The Spellcraft Manuscript

First Year Boys' Dormitory, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts. September 3, 1989.

I have to admit—it felt oddly disorienting not having to attend Sunday service this morning. After seven years of waking up to hymns and sermons, the absence left an unexpected void in my routine. As much as I'd complained about it at times, I almost missed the ritual.

I didn't consider myself especially religious, not in any dogmatic sense. But I had appreciated the structure—and the community—that came with it. Father Beverley, in particular, had grown on me over the years. His sermons had been equal parts thought-provoking and gently humorous. The man had a way of making you feel seen without ever prying too deep.

"I really need to figure out how the mail system works here," I reminded myself. "No way I'm forgetting again today."

Fortunately, I didn't have too much on my plate today. The only scheduled event was a first-year Ravenclaw gathering after lunch. It was meant to be a casual social meet-and-greet hosted by the house prefects, or at least that's how the prefect had pitched it yesterday. Attendance was "mandatory," but from the way the lanky fifth-year had said it—with all the authority of a flobberworm—I doubted anyone would be chasing me down if I didn't show.

Still, I figured I'd go. Curiosity alone was reason enough.

After all, neither the books nor the films had offered much insight into the day-to-day proceedings of Ravenclaw house. From what little I'd observed so far, there seemed to be an undercurrent of quiet competition running through the students—a subtle thing, sure, but present, nonetheless.

And today might finally pull back the curtain a little.

I was halfway out the dormitory door before I stopped mid-step. After a moment of deliberation, I turned around and scanned the common room until I spotted a platinum-haired teenager reading by the window.

"Excuse me," I said, approaching the senior with polite deference. "Would you mind checking if Thalia Fawley is awake in the first-year girls' dormitory? If she is, could you please ask if she wants to join me for breakfast?"

The older girl blinked, clearly not having expected to be addressed by a first-year the first thing in the morning.

Then, after a beat, she grinned.

"Why! A firstie asking for something?" Her eyes sparkled with theatrical delight as she put away her book. "Of course I'll help you!!"

Just as she was turning back toward the dormitory, the platinum-haired senior paused. "Sorry—what was your friend's name again?"

"Thalia Fawley," I repeated.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, but it vanished so quickly I almost thought I'd imagined it.

"And you?" She asked, turning back to face me properly.

"I'm Michael," I offered, realising I'd forgotten basic manners. "Michael Morgan."

"Got it. I'll be back in a jiffy Michael!"

Left to my own devices outside the entrance to the girls' dormitory, I waited patiently.

Well—almost patiently.

Every single boy who passed me by shot me at least one raised eyebrow, if not two.

"Right." I sighed. "Teenagers."

A few minutes later, the senior returned—her smile just a little too bright for my liking.

"She said yes to your breakfast da—"

A sharp glare made her cough mid-sentence.

"Anyway," she grinned, unfazed. "She kindly asked if you wouldn't mind waiting for her a moment."

I nodded curtly, keeping my expression as neutral as possible. This girl was clearly enjoying herself a bit too much.

"I'm not doing anything weird, am I?" I furrowed my brows thoughtfully. If anything, I'd just spared Thalia the annoyance of having to find out I'd gone off without her. Surely, she would've been upset if I hadn't at least tried to invite her along.

"Maybe I should've just waited for her in the common room?" I reflected.

In hindsight, that's probably what most prepubescent boys would've done. But since we hadn't agreed on a time—and I wasn't about to miss breakfast in the Great Hall—I'd simply taken the initiative.

"This is going to bite back." I thought as I spotted the platinum-haired senior chuckle on her way out of the common room. "I can basically feel it already."

Thalia appeared five minutes later. As she stepped into view, I instinctively gave her a once-over.

"She looks normal enough." Her black hair was neatly brushed, her uniform tidy. No signs of someone who'd been yanked out of their morning routine against their will.

"Good morning, Thalia." I greeted, mirroring her bright smile.

"Morning Michael," Thalia brushed a few strands of her silky black hair from her face. "Didn't know you were friends with Sandra."

"Who?" I blinked.

Thalia just stared at me for a beat, then snorted with laughter.

"Oh right…" I winced inwardly. "The senior."

"To be fair," I muttered as my friend continued chuckling. "She never introduced herself."

My excuse only made her laugh harder.

