The Ravenclaw Tower was quiet at that hour of the night, its high-arched windows letting in slivers of silver light from the waxing moon. All the common room candles had died down to dull the light, glowing faintly in the vast darkness of the common room.
From the darkness of the boys' dormitory, a figure emerged.
He moved carefully, his footsteps light upon the spiral staircase. He looked older than most third-years, already tall, with shoulders that hinted at the frame he would one day grow into. Sixteen or fifteen years of age, but the stiffness in his movements, the perpetual heaviness in his gaze, marked him as someone carrying burdens far beyond schoolwork or exams. His hair, dark and slightly unkempt, fell across his brow as he made his way upward, passing the ornate bronze eagle knocker that forever posed riddles to outsiders.
To the other side of the common room lay a library built by Rowena Ravenclaw herself, meant for students with the capacity and desire to learn. It was exclusive to Ravenclaw students, though others who managed to answer the riddles of the entrance door and gain access to the common room could use it as well. Students of other Houses knew of its existence, but for them, entering was far from easy.
The Boy walked past shelves stacked high with forbidden or long-forgotten tomes, careful not to brush against them. Even he, who had been raised with tutors far harsher than any Hogwarts professor, held a measure of respect for the precious books here. He made his way to a narrow balcony that overlooked the Black Lake. The glass doors creaked faintly as he pushed them open.
The night air struck him immediately—warm, sharp, cleansing. His hair was tousled as the wind carried across the lake, he stood there at balcony in silence for some moments to observe the beauty of the Hogwarts scenery in peace.
But peace was not why he had come.
From beneath his robes, he withdrew what at first glance looked like a thick-bound book. He turned it over in his hands, then let the disguise fall away. The artifact shimmered, shifting shape until it was revealed as a mirror—not large, no bigger than a book's cover, but polished to a brilliance unnatural in the dark. The glass surface gleamed faintly, as though waiting.
The boy cast a glance over his shoulder. No footsteps, no whisper of a ghost, no curious Ravenclaw peering in. The library held its silence.
He spoke softly, his voice steady but carrying the undercurrent of dissatisfaction he felt:
"Lord Thaddeus Rowen."
For a long moment, nothing happened. The mirror remained blank, his own pale reflection staring back at him with sharp, restless eyes. He hated the wait. Hated the uncertainty. What if someone walked in? What if the connection failed? What if the old man simply didn't answer, as punishment?
Then the glass flared with a muted glow. A face emerged.
Lord Thaddeus Rowen.
Even distorted through the artifact, his grandfather's presence was suffocating. His face, aged but unyielding, dominated the mirror. Thin lips pressed into a perpetual line of disdain, steel-blue eyes that seemed to pierce through the boy's every thought. His voice, when it came, was iron wrapped in contempt.
"Tell me, Isaac. In which House of Hogwarts were you sorted?"
Isaac swallowed once, his throat dry. "Ravenclaw, my lord."
Silence.
It stretched for long seconds until Thaddeus finally exhaled, the sound more like a hiss of disappointment than breath.
"I had expected as much," the old man said at last. "Always with your nose in those damned books. Just like a child who mistakes parchment for power."
Isaac bristled, but he said nothing. He knew better.
"And her?" Thaddeus asked sharply, leaning forward until the reflection warped around his severe features. "In which House was she sorted?"
Isaac sighed, the sound unguarded. "Slytherin."
Another pause. This time, his grandfather's disappointment seemed almost theatrical, a heavy sigh escaping his chest as though Isaac had not merely answered wrong but failed some sacred destiny.
"I am truly disappointed with you, boy," Thaddeus spat. "Why is it that you cannot do a single thing according to plan? Why are you a constant disappointment to me—like your father before you?"
Something in Isaac snapped. His hands clenched tight around the mirror's frame. His words came sharper than he intended.
"The Sorting isn't in my hand! Nor could I choose for her! Do you think I didn't try? I went deliberately late, just to see in which House she was sorted. Even under that fucking Hat's voice, I begged for Slytherin. Repeatedly. And still it shoved me into Ravenclaw. So do not blame me for what I couldn't control."
"Careful," Thaddeus hissed, his tone icy. "You speak to your Lord, not your schoolmate. Do not sully my ears with your foul tongue."
Isaac bit back another retort, jaw tight.
"Nevertheless," Thaddeus continued, dismissing the defiance as though it were a buzzing fly, "since you are not in her House, you will try harder. Befriend her. Ingrain yourself into her confidence. And when the time comes—seduce her. That is your purpose at Hogwarts. Nothing else matters. I do not care about your marks or your lectures. You were taught all that from birth. That cesspit of a school will not give you anything I haven't already arranged. What matters is her. Do you understand?"
Isaac's frown deepened. He could feel the cold tightening in his chest. "And what if she doesn't want me? What then? Wouldn't all of this be a waste?"
A sneer twisted across the old man's face. "Are you slow, boy? Did I not gift you the artifact? Use it when you are with her. Day by day, it will do its work. Slowly. Subtly. She will bend. You will see the result."
Isaac closed his eyes briefly, then asked the question that had burned in him for months.
"…Why?"
Thaddeus's gaze narrowed. "Why, what?"
"Why are you so invested in her? She isn't… she isn't what you think." Isaac's words gained momentum, anger fueling his honesty. "She has nothing that truly benefits you except the name and the wealth of the White family. She is not Dumbledore. She isn't powerful enough to sway nations. She's just… a girl. A girl playing at being the Lady of her House. Pretending to be more than she is."
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Thaddeus's face hardened into pure ice.
"Shut up, boy." His voice was colder than steel, each word clipped. "You dare presume to lecture me on what is right and what is wrong? That is why you will never equal your brother. He never questioned me. He never failed me. And you… with every breath, you prove yourself unworthy."
Isaac's knuckles whitened around the mirror. He hated the mention of his brother. Always the shadow, always the comparison. His brother had never been forced into Hogwarts, never been sent to play games with girls, never been told he was a disappointment before he even began.
"I am giving you one final chance," Thaddeus said. "An opportunity to prove your worth. Do not waste it with insolence. Do as you are told. Befriend her. Bind her. And in three years' time, deliver her into my hand. Do you understand?"
The mirror's glow dimmed as the face of Lord Rowen withdrew, vanishing into black.
Isaac stared at his reflection. His own face looked pale, taut with fury. The silence of the library pressed in again, thicker now, suffocating.
For several long moments, he said nothing.
Then, through clenched teeth, he muttered, "Filthy piece of shit."
He sneered at his reflection, snapped the mirror shut, and stuffed it back into his robes. The night air bit at his skin as he turned from the balcony, anger coiled like a serpent in his chest. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the empty library as he stalked back toward the spiral staircase, every motion stiff with rage.
He hated his grandfather. Hated the weight of expectation, hated the invisible leash that tied his life to the will of the Rowen family.