The ancient stone corridors of Ophelia Hall moaned like tired bones settling into their coffin, every draft whispering secrets older than the mortar that held the walls together. Trunks scraped along the uneven flagstones with the dismal rhythm of bodies being dragged to their graves, punctuated by the occasional squeak of wheels that clearly regretted ever being invented for such Gothic torment. The procession of girls climbed the spiral staircase, their shadows dancing grotesquely across the walls in the flickering glow of wrought-iron sconces that seemed to have been forged in the fires of someone's particularly elaborate nightmare.
At the front, Enid Sinclair practically radiated sunshine, which in this particular environment felt like an act of rebellion so brazen it bordered on warfare against the very concept of ambiance. Her curls—pink and blue, like candy floss that had been electrocuted by a rainbow—caught the torchlight, scattering it into a kaleidoscope that seemed determined to personally offend the dignity of every piece of gothic stonework within a fifty-foot radius. Her trunk, smothered in stickers proclaiming things like "BE THE SUNSHINE!" and "SPARKLE HARDER!" and what appeared to be a holographic unicorn giving a thumbs up, trailed after her with unnerving eagerness, as if even inanimate objects couldn't resist her gravitational pull of weaponized cheer.
"Oh my gosh, this is so perfect!" she squealed, taking the steps two at a time with the boundless energy of a caffeinated hamster, then spinning around to walk backward with the kind of terrifying confidence that suggested she'd done this tour approximately seventeen thousand times. "I get to give you the complete insider's guide to Nevermore's social dynamics! It's like National Geographic, but, you know, with vampires instead of wildebeests and significantly more emotional trauma!"
"Or," Wednesday intoned flatly from somewhere near the back, her voice carrying the emotional warmth of a funeral dirge played on a broken violin, "more like a nature documentary narrated by Death himself, where every subject eventually ends up disemboweled and arranged artistically for the closing credits."
She didn't look winded—her trunk rolled along behind her with eerie obedience, as though it had learned through bitter experience that displeasing Wednesday Addams was a one-way ticket to becoming kindling. Her pale hands gripped the handle with the same casual indifference she might show toward a dagger, and her dark eyes swept the corridor as if cataloging potential crime scenes.
Hermione, hauling a trunk that groaned with the weight of what appeared to be half the British Library plus several volumes that definitely shouldn't exist outside restricted sections, puffed slightly but brightened at the idea like a lighthouse beacon spotting shipwreck survivors. "Social stratification based on supernatural heritage?" she asked, her tone clipped but eager, her brows furrowed in the kind of scholarly delight usually reserved for discovering lost civilizations. "Fascinating. It's like an anthropological case study in the making. I wonder if their alliances follow traditional kinship lines or if there's evidence of intergroup cooperation transcending biological taxonomy..."
Her trunk gave a particularly dramatic groan as she wrestled it around a corner, and several books appeared to be trying to escape through the latches.
"Yes!" Enid nearly tripped over her own excitement, catching herself on the stone banister with practiced ease. "That's exactly it! Well, not exactly exactly, but kind of exactly in the way that matters! There are five main groups, and they totally define everything—friendships, dating, even where you sit in the dining hall and who you're allowed to make eye contact with during particularly dramatic moments. Think Hogwarts Houses, but with more fangs and less, like… cozy common room sweaters."
"Territorial boundaries, then," Susan said, her voice cool and clipped with the precision of someone who had grown up watching adults navigate political minefields with tea and passive aggression. Her red hair caught the torchlight like a warning flare, and she maneuvered her trunk with military precision, not a single wasted motion or stumble. "Makes sense. Closed systems inevitably develop unwritten codes of conduct. It's basic survival, even if they dress it up as culture and tradition."
Enid beamed at her as though she'd just complimented her shoes, her hair, and her life choices all in one perfectly crafted sentence. "Exactly! You're already a natural at this! I can tell you're going to fit right into the ecosystem!"
Ginny, balancing her trunk on one hip like it was just another Quidditch opponent to wrestle into submission, snorted with amusement. "Sounds like high school with extra sharp teeth and a significantly higher probability of actual bloodshed. Same cliques, same drama, just more creative ways to get literally bitten instead of metaphorically stabbed in the back."
Wednesday finally deigned to glance at her, dark eyes glittering like chips of obsidian in moonlight. "You say that like being bitten is a drawback rather than the evening's entertainment."
There was a pause, during which the torches seemed to flicker in anticipation and Luna hummed something that sounded vaguely like a funeral march played at double speed.
