline from Occlumency practice to maintain precise timing. At exactly ten seconds, he waved his wand over the cauldron.

  The potion began to bubble gently. Another ten seconds of brewing, then he added the horned slugs. They dissolved with a soft hiss, turning the potion sickly green.

  Remove from heat. Add porcupine quills. Carefully, as Jigger had warned they could cause explosions if added to an overheated cauldron.

  Stir five times clockwise. One, two, three, four, five. The potion shifted from green to pink, exactly as the instructions indicated.

  Final wand wave, and the potion settled into a perfect rose color, thin and watery.

  "Acceptable," Professor Sharp said, appearing beside his desk to examine the cauldron. He studied it for a moment. "Color's right. Consistency's appropriate. The timing was good. I watched. Bottle a sample."

  He moved on to inspect other students' work with the same clinical efficiency. Several potions had turned brown or remained stubbornly green. One Slytherin boy had somehow made his potion turn black and emit noxious purple fumes.

  Sharp vanished it without comment, though his expression suggested he'd seen worse. "Porcupine quills added while still on heat. Lucky it only smoked. Redo it, and pay attention this time."

  Sebastian, working a few stations down, had produced a proper pink potion, though slightly darker than ideal.

  Sharp examined it. "Passable. The slugs dissolved unevenly. You added them too quickly. Seven out of ten."

  Sebastian's eyebrows rose slightly, but he shrugged with a crooked smile. "Could've been worse," he muttered to Ominis, loud enough for Rowan to overhear. "At least mine was drinkable."

  When the hour ended, Sharp stood at the front while students bottled their samples.

  "Ashcroft, Thakkar, and Caldwell from Ravenclaw. Acceptable work. Seven points each. Sallow, Reyes, and Carrow from Slytherin. Marginally acceptable. Three points each." He surveyed the remaining failed potions without particular judgment. "The rest of you will redo this assignment on your own time and submit new samples by Friday. Dismissed."

  As students filed out after class, Rowan heard a Slytherin mutter to his friend, "Of course the Mudblood's good at following instructions. That's all they're trained to do in the Muggle world. Follow orders." His friend snickered. "Bet he'd fall apart the moment he had to actually invent something."

  Rowan kept walking, pretending he hadn't heard. But his hands clenched into fists.

  That evening, Rowan settled into the Ravenclaw common room with his textbooks and began working on his Transfiguration essay. The common room was busy with students studying, playing chess, or simply socializing. Iris sat across from him, struggling with her own essay.

  "Twelve inches," she muttered. "How can anyone write twelve inches about turning a match into a needle?"

  "Write about the theory," Rowan suggested. "Gamp's Law and the importance of visualization. Switch's book has good material on fundamental principles. Start there and expand with your own observations from class."

  She brightened and pulled out her textbook, flipping to the relevant chapter.

  As Rowan wrote, his mind drifted to the bigger picture. He'd completed his first day successfully, but it was only the beginning of the school year. He needed to master every subject. Needed to find time for his own studies beyond the curriculum. Needed to continue expanding his magical core through deliberate practice.

  And he needed to stay alert for opportunities. Knowledge that might prove useful, connections that might be valuable, insights into the future that only he possessed.

  But for now, he focused on his essay, his quill scratching steadily across parchment as he explained the theoretical foundations of transfiguration in clear, concise prose.

  By the time he finished his essay, fourteen inches, well over the minimum, it was nearly midnight. The common room had emptied, most students having retired to their dormitories. Rowan carefully rolled up his parchment, gathered his books, and headed upstairs.

  Tomorrow would bring Charms, Herbology, and his first Astronomy class at midnight. Then Wednesday would start the cycle again. Defense Against the Dark Arts, more Transfiguration, more opportunities to learn and grow stronger.

  Rowan changed into his nightclothes and climbed into bed, performing one final Occlumency meditation to clear his mind before sleep.

  As he drifted off, he felt deep satisfaction.

  Hogwarts Legacy.