The first two weeks at Hogwarts passed in a blur of classes, homework, and exploration.

  Rowan fell into rhythm. Wake before dawn for Occlumency meditation, breakfast in the Great Hall, morning classes, lunch, afternoon classes, dinner, homework in the common room, and late-night practice in an abandoned classroom he'd discovered on the fourth floor.

  The abandoned classroom had become his sanctuary.

  It was tucked away at the end of a corridor that most students avoided due to a particularly cantankerous portrait of Percival the Pompous, who hurled insults at anyone who passed. But Rowan had learned that a simple compliment about the portrait's "magnificent beard" earned safe passage, and the room beyond was perfect. Spacious, with desks he could move aside, and most importantly, rarely visited.

  Here, in the early hours before dawn or late at night after curfew, Rowan practiced spells beyond the first-year curriculum. He'd progressed far beyond Lumos and Wingardium Leviosa. Now he was working on the Severing Charm, the Mending Charm, and experimenting with variations on the Unlocking Charm that could handle more complex mechanisms.

  Most importantly, his systematic magical depletion routine was working.

  Each night, he pushed himself to cast spells until his magical reserves felt nearly empty. That bone-deep exhaustion Waffling had described. Then he'd sleep, and wake feeling restored and, he was increasingly certain, slightly stronger. He could cast perhaps fifteen to twenty percent more spells before depletion than he'd been able to on his first night at Hogwarts.

  Classes were progressing well. In Transfiguration, Professor Weasley had moved them from matches to needles, then to transforming stones into buttons. Rowan excelled at each task, his visualizations becoming more precise and his transformations more perfect with each attempt. He'd earned Ravenclaw thirty points across various classes, which had drawn both admiration from his housemates and resentment from certain Slytherins.

  Charms with Professor Abraham Ronen was equally engaging. Ronen was a jovial man with a magnificent mustache and an enthusiasm that was infectious. He taught them the Levitation Charm properly, building on what many students had attempted on their own, and introduced them to the Softening Charm and the Dancing Feet Spell.

  "Charms are all about finesse, not power!" Ronen proclaimed during one lesson, making a teapot waltz across his desk. "Any buffoon can blast something with raw magic. A skilled wizard can make magic dance!"

  Rowan found the precision and control suited his methodical approach, and Charms quickly became his strongest practical subject.

  Potions remained challenging but rewarding. Professor Sharp had proven to be exactly as Margaret Whitmore had described. Harsh, fair, and genuinely invested in his students learning properly. He'd already assigned them three different basic potions: the Cure for Boils, a simple Sleeping Draught, and a Forgetfulness Potion. Rowan's careful attention to timing and temperature control produced consistent results, though Sharp found fault with even the best of them.

  Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Dinah Hecat was perhaps his favorite class.

  Hecat was in her early forties, a former Ministry Unspeakable with silver-streaked dark hair and a theatrical teaching style that kept students engaged.

  "Dark wizards don't announce themselves with dramatic entrances and monologues!" she'd declared during their first lesson, pacing at the front of the classroom with her wand held loosely. "They attack from the shadows, use surprise, and exploit your weaknesses. Defense is about awareness, preparation, and the will to survive."

  She'd started them with the Knockback Jinx, Flipendo, and the basic Shield Charm, Protego. The Shield Charm was difficult; most first years couldn't produce more than a faint shimmer. Rowan had managed a weak but visible shield after his third attempt, earning approval from Hecat and ten points to Ravenclaw.

  "Good instincts, Ashcroft," she'd said, circling his desk. "Your shield held for almost three seconds. That's exceptional for a first year. Keep practicing. A solid shield can be the difference between life and death in a real fight."

  The pace of instruction surprised him. These were competent teachers pushing a demanding curriculum, and Rowan suspected it wouldn't always be this way. His fragmentary knowledge of the future suggested that Defence Against the Dark Arts in particular would suffer over the coming century, if what he half-remembered about a curse on the position held any truth. Standards eroded slowly. A generation taught by inadequate professors would produce inadequate teachers, who would lower expectations further, and within a few decades a curriculum like Hecat's would look ambitious.