Then Enid clapped her hands together with the kind of faux cheer usually reserved for covering up minor apocalypses. "And that brings us to our first group—the Fangs!" She spun dramatically, nearly whacking Susan with her trunk handle in a move that seemed both accidental and perfectly choreographed. "Our resident vampires. Gorgeous, broody, super into opera and existential literature and standing dramatically in doorways while the wind blows their hair around. They're basically like… the entire Hot Topic catalog, but with actual bloodlust and better cheekbones."
"They're sophisticated," she added dreamily, her voice taking on the tone of someone describing their favorite romantic comedy, "like, 'I've lived through the fall of empires and can tell you exactly why each one deserved it' sophisticated."
"Or," Wednesday interrupted with surgical precision, "they're parasites in designer capes, haunted by the knowledge that eternity is just an endless loop of bad poetry readings and the inescapable decay of everything they once loved, including their own capacity for genuine emotion."
Enid didn't even blink, her smile never wavering. "That too! Isn't it wonderful how multifaceted they are?"
Luna—who had been wandering slightly off-course, pausing every few steps to examine the flickering sconces as though expecting them to whisper ancient secrets or perhaps stock tips—tilted her head with the curiosity of a particularly philosophical cat. "Do they really live for centuries? Or is it more of an aesthetic choice, like growing a beard you can't shave off but in reverse for your entire personality?"
"Both!" Enid said promptly, as though she were answering questions on a quiz she had studied for obsessively using color-coded flashcards and motivational Post-it notes. "Some are ancient, like, they actually knew Shakespeare personally and complain about how he never returned their letters and totally misunderstood the ending of Hamlet. Others are just recently turned, but they inherit, like, the whole cultural vibe of their lineage through some kind of supernatural osmosis."
"Handed down trauma with a side of inherited aesthetic misery," Susan said dryly, her political instincts already calculating the long-term social implications. "How delightfully dysfunctional."
"More like inherited aesthetic misery with generational compound interest," Wednesday corrected, a small smile ghosting across her lips like the shadow of a scythe in moonlight. "Imagine family heirlooms, but instead of silverware and china patterns, it's centuries of ennui and an ever-growing collection of dramatic capes."
Hermione, though straining under the weight of her literary fortress of a trunk, still found room for academic curiosity. "That would suggest a unique form of cultural continuity… a kind of intergenerational memory embedded within the actual transformation process itself. The psychological implications are fascinating. Do they retain the memories of their makers? Is there a collective unconscious specific to vampiric lineages?"
"Or," Ginny muttered, giving her trunk another determined yank up the stairs, "it's just a fancy excuse to act like a pretentious git at parties while everyone pretends your brooding is deep instead of annoying."
Enid gasped with the scandalized delight of someone whose worldview had been gently challenged with a feather pillow. "Don't be mean! They can't help being dramatic—it's literally in their blood! Well, technically it's in their victims' blood, but you know what I mean!"
"They drink blood," Wednesday said, her voice cool and deliberate as a surgeon's scalpel, "so the drama is just foreplay for the main course of existential despair."
The group fell into uneasy silence for exactly three heartbeats, the torchlight sputtering as though in agreement with Wednesday's assessment, before Enid burst out laughing with the kind of nervous, glitter-drenched enthusiasm usually reserved for defusing international incidents with jazz hands.
"You guys are going to absolutely love this place! I can already tell!"
Enid resumed her climb with renewed vigor, her words bouncing off the vaulted stone ceiling like overexcited sprites desperate to be heard above the Gothic ambiance. "Next up—the Furs! That's werewolves like me, plus other shapeshifters, werebears, wereravens, and this one girl who turns into what I'm pretty sure is a theoretical concept but she insists is a legitimate animal form."
She gestured enthusiastically, nearly losing her grip on her trunk handle. "We're very kinetic, very outdoorsy, very into group activities and pack bonding. Competitive sports, full-moon traditions, community campfires where we sing songs about the ancient ways and make s'mores—it's all about family and loyalty and knowing exactly who has your back when things get properly feral."
Ginny let out a sharp laugh, the sound as blunt and direct as a Beater's bat connecting with a Bludger. Her red hair flared under the torchlight as she yanked her trunk up a particularly unfriendly step that seemed determined to trip her. "Territorial werewolves crammed together in a boarding school dormitory situation. What could possibly go wrong? I bet things get especially entertaining around mating season."
Susan groaned softly, pinching the bridge of her nose with the weary precision of someone who had grown up watching diplomatic incidents unfold over breakfast. "Did we really need to bring reproductive biology into the conversation before we've even seen our room assignments?"
