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The Gryffindor boys' dormitory was already stirring by the time Cassian opened his eyes.
Light slanted through the tall windows, throwing golden bars across the room where trunks sat half-unpacked and robes hung messily over bedposts. Voices overlapped — excited, sleepy, loud with the kind of careless ease he had never learned.
Seamus Finnigan was wrestling with a bootlace near his bed, muttering under his breath. Dean Thomas laughed at something he'd drawn across a scrap of parchment. Neville Longbottom fumbled with his tie, cheeks pink as he tried to get it straight. Harry and Ron lingered near the door, Ron still yawning while Harry adjusted his glasses.
Cassian sat up silently. The hangings around his bed muffled the sound, but the air smelled faintly of smoke and wool, warm and lived-in. Different from the stone and polish of the Manor.
No one noticed him right away — or perhaps they chose not to. Either way, it gave him a moment.
His robes lay folded at the foot of his bed, creased but clean. He dressed without hurry, tugging the tie into place with the same precision he gave to every task. His satchel waited by the trunk: plain, leather cracked at the edges, but serviceable. Nothing like the polished sets Malfoy's son had flaunted on the train.
When he finally shouldered it, Seamus glanced up. "You coming, then? Don't want to miss breakfast. I hear the plates fill themselves."
Cassian gave the smallest nod. No words wasted.
The group trailed down the spiral stairs, voices rising as they passed through the common room. Scarlet banners hung heavy overhead, and the fire still smoldered in the grate though the morning was warm. A first-year girl waved shyly at Harry; he managed a quick smile, awkward but genuine.
Cassian kept to the back. Always a step behind. Always watching.
The Great Hall was brighter than he remembered. Morning sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored a clear blue sky feathered with drifting clouds. Four long tables stretched down the room, laden with dishes that filled themselves as quickly as they emptied. The smell of toast and bacon and roasted tomatoes hit at once, rich and overwhelming.
Gryffindors surged forward in a tide of chatter. Cassian slid onto the bench near the middle, leaving enough space that no one pressed against him. Across the hall, green-and-silver robes gathered with familiar arrogance. Draco Malfoy was already in the middle of them, pale head bent toward Pansy Parkinson. She whispered something, and the whole knot of Slytherins laughed.
Cassian lowered his gaze to the table, hands steady as he reached for toast.
"Ignore him," Dean said casually, though his glance toward the Slytherins was wary. "He's not worth the breath."
"Tell that to half the school," Ron muttered, stabbing his sausage.
Harry stayed quiet, though Cassian felt the weight of his glance — quick, assessing, like he hadn't decided yet.
Food appeared and vanished, goblets refilled themselves, and owls swept in through the high windows to drop letters across the tables. None landed near Cassian.
By the time the plates cleared, McGonagall was making her way down the aisle, her tartan robes billowing. She passed out schedules with brisk efficiency. "Your first class is Transfiguration. Do not be late."
Her eyes flicked once across the table, and for the briefest instant they paused on Cassian. Sharp, weighing. Then she moved on.
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk and dust, with neat rows of desks facing the high platform where McGonagall waited.
Cassian sat near the back, quill poised. His posture was straight, attentive but not eager. He wanted to see. To know.
"Transfiguration," McGonagall began, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone foolish enough to think otherwise will not remain in this class long."
Her gaze swept the room. A few students shifted uncomfortably.
She tapped her wand against the desk — and the desk shivered, shrank, and in a blink became a plump tabby cat. Gasps rippled across the room. The cat flicked its tail once before stretching lazily across the wood.
Cassian felt something tighten in his chest. Not fear. Something sharper.
"Today," McGonagall continued crisply, "you will attempt to change matches into needles."
Wooden boxes slid down the rows, matches rattling within.
Cassian took one between his fingers. Light brown wood, sulfur tip. Plain. Nothing remarkable.
His quill hovered over parchment, ready to note the instructions — but instead he found himself staring at the match. Imagining the shift. Wood to steel. Fragile to sharp. A thing remade.
Around him, mutters rose as classmates whispered the incantation, tried wand movements, frowned when nothing happened. Hermione Granger raised her hand immediately, rattling off precise theory, which McGonagall acknowledged with a short nod before setting her to work.