  Herbology with Professor Mirabel Garlick was different from other classes in ways Rowan hadn't quite expected. The greenhouse was warm and humid, filled with plants that moved and occasionally made concerning noises. But what struck him most was Professor Garlick herself.

  She was young for a professor. Probably only in her late twenties, with an infectious enthusiasm that reminded Rowan of someone who'd just discovered their life's calling and couldn't wait to share it.

  "Good morning, everyone! Oh, wonderful, you're all here!" She beamed at the assembled Ravenclaws and Gryffindors as they filed into Greenhouse One. "Now, I know some of you might think plants are just... well, plants. Stationary. Boring. But I promise you, once you really get to know them, you'll find they're absolutely fascinating creatures with personalities all their own."

  She gestured to the collection of potted plants arranged on the work tables. "Today we're working with Bouncing Bulbs. Yes, they bounce, hence the name, but they're also quite particular about how they're handled. Treat them roughly, and they'll bounce away. But if you're gentle and patient..." She demonstrated, coaxing one of the bulbs into her hands with soft movements. "...they'll settle right down for you. Just like that! Good girl."

  She was talking to the plant. Actually talking to it, in the same tone someone might use with a friendly cat.

  "Now, you'll be working in pairs today. The goal is to successfully transplant your Bouncing Bulb from its current pot into a larger one with fresh soil. Remember, gentle hands, calm approach. These little ones can sense nervousness, and it makes them anxious too."

  Rowan was partnered with a quiet Gryffindor boy named Lucan Brattleby, and found himself working near Celeste, who had already started what appeared to be an animated struggle with her Bouncing Bulb.

  "Come on, just—hold still for one second—" Celeste made a grab for the plant as it bounced past her. It evaded her easily, ricocheting off the table edge and bouncing enthusiastically across the greenhouse floor.

  Professor Garlick appeared beside her with a patient smile. "Remember, Miss Pembroke, they respond to your energy. If you're frustrated, they'll be agitated. Try calming yourself first, then approach it again."

  "Right. Calm. I can do calm." Celeste took a breath and moved more slowly toward the escaped bulb. This time, when she reached for it, her movements were deliberate rather than rushed. The bulb settled into her hands.

  "There you go! Well done." Garlick patted her shoulder encouragingly. "You've got it now."

  Rowan watched the exchange with interest. Most professors would have been irritated by the disruption. Garlick seemed genuinely pleased by Celeste's success, no matter how much chaos had preceded it.

  He turned his attention to his own Bouncing Bulb. Following Garlick's advice, he approached it calmly, moving with steady confidence. The bulb wiggled but didn't bounce. When he lifted it carefully from its pot, it remained still in his hands.

  "Excellent technique, Mr. Ashcroft!" Garlick had materialized beside his table. "Look at that. The bulb trusts you completely. That's the key to herbology, really. Building trust with your plants. They're living things, and they know when someone respects them."

  She moved on to help another struggling pair, her voice carrying across the greenhouse: "Yes, yes, just like that! Oh, he likes you, doesn't he?"

  Across the greenhouse, Iris was working with methodical precision, her Ravenclaw partner looking impressed by her careful technique. Her bulb sat contentedly in its new pot, already settling into the fresh soil.

  By the end of class, most students had successfully transplanted their bulbs, though Celeste's had escaped twice more before she finally got it secured.

  As they filed out, Garlick called after them cheerfully, "Don't forget, twelve inches on the care and handling of Bouncing Bulbs for next week! And really observe them, don't just write what you think I want to hear. Every plant is different!"

  History of Magic remained as dull as predicted. Professor Binns droned on about goblin rebellions, giant wars, and the formation of the International Confederation of Wizards. Rowan took meticulous notes despite the boring delivery, recognizing that understanding magical history was crucial for understanding the present political landscape.

  Flying Lessons were a mixed experience. They were taught by Madam Chiyo Kogawa, a stern Japanese witch who'd attended Mahoutokoro and tried out for the Toyohashi Tengu before coming to Hogwarts. She was exacting in her standards, pushed students hard, and had a competitive edge that made every lesson feel like preparation for professional Quidditch.

