The first week at Hogwarts is supposed to be overwhelming.
New surroundings, new classmates, new rules, and — most terrifying of all — the labyrinthine schedule that somehow makes you walk twice as far as you need to.
I didn't find it overwhelming.
The moment I stepped into the Ravenclaw common room and looked out through the arched windows at the moonlit mountains, my Ultimate Adaptability had already adjusted me to castle life. I memorized the staircases' patterns within two days and learned which trick steps to avoid. The suits of armor that liked to hum tunes when people passed? I knew exactly when they'd start up, and I timed my walks to avoid them.
I blended in easily. Or at least, that was the plan.
---
The problem with being too good at something is that you can't help but stand out — even when you're trying not to.
Take Charms class.
Our first lesson was the classic Wingardium Leviosa. Most first-years struggle with it. They flick their wands wrong, mispronounce the words, or pump too much magic into the feather so it flips over like a stunned fish.
I wanted to pass unnoticed, so I deliberately slowed my wand movement. I even stumbled slightly on the pronunciation.
And the feather still floated into the air with the grace of a swan taking flight, hovering at the perfect height, rotating slowly like it was admiring itself.
---
"Perfect, Mr. Blackthorne!" Professor Flitwick squeaked from his stack of books. "Marvelous wand control for a first attempt!"
Half the class looked over.
I gave them a modest shrug. "Lucky, I guess."
But Lila, seated two rows behind me, narrowed her eyes. She was going to be trouble — not in the malicious way, but in the sharp, curious mind that refuses to let go of a mystery way.
---
In Transfiguration, we were turning matchsticks into needles.
Most students ended up with lumpy wooden-metal hybrids.
I whispered to the Crit System: Enhance quality: transfiguration precision.
My matchstick didn't just become a needle — it became the ideal Platonic form of a needle. Smooth, gleaming, perfectly balanced. If Merlin himself had ordered a sewing needle, this would have been it.
Professor McGonagall's eyebrow arched ever so slightly when she examined it. "Remarkable work, Mr. Blackthorne."
I murmured a thank-you, while in my head I was already making a note: Dial it back another 20% next time.
---
Potions was trickier.
Brewing is a discipline where subtle mistakes can ruin everything. I didn't need the Crit System to excel — but the temptation was there. My partner, Edmund, carefully measured his ingredients while I subtly applied Enhance quality: ingredient purity to the lacewing flies.
The potion shimmered a fraction brighter than the others. Slughorn noticed, of course. He had that gleam in his eye that said, Ah, here's someone worth keeping an eye on.
That was dangerous territory. Slughorn was known for collecting talented students. I didn't want to be collected.
So for the rest of the lesson, I "accidentally" let the flame get too high, making the potion bubble aggressively. It still turned out better than most — but not so much better that Slughorn would be sending me an invite to his little gatherings just yet.
---
Outside of class, I spent a lot of time exploring.
Hogwarts is a living puzzle — shifting corridors, vanishing staircases, doors that only open if you ask nicely (or in Parseltongue, if you're me — though I wasn't telling anyone that just yet).
I enhanced my awareness to detect faint magical traces. This let me find passageways others missed — including one behind a tapestry that led directly to the kitchens. The house-elves welcomed me warmly when I showed up with a polite smile and no demands.
One even gave me a chocolate tart that, while already good, became dangerously addictive after a little Crit System upgrade.
---
The library was my true playground.
I spent hours there under the guise of studying, but in truth, I was running silent experiments. Testing exactly how much enhancement I could get away with before people noticed.
For example:
If I enhanced the quality of a quill, could I write without looking and still be perfect? (Yes.)
If I enhanced the quality of parchment, would it resist spills? (Also yes — spilled pumpkin juice rolled right off like water on a duck's back.)
If I enhanced the quality of a translation charm, could I read Ancient Runes without actually learning them? (Tempting… but too suspicious if anyone found out.)
---
In the evenings, Ravenclaw tower was the perfect vantage point for watching the castle. I could see torches flickering along the walls, owls returning from late-night deliveries, and the occasional prefect making their rounds.
I didn't feel lonely — in fact, I liked the quiet. I'd talk to my housemates, join in the occasional chess game, answer questions when asked… but I kept most of myself tucked away, like a book no one had opened yet.
---
The real challenge wasn't learning magic. It was learning how much magic I could safely show without shattering the illusion of being just another clever Ravenclaw.
And so far, no one suspected just how deep that illusion ran.
Well… almost no one.
---
One night, as I was returning from the library, Lila fell into step beside me.
"You're very good at hiding things," she said casually.
I glanced at her. "Hiding what?"
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Exactly."
She turned down a side corridor without another word.
I watched her go, a faint smile curling my lips.
Yes… Lila was definitely going to be interesting.