Cassian's turn.
He held his wand, feeling the weight settle into his palm. Not graceful, not awkward either — just natural, as though it had been waiting.
"Feraverto," he murmured, deliberate.
The match twitched. Just once. A shimmer ran across its surface before it snapped back to wood.
Not success. But not nothing.
His pulse quickened.
From the front, McGonagall's eyes flicked toward him, sharp as the glint of a blade. She said nothing, but the line of her mouth softened by a fraction before she turned away.
Draco's voice drifted from the far side of the room. "Figures. Even wood won't listen to him."
Cassian did not look up. He rolled the match between his fingers once, then set it down with quiet precision.
Charms with Flitwick was livelier. The tiny professor nearly vanished behind his stack of books until he climbed onto them, beaming at the class. His voice was bright, almost squeaky, but the magic he displayed had weight.
Feathers floated. Sparks danced.
Cassian leaned forward slightly in his seat, eyes following every flick of the wand. Where others giggled or whispered, he memorized each detail.
When it came to practice, he gripped his wand firmly. Swish and flick. "Wingardium Leviosa."
The feather stirred. Not rising, but trembling against the desk as if something pressed at it from beneath. Enough to make him hold his breath.
Hermione squealed when hers lifted inches into the air, earning applause from Flitwick. Ron scowled at his own still feather. Harry managed a wobble before it fell flat.
Cassian said nothing. He tried again.
This time the feather shivered, lifted half an inch, then dropped.
Not enough. But the pull of it was there. The possibility.
After lunch came Potions.
The dungeon was cool, damp with the smell of herbs and smoke. Shelves lined with jars glimmered in the low light, filled with shapes that shifted in murky liquid.
Professor Snape swept in like a shadow, his robes billowing. His eyes scanned the room once — cold, dark, lingering. They landed on Harry Potter first, sharp as a blade, before glancing across the rest.
Cassian felt that gaze brush over him too. A pause. Then it moved on.
"You are here," Snape said softly, "to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, I do not expect many of you to truly appreciate the beauty of it."
His voice coiled through the air, drawing it taut.
Cassian listened. Every word tucked away. Not worship, not awe — calculation. This was knowledge. Power.
Pairs were formed at the tables. Cassian ended up beside Neville, who looked ready to faint at the sight of the ingredients list.
"Chop those," Cassian said quietly, steady. Neville obeyed with trembling fingers, nearly slicing them uneven. Cassian corrected the angle with a brief gesture, then set about measuring the liquid himself.
Around them, Slytherins smirked. Draco made a loud remark about "bastards not knowing the difference between lacewing and leech." Crabbe and Goyle snorted.
Snape's voice cut through. "Five points from Gryffindor for clumsiness, Longbottom."
Neville wilted. Cassian's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He kept stirring — steady, precise — until their potion turned faintly green instead of gray.
Not perfect. But enough.
When class ended, cauldrons were extinguished and fumes cleared. Snape swept past their table without comment.
Draco's voice followed Cassian out of the dungeon, sharp and smug. "Careful, Thorne. One slip, and you'll be scrubbing cauldrons instead of floors."
Cassian's stride did not falter. He kept his head high, his satchel tight at his side.
Afternoon sunlight was already fading when the Gryffindor first-years trudged back up from the dungeons. The castle swallowed them in its winding staircases and shifting corridors, portraits leaning out to gossip as students passed.
Cassian walked near the rear, his expression unreadable as ever, though his eyes missed nothing. The way torches flared to life as they passed. The faint creak of old stone underfoot. Even the shadows that clung to the arches seemed alive.
This place was full of rules he didn't yet know. But rules were meant to be learned—and bent.
Their next class was History of Magic, and the moment they sat down, any flicker of curiosity drained. Professor Binns, pale and insubstantial, floated through the blackboard in a monotone lecture about goblin uprisings. The drone of his voice numbed the air.
Ron snored halfway through. Seamus doodled dragons in the margin of his notes. Hermione wrote so quickly her quill squeaked.