  "Flying is no leisure activity," she announced as the class assembled on the grounds, school brooms laid out in neat rows. "It is a skill that requires discipline, technique, and dedication. Some of you will have natural talent. Most of you will not. What matters is whether you're willing to work."

  She demonstrated the proper mounting stance, the correct grip, the way to distribute weight for optimal control. "Precision matters. Every movement, every shift of your body affects the broom's response. Sloppy technique means sloppy flying."

  Rowan mounted his broom cautiously. He'd read about flying in theory, but theory and practice were vastly different things. When Kogawa called for them to kick off, he rose into the air smoothly enough. But his control was shaky, his turns awkward, his overall performance thoroughly mediocre compared to students who'd grown up on brooms.

  He was hovering uncertainly about fifteen feet up when a voice cut through the air beside him.

  "Is that really the best the great Rowan Ashcroft can do?"

  He turned to see Imelda Reyes circling him with effortless grace. The Slytherin girl was a natural flyer, her movements fluid and confident, and her expression held nothing but contempt.

  "Flying requires actual talent, Ashcroft. Pretending to be smart won’t help you up here." She executed a perfect barrel roll, showing off. "But I suppose we can't expect much from a Mudblood who only learned magic existed a few weeks ago."

  Several students below had stopped to watch. Some Slytherins were smirking. Others looked uncomfortable but said nothing.

  Rowan kept his expression neutral, though anger burned beneath the surface. "I'm learning. Like everyone else."

  "Learning?" Imelda laughed, sharp and mocking. "You're flailing around like a first-time Muggle on a toy broom. It's embarrassing. Honestly, I don't know how you got into Hogwarts at all—oh wait, they had to lower standards to let your kind in, didn't they?"

  "That's enough, Reyes." Iris's voice came from below, sharp with anger. She'd landed and was glaring up at Imelda. "Leave him alone."

  "Oh, look. Caldwell rushing to defend her fellow Mudblood." Imelda's sneer deepened. "How touching. Two Mudbloods sticking together. Though I suppose you have to—no one with any real magic would want to—"

  "Miss Reyes!"

  Madam Kogawa's voice cut through the air like a blade. She strode across the grounds, her expression severe. Imelda's smirk vanished instantly.

  "On the ground. Now."

  Imelda descended smoothly, her face carefully blank.

  Kogawa's tone was ice. "I teach flying because I respect the skill. Because I believe dedication and hard work matter more than natural talent or where you were born. What I will not tolerate is a student using my lessons to demonstrate their ignorance."

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  "But Madam—"

  "Twenty points from Slytherin. And an essay on the contributions of Muggleborn flyers to modern Quidditch techniques. Three feet of parchment, due Monday."

  Imelda's jaw tightened. "Yes, Madam."

  Kogawa's gaze swept across the other students, many of whom suddenly found their brooms fascinating. "This is a flying lesson. If you want to discuss your classmates' backgrounds instead of improving your technique, you can write essays too. Anyone else?"

  Silence.

  "Good. Back to practice." She turned to Rowan, her expression still stern but not unkind. "Ashcroft. Your grip is too rigid. You're fighting the broom instead of working with it. Relax your shoulders. Let the broom respond to subtle shifts, not forced movements."

  Rowan nodded, grateful for the intervention but hating that he'd needed it. He adjusted his grip as instructed and kicked off again, acutely aware of the stares following him.

  Imelda didn't say anything else for the rest of the lesson, but her glares were pointed every time Kogawa wasn't looking. And Rowan noticed other Slytherins whispering to each other, their eyes on him.

  After class, as students filed back toward the castle, Iris fell into step beside him.

  "You okay?"

  "Fine," Rowan said shortly.

  "She's awful. The way she talked to you—"

  "Isn't anything I haven't dealt with before." He kept his voice level. "Reyes is just louder about it than most. Half the Slytherin house thinks the same thing; they were just smart enough not to say it in front of Madam Kogawa."

  "That doesn't make it right."

  "No," Rowan agreed. "But getting angry won't change their minds. Proving them wrong will."