Embarrassed, I turned around and strode briskly toward the exit of the common room. Behind me, I heard Thalia's hurried footsteps catching up.

"I'm glad I amuse you," I said without looking back.

"You can't deny it was a bit funny," she said, skipping up beside me with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"I liked her more when she was still embarrassed for bumping into me." I sighed inwardly.

…

Like the day before, the Great Hall was packed with young witches and wizards stuffing their faces with bacon, eggs, and toast. Scattered among them were the occasional prefect, visibly exasperated as they reprimanded anyone too loud, too rude, or too obnoxious.

At the far end of the Hall, a few professors sat atop the dais, quietly having breakfast. None seemed to pay much attention to the daily chaos below.

Thalia and I made our way down the aisle toward the Ravenclaw table, where several of the first-years had begun to convene.

We didn't make it halfway.

A group of older students, cloaked in our house colours, gave a loud, exaggerated whistle as we passed them by.

I sighed, brushing it off as childish teasing.

Then another did the same. And another, puckering his lips into a grotesque kissing face.

Thalia frowned. "Ignore them," she whispered, though I could tell she wasn't happy either.

When yet another student was about to say something crude, I admit I let it get to me.

I stopped. Thalia not stopping until a few steps later.

"Did you want something?" I asked evenly, staring at the smirking sixth-year who'd made the face.

He blinked, surprised I'd confronted him.

"No, I was just—"

"Move along firstie," another Ravenclaw—a pimply-faced senior—cut in with a smirk. "Don't keep your girlfriend waiting."

For a second, I just stared at the pimply teenager, unblinkingly. In the corner of my eye, I noticed that more and more students were directing their attention toward our little scuffle.

I exhaled through my nose, deciding to be the bigger man.

"Not worth it," I turned away.

"That's right!" Someone shouted behind me. "Go back to your girlfriend!"

"That's it."

I stopped, glaring at the offender.

"You," I began, channelling every ounce of Slytherin I could muster, my voice calm and cold. "Wouldn't recognize a girlfriend if one fell into your lap."

Thanks to him being seated, I had the satisfying pleasure of both physically and figuratively looking down on the older boy.

"Then again," I added, arching a brow, "I doubt that's ever going to happen."

The three of them gawked, stunned into silence. A beat later, laughter erupted from the surrounding tables. I didn't even need to look to know that one of them belonged to Sandra.

"I knew it."

I sighed and walked back to Thalia—who was staring at me like I'd sprouted a second head.

One of the boys shouted something behind me, but a prefect shushed him immediately.

"I knew no good deed goes unpunished." I sighed internally.

As we sat down at our usual seats, I was already regretting my outburst. "So much for staying under the radar."

Then again, after Anton, I'd lost whatever patience I'd once had for bullies—especially stupid ones.

An awkward silence stretched between Thalia and me at the table, one that lasted until our two favourite Hufflepuffs showed up.

"So…" Cedric glanced between Thalia and me as he plopped down, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Just checking here—but you haven't figured out how to communicate telepathically since yesterday, have you?"

Thalia snorted. I smiled. Leave it to Cedric to defuse tension with bad humour.

"Don't even joke about that, Cedric," Eveline muttered as she sat down next to Thalia. "Knowing Michael, I wouldn't put it past him."

"That's Legilimency, right?" I asked, curious about the topic. "Or are there other ways to speak mind-to-mind?"

The table went quiet. Several heads turned, even a few first-years from the adjacent benches—who'd clearly been eavesdropping—paused mid-bite.

"…How do you even know about that branch of magic, Michael?" Eveline asked, her voice laced with suspicion and a touch too loud. "Didn't you say you were a Muggle-bo—"

"Eve!" Thalia hissed, her eyes wide, but it was already too late.

The unfinished word hung in the air like a big fat fart in a lift. Behind us, the Slytherin first-years started whispering among themselves.

"Well, that didn't take long," I sighed, feigning indifference. It wasn't like I'd expected to keep my blood status secret forever. Things like these were bound to come out eventually.

Eveline's face, however, morphed from confusion to horror. Realization hit her like a bludger to the chest. "O-Oh, n-no." She glanced over at the Slytherin table, then visibly shrank into her seat.

"I-I'm s-so sorry," she whispered, her voice like a mosquito.

Shaking my head, I patted her on the shoulder.

"It's fine Eveline, I don't really care about stuff like blood status." I smiled encouragingly, hoping I could lessen some of her discomfort.