Cassian sat straight, parchment blank. His quill never moved. His eyes tracked Binns as if watching a trick. What use was knowledge recited like dust? A thousand goblin revolts meant nothing if they were just words. He wanted the parts with teeth.
When the bell finally rang, the Gryffindors spilled out into the corridor, half-asleep.
"Worst class ever," Seamus muttered.
"Not if you read ahead," Hermione protested.
Cassian's lips curved faintly. The first ghost professor, and this was what they were given? Pointless.
But the weight of the castle pressed in again as they climbed toward the Astronomy Tower for their evening lesson. The staircases twisted and groaned under their feet. Twice they shifted, sending the group scrambling to the next landing.
Harry laughed under his breath. "Mad, isn't it? Like the place is alive."
Cassian did not laugh. "It is," he said quietly, almost to himself.
At the top of the tower, the sky stretched wide. Stars burned cold and clear. A breeze tugged at their robes as they filed out onto the platform, where telescopes waited in neat rows.
Professor Sinistra pointed to constellations, her voice smooth and precise. "Orion, there. The hunter. Note the three stars in his belt. Record them."
Quills scratched. Students craned through telescopes, jostling for better views.
Cassian leaned into his telescope, adjusting the brass until the stars sharpened into pinpricks of light. His fingers lingered on the metal, cool against his skin. For a moment, the chatter fell away.
The sky was vast. Silent. Unreachable. Yet the lines between the stars hinted at stories older than the castle itself. Hunters. Serpents. Beasts.
He traced Orion's belt with his gaze, steady and intent. For once, there was no sneer from Malfoy, no muttered insult in his ear. Just the night and the stars.
The hour passed, charts filled, and at last the class descended the long, spiraling steps. Some grumbled about the cold, others joked about falling asleep mid-lecture.
Cassian walked in silence, but something in his stride was sharper, a flicker of fire beneath the calm.
By the time they reached the Great Hall for dinner, candles floated overhead in their endless drift, spilling golden light across the tables. Platters refilled at once—roast chicken, steaming potatoes, dishes that seemed to never run empty.
The Gryffindors piled food high, laughing and loud. Harry sat surrounded by Ron, Neville, and Hermione, but his eyes still wandered. More than once, they flicked toward the Slytherin table.
Draco was in the middle of it, as ever, peacock-proud. His eagle owl sat at the side of the bench, feathers gleaming even in the candlelight. Pansy stroked its wing, while Crabbe and Goyle leaned forward eagerly.
Cassian caught the motion, just for a second. His satchel rested against his leg, plain and unremarkable. No owl. No parchment from home. Nothing to display.
Draco's gaze found him across the room. A curl of the lip. Not words, not needed.
Cassian set his knife down carefully against the plate. His expression gave nothing away. But his grip on the handle had whitened his knuckles.
When the food cleared and Dumbledore rose to speak, Cassian's eyes followed every word. The Headmaster's voice rolled warm and strange across the hall—welcoming, warning, promising all at once. No duels in the corridors. Forbidden Forest off-limits. The feast was done, bedtime near.
Cassian listened. Not to obey. To remember. Every rule was another line he might someday choose to cross.
The Gryffindors gathered, noisy and chattering, back to their tower. The common room glowed with firelight, its armchairs sprawling, its banners draped proudly red and gold.
First-years lingered, yawning or whispering, before trudging to the dormitory.
Cassian sat on his bed without speaking, unfastening his robes with sharp, clean movements. The chatter of the others blurred—Ron's loud complaint about History, Seamus's joke about setting feathers on fire, Neville's nervous laugh.
Cassian lay back at last, staring at the canopy above.
The day spun through his mind in pieces: the shimmer of a match almost turning to steel, a feather trembling at the edge of flight, the cool brass telescope beneath his hand, the gleam of Malfoy's owl under candlelight.
His jaw tightened. The gap between them was real. But so was the spark he had felt with his wand, with the stars, even in Snape's dungeon.
Magic was here. Alive. Waiting.
And he would not be left behind.
The fire in the common room guttered low. One by one, the dormitory fell quiet.
But Cassian's eyes stayed open long after the others slept, fixed on the dark, steady, silent, burning.