  Edmund joined them, looking troubled. "That was horrible. I wanted to say something, but by the time I flew over, Madam Kogawa had already intervened."

  "It's fine," Rowan said, meaning it.

  But as they walked back to the castle, Rowan was acutely aware of the weight of stares from other students. The confrontation had been public. Now everyone knew exactly where people like Imelda Reyes stood.

  And judging by the whispers that followed him, plenty of students agreed with her.

  Astronomy, taught at midnight on Wednesdays, was fascinating despite the late hour. Professor Satyavati Shah was an elderly witch with long gray hair and an obsessive attention to detail. She spoke more to the stars than to her students, often trailing off mid-sentence to observe some celestial phenomenon through her telescope.

  "Magic is influenced by the cosmos," Shah explained one night as they stood atop the Astronomy Tower, telescopes pointed at the sky. "Certain potions are more potent when brewed under a full moon. Some spells work better during planetary alignments. A wise witch pays attention to the heavens." She paused, squinting at Mars. "Hmm. Red planet's position suggests conflict ahead. War, perhaps. Or merely academic disputes. Celestial signs are imprecise..."

  Rowan filed this information away carefully. If celestial timing could enhance magical effects, that was knowledge worth having.

  Beyond classes, Rowan had begun exploring the castle systematically. Hogwarts was vast and labyrinthine, with secrets hidden in every corner. He'd discovered multiple shortcuts between floors, found three different passages that seemed to lead to hidden areas, and located the kitchens by following the smell of fresh bread one morning.

  The house-elves in the kitchens had been startled by his appearance but pleased when he thanked them for the excellent food. One elf named Deek had offered him fresh pastries, which he'd accepted gratefully. Building good relationships with the house-elves seemed wise. They saw and heard everything in the castle, and their goodwill might prove valuable.

  His friendships were also developing. Iris had become his closest companion in Ravenclaw. They studied together most evenings, and she'd begun to open up about her background. Her father was a banker in Manchester, her mother a seamstress, both entirely Muggle and bewildered by their daughter's magical abilities. She felt guilty sometimes, she confessed, for leaving them behind to enter a world they couldn't understand.

  "They tried to be supportive," she said one evening as they worked on Transfiguration homework. "But I could see the fear in their eyes. Like I'd become something alien. Something dangerous."

  "You're not dangerous," Rowan said. "You're powerful. There's a difference."

  "Is there?" She looked at him seriously. "Power without control is dangerous. And I feel so out of control here sometimes. Everyone else seems to know things I don't. Social rules, magical customs, family histories. I'm always catching up."

  "Then we catch up together," Rowan replied. "Neither of us has family connections or inherited knowledge. We have to build our own foundation."

  She smiled at that, and they returned to their essays.

  He'd also grown closer to his roommates. Lawrence Goode shared his interest in theoretical magic and they often discussed spell mechanics late into the night. Hector Fawley was nervous but kind, always willing to help other students who were struggling. Amit Thadakkar was quiet but perceptive, often making observations that others missed. And Timothy Fletcher, despite his pure-blood background, had proven to be progressive in his views and genuinely curious about the Muggle world.

  "My family's old-fashioned," Timothy had explained once. "But I don't see why that means I have to be. Magic is magic, regardless of who casts it. Anyone who can't see that is an idiot."

  Rowan appreciated the sentiment, even if he suspected Timothy's progressive views would face testing if his family applied pressure.

  But beneath the surface of classes and friendship, tension was building.

  The incident happened on a Friday evening, two weeks into term.

  Rowan was walking back from the library, arms full of books, when he turned a corner and found his path blocked by three older students. All Slytherins, all wearing expressions that suggested they'd been waiting for him.

  He recognized one of them. Mulciber, the fourth year who'd sneered at Muggleborns in the corridor multiple times. The other two he didn't know by name, but their expressions told him everything he needed to know.

  "Lost, Mudblood?" Mulciber asked, his wand already drawn.

  Rowan set his books down carefully on a nearby windowsill. His mind was cold, analytical, running through options. Three against one. Older students. Armed. His wand was in his holster. He could draw it quickly, but they'd have the initiative.