And it really was fine. Compared to everything else I'd endured in life, this barely registered.

Yet, judging by Eveline's pale face, my smile must've had the opposite effect. Her eyes shimmered, on the verge of tears.

"Oh no." My smile froze.

"I think it's best if we take this conversation elsewhere," Cedric said quietly but pointedly, gesturing vaguely toward the students casting curious glances our way.

Needless to say, I didn't argue. Instead, I grabbed a few slices of toast, and together we hurried out of the Great Hall.

…

"Are you sure you're alright?" Thalia asked once we were out of earshot, her voice laced with concern. "Blood status is usually a private matter—especially for Muggle-borns."

The memory of Draco Malfoy sneering at Hermione drifted unbidden into my mind.

"Don't worry, I'm fine." I said, perhaps a little too casually. "I've got experience with bullies."

"Yeah, I could tell," Thalia snorted.

For a second, we just stared at each other—before bursting out laughing. The tension between us eased considerably.

Eventually, we found a cozy study room where we could eat breakfast in peace. It had tall windows, a table, and enough chairs for a small study group.

"I-I'm really sorry, Michael," Eveline said again, the words spilling out the moment we settled in. "I didn't mean to out you like that, I swear—"

"Eve." I raised a hand to stop her, my voice clear but gentle. "It's alright. I'm not upset."

"It's not just about that though," Cedric added, frowning. "You don't know how serious this can become. Eve had no right to reveal your blood status in public like that."

"I know." I said, looking him in the eye. "Even a Mudblood as new to the wizarding world as me knows about the prejudice that some traditional, pure-blood wizards hold against Muggle-borns."

Thalia flinched at my choice of words. "Don't use that word. It's disgusting."

"I'm not trying to glorify it," I replied, relaxing my shoulders. "But pretending it doesn't exist isn't exactly helpful either. Better to call a spade a spade, so we can talk about it."

"You're very…" Cedric hesitated, searching for the right word. "Cavalier about all of this."

"This isn't the first time I've been discriminated against," I said quietly, thinking back to the orphanage—and further still, to my previous life. "And like I told Thalia earlier, I know a thing or two about dealing with bullies."

"Still…" Cedric shifted uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not convinced. Eveline mirrored his expression, albeit without meeting my gaze.

"Let's put it like this," I said, switching perspective. "Is blood-based persecution tolerated here at Hogwarts? Like, do professors such as McGonagall or Dumbledore look the other way?"

"Of course not!" Evelina burst out, her tone almost offended.

"Then there is nothing to worry about," I said with a shrug, leaning back into my chair. "If something really were to happen, I can just report it to a professor."

Of course, we all knew—or would eventually learn—that it wasn't quite that simple. But to my eleven-year-old friends, the professors were near-mythical beings. They were pillars of fairness, wisdom, and authority. The idea of any Hogwarts teacher tolerating discrimination was almost laughable to them.

Then again, none of us—not even me—truly knew what it was like to live as a Muggle-born at Hogwarts either.

But I had a sneaking suspicion I was about to find out what it entailed first hand.

…

My friends and I spent the next couple of hours adventuring through the castle. Hogwarts' architecture was fascinating in a way that defied categorization. The structure didn't conform to any single style. Instead, it was a bizarrely elegant blend—traces of classical Roman symmetry interwoven with soaring Gothic arches, spires, and looming buttresses.

"It's like someone designed this place while under a Confundus Charm," I muttered, admiring a particularly well-preserved column. "And yet… it works."

This was around the point when Thalia started rolling her eyes.

Apparently, not everyone shared my enthusiasm for architectural design and history.

"Their loss," I thought, dragging my fingers lightly across the cool stone as we passed.

Eventually, our group split up about an hour before lunch. Cedric had some kind of prior engagement to attend—likely Hufflepuff-related—and while I didn't dislike the girls' company, something about the group dynamic felt a bit… off when he wasn't present.

It wasn't because I was afraid of "girl germs" or anything ridiculous like that. I just preferred balance. Without Cedric, I always felt one beat behind in the conversation.

Hanging out with either Eveline or Thalia was perfectly fine on their own—but together?

Let's just say they were too peas in a very loud, a very conspiratorial pod.

Besides, I had other priorities. The longer I went without practicing magic, the worse the itch became—subtle at first, then more pressing. A silent reminder of who I was and why I was here.

Once I was back in my favourite disused classroom, I decided it was time to learn my first Jinx.

For apparent reason, I chose the Knockback Jinx—Flipendo. It was so widely used among witches and wizards that it appeared in both my Charms and my Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks.

Moreover, the jinx shared several similarities with my Jedi Push.

According to the reading, the Knockback Jinx—like all jinxes—was categorized as minor dark magic—a term that intrigued me more than it probably should have.

I would've assumed that even mentioning dark magic in a classroom setting would be considered taboo, yet here I was, holding a textbook meant for eleven-year-olds casually discussing it.

Still, be that as it may, there was a world of difference between a jinx and a curse.

Essentially, jinxes weren't designed to cause real or lasting harm. The Knockback Jinx, for instance, couldn't directly break a bone or inflict any serious injuries.

That said—if your target indirectly happened to fall off a cliff after being hit with Flipendo, or had an underlying medical issue, well… that was just bad luck, wasn't it?

Given my experience with wandless magic, and all those years Jedi-style force practice, I fully expected to excel at this particular spell.

"Flipendo," I said, articulating each syllable carefully.

Nothing happened.

I frowned and adjusted my wand movement to better match the diagram in the textbook.

"Flipendo!"

This time, my pillow target shot back across the stone floor with surprising speed, skidding nearly two meters before coming to a soft halt.

"That's strange…" I frowned at the pillow. It weighed next to nothing. "I expected it to fly farther."

"Flipendo." I repeated, this time deliberately weaving some negative emotion into the jinx.

Fortunately, after breakfast this morning, I had plenty to spare.

The result? An immediate improvement. The pillow practicaly sailed through the air, flying over a dozen meters, before flopping unceremoniously to the ground.

"There we go," I muttered with a satisfied smile. Then I reached for my journal and began scribbling notes on the observed difference.

Once I'd recorded my insights, I put away my wand and shifted to practicing free form magic.

"Flipendo." I intoned again, conjuring the memory of Anton's punch as my emotional catalyst.

The pillow flew just two meters this time.

"Interesting." I leaned over and began writing again.

"Despite presumably being unnecessary, uttering a jinx's incantation has a measurable effect on the potency of the wandless manifestation—at least in the case of the Knockback Jinx. This suggests that the spoken word, while not inherently magical, possesses a structuring quality—channelling and shaping intent, even with free form magic. Then again, it's also possible I'm subconsciously changing my intent somehow."

It wasn't until after I'd finished the paragraph that I realised I'd written in the wrong journal.

"Urgh," I groaned, tearing the page out before starting over again in the correct one.

…

I practiced the jinx for another forty minutes, experimenting with different emotional triggers, wand angles, and levels of intensity, until my spark finally gave out.

"Sorry for overtaxing you lately," I whispered fondly, speaking to the ever-present source of magic within me. "I just can't help myself."

Naturally, my spark didn't respond.

Still, I smiled.

Though I'd only arrived at Hogwarts two days ago, I'd already made more progress here than I usually did in a month back at the orphanage. My wand, of course, played a large part in that. But I couldn't help feeling like the castle itself—ancient, strange, and very much alive—was contributing in some mysterious way.

To all my senses, the very air seemed steeped in magic. And who knows what sort of ancient magic still lingered in these hallowed halls; what effect said magic could have after centuries of intermingling with the dreams of pupils and the sentiments of professors.

After six years of research, I was well apprised of the fact that—despite my numerous findings—I barely knew a micro fraction of what magic was capable of. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if even the giants of my time—Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Grindelwald—only knew a fraction more than I did when compared to what magic was potentially capable of.

Even though I approached magic through the lens of the scientific method, I also recognised that magic was too mystical, too subliminal, and too deeply interwoven with emotion and intuition to ever fit within the confines of logic or science.

Still, I was determined to extract every drop of insight from the method—for as long as it continued to serve me. And when it no longer did, I would discard it without hesitation.

"God, I love magic," I whispered, gazing at my beautiful wand. Its magic thrummed gently beneath my fingers—subtle, resonant, alive.

I could imagine far worse worlds to reincarnate into.

Caught in a fleeting moment of euphoria, I felt an almost reckless surge of inspiration. Desperate to hold onto that elation for just a little longer, I lifted my wand.

"Expecto Patronum," I murmured, almost reverently.