  "I was heading back to my common room," he said calmly. "You're blocking the way."

  "Are we?" The girl, Alecto Carrow, he remembered from Potions, stepped forward. "Maybe you should find another route. This corridor isn't for your kind."

  The third student, a boy named Avery, already had his wand pointed. "Maybe we should teach him—"

  Rowan drew his wand and cast before Avery finished speaking.

  "Expelliarmus!"

  Avery's wand flew from his hand and clattered against the wall. The other two reacted immediately. Mulciber firing a Tripping Jinx while Carrow cast something Rowan didn't recognize, a purple bolt that looked decidedly dark.

  "Protego!"

  His shield sprang up, weak but solid enough. The Tripping Jinx bounced off harmlessly. The purple bolt struck his shield and burst into sparks, and Rowan felt his shield shudder but hold.

  Then he dropped it and attacked.

  Three rapid spells in succession. A Knockback Jinx at Mulciber, a Stunning Spell at Carrow that he'd learned from advanced reading, and another Disarming Charm at the still-wandless Avery who was reaching for his fallen wand.

  Mulciber went flying backward into the wall with a painful thud. Carrow barely managed to shield, but the force still knocked her backward. Avery gave up reaching for his wand and scrambled back.

  "Next time you want to attack someone," Rowan said quietly, his voice carrying in the silent corridor, "make sure they're actually helpless. I'm not."

  He collected Avery and Carrow's wands from where they'd fallen. Insurance, and proof of what had happened. Then he turned and walked away, leaving his attackers groaning behind him.

  The confrontation had taken perhaps ninety seconds.

  But word spread through the school within hours.

  The Mudblood first-year had fought off three older pure-bloods and won. Decisively.

  By the next morning, every student in Hogwarts seemed to know about it. The story had grown in the telling. Some versions had Rowan fighting off five attackers, others claimed he'd used Dark magic himself, still others said he'd hospitalized all three.

  The truth was impressive enough without embellishment, but Rowan didn't correct the exaggerations. Let the rumors grow. Let the Slytherins wonder exactly how powerful he was, exactly what he was capable of.

  Sebastian approached Rowan in the Great Hall at breakfast, sliding onto the bench across from where Rowan sat with Iris and Lawrence.

  "Heard you put three Slytherins in the Hospital Wing," Sebastian said, leaning forward with an expression that was hard to read. "Mulciber, Avery, and Carrow. Three against one, and you dropped all of them."

  "They attacked me in a corridor," Rowan replied carefully. "I defended myself."

  "I know. They're idiots." Sebastian waved a dismissive hand. "Ambushing a first-year because their pride was hurt? Pathetic." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "But here's the thing, Ashcroft—you could press charges. Get all three expelled. You'd have every right to."

  Rowan waited, sensing there was more.

  "But if you do," Sebastian continued, "the Averys and Carrows will make a huge deal of it. Both families are old money and part of the Wizengamot. They'll turn this into a political circus. Your name will get dragged through every pure-blood drawing room in Britain. They'll make it about blood status, and use it to discredit Muggleborns in general." He leaned back with a shrug. "Alternatively, we handle it internally. All three of them know they screwed up. Their pride's already shattered, losing to a first-year. You let it drop, and it stays a school matter. No politics, no Ministry."

  Rowan studied him. "Why do you care what happens to them?"

  "I don't," Sebastian said bluntly. "I care about what happens to you. If this blows up politically, you're the one who suffers, not them. The Averys and Carrows have connections. Yours..." He trailed off, not unkindly. "I'm just saying, sometimes winning quietly is smarter than winning publicly."

  After a long moment, Rowan nodded. "Handled internally. But if anyone tries again—"

  "They won't," Sebastian said firmly. Then, standing to leave, he added with that crooked smile, "Besides, I'm planning to join Dueling Club this year. Can't have you getting expelled before I get a chance to duel you properly."

  He walked away before Rowan could respond.

  Iris and Lawrence both stared at Rowan.

  "What," Iris said slowly, "was that?"