Needless to say, I blacked out immediately.

…

"–chael!"

I groaned as a sharp, pulsing pain surged through the back of my head.

"–what's wrong?! Michael, wake up!"

It wasn't just physical pain. I felt as though my very soul had been dragged through broken glass and wrung out like a wet rag.

"Michael!!" A familiar voice screamed.

"Please–" I whispered hoarsely, almost begging. "Please, lower the volume a bit..."

"You–" Thalia's worried voice suddenly shifted to something more venomous. I heard her inhale sharply, as if trying to rein in her fury.

"You never show up to the first-year seminar. You know, the one Prefect Quill specifically invited us to?"

"Ah. That's not good." I winced, the throbbing behind my eyes slowly lessening. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Not really." Thalia admitted, sitting down next to me. "Prefect Quill and the Head Boy and Girl mainly talked about the Ravenclaw house rules. You know—'don't cheat,' 'keep quiet in the common room,' that sort of thing."

"Oh…" I exhaled as the worst of the headache began to fade. "Note to self: Don't attempt seventh-year spells without preparation ever again."

"But," Thalia continued, "the Head Boy also said that after the first year, academic performance plays a big part in how we're treated in the house. Starting next year, for example, only the top three students can apply for Prefect."

"That's fine…" I murmured. "Not like I wanted that job anyway."

"And the top student each year gets their own private room in the dormitory," Thalia added, her voice rising in excitement. "And the top five get weekly tutoring sessions with older students. There are plenty of benefits to choose from."

"…Their own room?" I repeated, cracking open an eye to glance at her.

Thalia immediately flinched.

"Michael—your eyes are bloodshot," she said, horrified. "Are you sure you're alright? What happened in here?"

I winced again, the memory of my failure still a fresh wound.

"I…" I hesitated, feeling the ache deep in my core. My spark had never felt so drained—withered—before.

"I pushed myself a bit too far during spell practice," I admitted, more embarrassed than I cared to admit. It felt wrong, somehow, to worry an eleven-year-old.

"You fizzed out?" Thalia winced this time, genuine concern tightening her features. "Michael, if people found out you fainted on your second day—"

"That's fine." I interrupted, raising a hand weakly as I forced myself into a seated position. "I'm pretty sure no one saw me when it happened.

I glanced around the abandoned classroom—the one that supposedly gave people the "creeps." The dust, the shadows, the silence… it had become my haven. "Besides, who'd come to a place like this but us?"

Thalia took a moment to look around, her expression unreadable. Eventually, she gave a small, hesitant nod.

"I guess that's true." She said softly. "Still, Michael. I get that you like to practice—believe me—but don't you think you're pushing yourself too hard? You might not know it, but fizzing out is actually pretty serious. My dad even said it can have long-lasting effects…"

"Yeah…" I grimaced as I looked away from my friend, embarrassed. "Don't worry; I'll make sure it won't happen again."

When Thalia didn't answer immediately, I hesitantly added.

"And I'm sorry for worrying you."

"I-I wasn't worried." Thalia replied hastily. "When you didn't show up at the seminar, I just thought that you'd decided to skip it because of what you said yesterday."

I frowned, trying to remember exactly what I'd said.

"In fact, I actually think you should feel more worried about what Prefect Quill will say." Thalia continued. "The Head Boy and Girl didn't seem to mind too much, but Prefect Quill looked really upset when he noticed that some of the first-years couldn't be bothered to show. He really didn't seem to like truants."

"So, I'm on the Prefect's naughty side already?" I asked rhetorically.

In one day, not only had my controversial blood status been revealed, but I'd also made an enemy of my appointed Prefect. Great.

"At least I'm being efficient." I smiled mirthlessly. Worst case scenario, I would just show up to classes and the Great Hall for meals and spend the rest of my free time practicing in solitude. I might be a bit witty, but if older students started throwing jinxes at me, I wasn't confident in my ability to defend myself, at least not yet.

"I don't know." Thalia replied. "But I'd probably apologize to him if I were you."

I grimaced in response. Since I awakened my memories six years ago, I could count on one hand the number of times I'd had to apologize to a peer—including just now with Thalia. And it wasn't solely because I was too prideful to admit when I was wrong; clearly, I know how to make mistakes.

No, the reason I don't like apologizing to children is because I have higher expectations of myself. With my memories, I don't actually see myself as a child. As such, logic dictates I should be able to conduct myself in a manner that was fitting.

"But I guess she's right…" Even if I hadn't agreed to attend the meeting, I hadn't exactly informed the Prefect of my absence either. Like it or not, the older teenager did have a modicum of authority and responsibility toward us first-years; and by being truant, I hadn't made his job any easier.

Moreover, given the social dynamics of Hogwarts, burning more bridges with upperclassmen—especially your own house's Prefect—was nothing short of foolish.

"I'll talk to him." I relented with a sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Maybe not today, but soon."

Thalia gave a satisfied nod, her eyes softening ever so slightly.

"You better mean it. Hogwarts might feel like a dream, but it's still a school—and school have rules, you know."

"I guess I should count myself lucky that you're here to keep me in check then." I sighed.

"You really should." Thalia got to her feet and dusted off her robes. "Come one. Let's get you back to the Tower before someone else finds you in here and thinks you've been cursed."

"Right." I grabbed my wand and the rest of my belongings, groaning a little as I stood up. The fatigue was still there, but manageable now.

As we walked side by side down the dim corridor, I caught myself glancing at the eleven-year-old beside me. Thalia had every reason to walk away after today, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd come looking for me, stayed by my side, and even offered advice like some precocious eleven-year-old mentor.

Back at the dormitory, I changed out of my dirty clothes, took a shower, before returning downstairs again.

I kept an eye out for Prefect Unibrow, but alas, he seemed to be away at the moment.

Needless to say, I wouldn't be practicing my magic any more today. As such, I decided to ask around about how correspondences worked here at Hogwarts.

Apparently, at the owlery, there were a few communal owls owned by the school that students without owls of their own could use to send letters to their loved ones. Unsurprisingly, these owls were in high demand and almost always out on deliveries.

Still, at least I now knew how to send mail to the orphanage.

…

Before supper, Thalia excitedly introduced me to a friend she'd made in her dormitory.

A fellow first year called Selene Hastings. The blonde girl was, in many ways, Thalia's complete opposite.

Selene was shy and quiet, yet noticeably taller than Thalia, who was quite short for her age. In fact, Selene was almost as tall as me. But her poor posture and habit of looking down at her feet made her seem much smaller than she actually was.

I spent around an hour with the two girls before eventually strolling off on my own.

Wandering through the castle alone, I soon wound up in the tapestry corridor on the first floor. On the way, I thought I glimpsed the Bloody Baron phasing through a wall, but I didn't have enough time to properly identify the ancient ghost before he vanished.

Honestly, I still struggled with the knowledge that ghosts were real.

The tapestry corridor was lined with portraits and paintings of old witches and wizards. A part of me recognized it as the same hallway where Professor Snape had once caught Harry Potter sneaking about in pursuit of Peter Pettigrew, disguised as a rat. He'd seen the name appear on—

"That's right." I halted my steps. "The map."

In the books, Fred and George had claimed they nicked the map from Filch's office in their first year. Which meant that—as long as they didn't steal the map during the first couple of days—the marauder's map was currently in Argus Filch's office.

"Do I steal it?" The thought of possessing the map was very tempting. Despite my memories, I could not remember the location of any of the secret passageways in or out of Hogwarts. Furthermore, the ability to know where everyone was in the castle in real time would prove invaluable during my years at Hogwarts.

Unfortunately, the reason why I hesitated to steal it was similarly as convincing.

If I were to steal the map, then Fred and George wouldn't get it. And if Fred and George didn't get their grubby little fingers on the map, then neither would Harry Potter.

"If I don't give it to him…" But how would that even work? Fred and George had a connection to the boy-who-lived through their younger brother Ron, not to mention the fact that they belonged to the house.

On the other hand, I would just be a random senior from Ravenclaw.

"No." I decided. "Even if I'm the one who hands the map to Harry, the potential consequences are too severe and potentially far-reaching. If I am to alter Cedric's fate, I have to maintain the continuity of canon until Harry's fourth—our my sixth—year."

After getting to know Cedric, making sure he lived a long and fulfilling life had become my primary concern. Anything else—including defeating Voldemort—was secondary.

"I also have to keep an eye on Thalia." It bothered me that the young girl never appeared in any of the books or movies. Her canonical absence seemed to be indicative that something would happen to her. Something that would lead to her being missing from Hogwarts.