  "I have no idea," Rowan admitted.

  The harassment stopped after that. Oh, there were still sneers and muttered insults, still the casual prejudice that pervaded magical society. But no more ambushes, no more coordinated attacks, no more three-on-one confrontations in dark corridors.

  The Slytherins had learned that targeting Rowan Ashcroft came with consequences.

  Two days later, Professor Hecat asked both Rowan and Sebastian to stay after Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

  The request was unexpected. Rowan caught Sebastian's eye across the classroom, and the Slytherin smirked back. When the other students had filed out, Hecat sat on the edge of her desk and regarded them both thoughtfully.

  "I've been watching your performances in class," she said without preamble. "Both of you are exceptional. Ashcroft, your shield work is better than most third years, possibly better than some fourth years. Sallow, your offensive spell work and tactical instincts are remarkably advanced for a first year."

  She paused, letting that sink in.

  "I don't normally invite first years to join the Crossed Wands. It's meant for older students who've mastered the basics. But I'm making an exception for both of you."

  Rowan's pulse quickened. Sebastian's expression showed genuine interest.

  "Crossed Wands?" Rowan asked.

  "A dueling club founded fifteen years ago to teach students proper dueling technique and deportment. We meet twice weekly in the evening. Tuesdays and Thursdays after dinner. Beyond simple instruction, we prepare students for the International Youth Dueling Championship, where underage witches and wizards from schools around the world compete."

  She pulled out two pieces of parchment and handed one to each of them. Schedules and lists of rules for the club.

  "I won't lie to you. You'll be the youngest members by two years. The older students won't go easy on you, and some may resent first-years joining their ranks. But you've both demonstrated skill and temperament. You keep your heads under pressure, you think tactically, and you have excellent instincts." She looked between them. "You're both natural duelists. It would be a waste not to develop that talent properly."

  Sebastian spoke first. "I accept. Thank you, Professor."

  "I accept as well," Rowan said. "Thank you."

  Hecat smiled slightly. "Don't thank me yet. Come to the first session Tuesday evening and see if you still want to continue after you've been knocked on your arses a few times by fourth years." Her smile widened fractionally. "Though I suspect having two first-years will create some interesting dynamics. You'll push each other to improve."

  She glanced between them, and Rowan got the distinct impression she knew exactly what she was doing by inviting them together.

  "Dismissed."

  They left the classroom together, an awkward silence between them.

  "So," Sebastian said finally, that crooked smile returning. "Guess I'll get that duel after all."

  "Guess so," Rowan replied.

  "May the best duelist win." Sebastian's tone was light, but his eyes were sharp, competitive. Then he walked off toward the dungeons, leaving Rowan standing in the corridor with the parchment clutched in his hand.

  Rowan's mind was already racing ahead. Dueling Club. International Youth Dueling Championship. A chance to train properly, to face opponents who would push him to his limits.

  This was an opportunity he couldn't afford to waste.

  That night, lying in bed in the Ravenclaw dormitory, Rowan should have been thinking about the Dueling Club, about the tournament, about the opportunity Hecat had given him.

  Instead, his mind kept circling back to the day's events. The whispers in the corridors after the flying lesson. The way students had looked at him and Iris. Like they were something distasteful that had been tracked in on someone's shoe.

  He was working twice as hard as most of his classmates. He'd mastered every spell assigned. He'd made friends, earned respect from professors, even defeated three attackers at once.

  And still, to people like Imelda Reyes and half of Slytherin house, he would always be less than. Always be other. Always be Mudblood.

  The anger burned hot for a moment. Then he channeled it, the way he'd learned to channel everything else. Anger into motivation. Frustration into determination.

  The Crossed Wands invitation sat on his nightstand, the parchment catching the moonlight. Hecat had called him a natural duelist. Sebastian had challenged him to compete. Sterling, Greengrass, and the others would push him to his limits.

  He would prove them wrong. Not by arguing or defending himself, but by becoming so undeniably excellent that even blood prejudice couldn't dismiss him.

  Let them whisper. Let them sneer.

  He'd show them what a Mudblood could do.