Unlike Eveline—who had also become my friend—Thalia was way too talented to just be another nameless, background character.

"This is becoming more and more complicated." I sighed to myself.

Before I headed back to the Great Hall for supper, I couldn't help myself from conversing a bit with the enchanted paintings riddling the walls.

I found their creation endlessly fascinating.

Unfortunately, I accrued very little information on the matter of their creation from the snappy and inconsiderate old fogeys. All they wanted to talk about were their grand achievements and how much better the wizarding world had been back in their days. Initially, I'd listened, thinking I could derive some interesting facts or tidbits from their rambling…

But I quickly abandoned that idea. In fact, listening to their swaggering boasting, I couldn't help but to question the veracity of their stories.

They were just laying it on a bit too thick for my taste.

Then there was the issue of the paintings' intelligence. After interacting with the paintings for a couple of minutes, I quickly understood that the paintings were merely facsimiles of their true selves. Sure, some came across as more lucid than the others, but even the most advanced intellect remained a poor mimicry of the real thing.

Honestly, it made me pity the paintings a little.

…

I spent supper eating with Thalia and the rest of the first years from my house—Selene, Roger, and a dozen others whose names I'd yet to learn. Similarly, Cedric and Eveline were with the Hufflepuffs, making new friends like only children know how to do.

While Thalia and Roger chatted away with the rest of the group, I remained content being a listener and spectator. Sure, I attentively answered a couple of questions, smiled, and offered my input on some Muggle-related issues, but otherwise remained tight-lipped.

During this conversation, I learned the identity of some of the professors who I hadn't recognized during the banquet.

The black witch was Aurora Sinistra, my astronomy teacher. According to the other first years—some of whom had older siblings attending Hogwarts—Professor Sinistra was a pretty cool teacher but strict with grades.

The ghost professor was my history teacher. Unfortunately, according to the gossip, he wasn't the most well-liked teacher. Maybe it was his undead nature, but his lectures were both lifeless and dull.

The rest of the teachers I hadn't recognized were professors who taught elective subjects such as arithmancy, ancient runes, and muggle studies.

Surprisingly, the pale young man with lush hair from the banquet taught muggle studies. His name? Professor Quirrell.

It didn't matter how long I scrutinized the young teacher. I couldn't fathom how someone so unassuming would in two short years become the reason why Voldemort almost gets his hands on the Philosopher's Stone.

"But maybe that's part of the reason why Voldemort almost succeeded? Professor Quirrell's meek demeanour is basically the perfect coverage." My attention returned to the long table I was seated at.

Out of the eighteen Ravenclaw first years of 1989, ten were girls, and eight were boys. While the two genders mostly kept to themselves so far, there were a couple of outliers such as Thalia and me who didn't mind intermingling.

Roger Davies established himself as the informal leader of the boys pretty rapidly. His pure-blood status, confident demeanour, and handsome appearance made short work of any would-be contender, even in a house which supposedly favoured intellect. Listening to him ramble on about Quidditch, I could definitely see why young boys looked up to him.

Since I wasn't interested in something as capricious as prepubescent popularity, I naturally stayed out of it.

Among the girls, however, there were clearly two rivalling contenders for the social position of "most popular". One was a pretty girl named Matilda Vance. The girl was well-spoken and had many friends among the first years already—both boys and girls.

The second contender for the position was ostensibly Thalia. Though not as popular as Matilda, Thalia's sacred-blood status as a Fawley inherently led to many pure-blood students subconsciously viewing her as an authority figure. Thalia's progressive stance on the whole half-blood and Muggle-born debacle also served to make her seem more amicable and approachable by the minorities.

She sat next to a publicly recognized Muggle-born, after all.

By now, it was clear to anyone with half a brain that all my peers knew about my blood status; the fact that I was a Muggle-born clearly disparaged me to some—but made me more congenial to others. One person in particular, a tawny ginger boy named Thomas Winslow, clearly hitched his wagon to mine after he found out that I was similarly from the Muggle world.

Or the "real world" as Thomas liked to call it.

Overall, I felt like Sunday supper at Hogwarts wasn't all that different from Sunday supper at the orphanage, ignoring the open night sky and the thousands of burning candles blanketing us, of course.

After the lively supper, I also couldn't help but to admit that I felt a little bit more like a Ravenclaw.

…

"I can't believe we're going to learn magic tomorrow!" Said Thomas—or Tom, as he liked to be called—with eyes radiating in excitement. Needless to say, it was an expression I recognized from the one I often saw in the mirror.

The auburn-haired boy had become a lot more talkative after we'd separated from the other first year witches and wizards.

"Yes, I also look forward to charms class with Professor Flitwick tomorrow." I answered cordially. The boy clearly hadn't been able to make any other friends yet. And as a fellow Muggle-born, he'd desperately decided to befriend me.

Personally, I couldn't help but to pity the auburn boy a little. If I hadn't awakened my memories, if I hadn't met Thalia, Eveline, and Cedric on the Hogwarts Express, it was very likely that I would've wound up in a similar situation. Lost and discriminated against in a foreign and unfamiliar culture.

"Right!" Thomas said. "Charms… Flitwick…" The auburn boy mumbled.

"I don't understand how you remember all these weird names, Michael. Like the headmaster for example, what kind of name is Dumbledore even? It sounds so silly."

"Tom. I wouldn't say stuff like that if you're around other witches or wizards." I said seriously. "Professor Dumbledore is a very respected man. Some might needlessly take offense or feel insulted on his behalf."

Thomas' face paled in response to my unexpected—but not entirely unwarranted—admonishment. But he nodded hurriedly, nonetheless.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, but I deliberately didn't comfort the poor boy. Like all Muggle-borns, Thomas would have to quickly acclimatize himself to wizarding customs and society. Or else, he risked being even more isolated and discriminated against in the future.

"I know it's strange Tom…" I said, ascending another stair leading to the Ravenclaw Tower. "But as Muggle-born wizards, we need to adapt to these things quickly."

Thomas didn't say anything for a bit before the chatterbox resumed his rambling.

"Why do they call us that anyway?" He asked, presumably referring to the moniker 'Muggle-born'.

"We might not be muggles, Tom." I explained patiently. "But our parents are. Essentially anyone who can't wield magic is a muggle."

"But I don't understand." Thomas' nose wrinkled in confusion. "When I told William and Lucien that my dad was a police officer, they stopped talking to me."

Naturally, I didn't know who William or Lucien were; but based on the context, they were probably first years, from either our house or from the train.

Internally, I ruminated over how much I should tell the boy. On one hand, he was an eleven-year-old. If I tried to explain the traditionalist prejudice or the political climate of the wizarding community, I doubted he'd understand the nuances of it. On the other hand, he was an eleven-year-old boy who'd been thrust into Hogwarts without a clue of what he was getting himself into.

Consequently, I wasn't the least bit surprised when Thomas revealed that Professor Snape had been the faculty member who'd paid him a visit with his letter of admittance. The poor boy's first introduction to the world of magic had been by a man whose emotional span could fit inside a matchbox.

So, I decided to say what I would've wanted someone to tell me if I was in his shoes.

"Some wizards…" I began, searching for the right words to use. "Don't like people like us. Wizards born from muggle parents."

"But why?" The auburn boy asked. "What did my parents do to them?!"

"Lower your voice." I rebuked.

The pitiful expression on Thomas's face reminded me of a puppy I'd once seen.

"There are many reasons why Muggle-borns like us are disliked." I said, tweaking my language a bit. "None of them are okay though."

"Then why?" Thomas asked, his voice pointedly softer than before. "Why do they not like us?"

"Because we're different." I answered honestly. Humans—be they wizards or muggles—didn't need a better reason than that. "We aren't from the wizarding community. We don't understand their sayings or culture. And many Muggle-born struggled with learning magic. Yet we still receive what many believe to be unfair treatment."

"Like what?" Thomas badgered. "What treatment do we get that others do not?"

"Well…" I sighed. "Did you know that normal wizards only get a letter? They don't get visited by a professor."

"So? Professor Snape barely said anything anyway…" Thomas muttered.

"There are many reasons to dislike us, Tom." I sighed, trying to be honest. "The simple truth is that all we can do is prove to them that they are wrong about us."

Thomas and I walked the rest of the way to the Ravenclaw common room in silence.

When we reached the entrance to the Tower, like always, we had to figure out the answer to a quirky little riddle to gain access to the Ravenclaw common room. The answer to today's riddle was almost comically ironic.

What is always in front of you, but cannot be seen?

The answer turned out to be "the future."

Needless to say, the solution didn't apply to me.

…