"Oh, it's totally fine!" Enid chirped, bouncing in place like a pastel pogo stick powered by pure optimism. "We actually have super sophisticated protocols for managing emotionally intense periods. Group bonding activities, supervised recreational activities, structured pack exercises designed by actual animal behaviorists. And if things do get overwhelming, we have mandatory counseling sessions with trained professionals who specialize in supernatural adolescent psychology. Very civilized! Way more organized than wild populations who just, you know, fight it out in the forest until someone submits or dies."
Hermione, huffing slightly as she tried to wedge her library-on-wheels around the curve of the staircase without losing any precious books, perked up immediately with the enthusiasm of a researcher who had just discovered a new field of study. "That's… actually brilliant. An institutionalized framework for channeling biological imperatives into constructive group behavior patterns. It could potentially serve as a model for wizarding society's approach to dangerous magical creatures. I wonder if Hogwarts would ever consider adopting something similar for their Care of Magical Creatures program…"
"Imagine the paperwork," Susan muttered darkly, her political instincts already calculating the bureaucratic nightmare such a system would require.
But Wednesday finally broke her contemplative silence, her voice slicing through the chatter like the slow drag of a guillotine blade through silk. "And what happens when your civilized protocols inevitably collapse under the weight of primal instinct? When loyalty gives way to savagery, and you wake up with blood on your teeth and the metallic taste of your roommate's intestines still clinging to your claws?"
The torchlight seemed to flicker in agreement, shadows stretching long and sinister across her pale face like accusatory fingers.
Enid didn't even flinch, though her smile tightened almost imperceptibly. "That's exactly why we have enhanced medical facilities and comprehensive disciplinary procedures specifically designed for supernatural incidents." She delivered it with the practiced brightness of someone who had clearly given this particular speech before, probably to worried parents during orientation. "But honestly, it's super rare! Most of us learn to channel our instincts constructively through proper training and peer support."
Wednesday's expression didn't change, but her tone carried the weight of a final verdict delivered by an executioner who took professional pride in their work. "Most of you."
The words dangled in the air like a noose, taut with implication and the promise of future violence.
"Everyone's still learning," Enid countered cheerfully, as if sheer optimism could banish Wednesday's shadows through the power of positive thinking and pastel hair accessories.
Ginny smirked, dragging her trunk another step with Quidditch-honed ease and the satisfaction of someone who appreciated a good challenge. "Translation: sometimes it's a complete bloodbath, but at least everyone fills out the proper incident reports afterward."
"Bloodbaths," Wednesday said calmly, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular while her mind clearly wandered through darker territories, "are merely team-building exercises where the stakes have been properly sharpened to encourage genuine participation."
Susan glanced at her sidelong, suspicion knitting her diplomatic brow. "You actually want to see a breakdown of their system, don't you?"
Wednesday's lips twitched, the barest suggestion of a smile that somehow managed to be more unsettling than her usual deadpan expression. "It would be educational. Carnage always provides the most honest lessons about human nature."
Hermione, scandalized but clearly secretly intrigued despite her better judgment, clutched her trunk handle tighter. "That's… appallingly irresponsible. Fascinating from a sociological standpoint, but morally appalling."
"Irresponsibility," Wednesday replied with the casual tone of someone discussing weather patterns, "is just freedom wearing a sharper suit."
Enid clapped her hands together with explosive enthusiasm, cutting through the mounting tension like a confetti cannon detonating at a funeral. "Okay! Moving on before anyone volunteers to conduct a controlled demolition of pack hierarchy protocols—let's talk about the Stoners!"
She quickened her pace, as though speed alone could outrun the unsettling gleam that had begun to flicker in Wednesday's dark eyes like candlelight reflected in a blade.
"So, the Stoners are our gorgon students," Enid continued, her voice bright with the determination of a tour guide who refused to be derailed by thoughts of institutional violence. "They're incredibly artistic, like mind-blowingly talented in ways that make regular artists weep with inadequacy. Mostly sculpture and visual arts, obviously, but their pieces aren't just realistic—they capture emotions better than any other medium I've ever seen. It's like they can freeze a feeling in stone forever."
The group's footsteps echoed through the corridor, each hollow sound merging with the faint hiss of torch flames licking the ancient walls. Their shadows bent and warped as if eager to hear the rest of this particular explanation.
"Living models must provide excellent reference material," Wednesday said at last, her voice smooth as polished obsidian and twice as sharp. She blinked once, slow and deliberate, as though picturing the exact posture of a subject caught in eternal agony, every muscle frozen in exquisite detail.
Enid's perpetual smile stuttered—just for a second—before snapping back into place like a neon light buzzing defiantly against encroaching darkness. "They use very strict safety protocols," she said brightly, the words tumbling out with the slightly too-rehearsed quality of someone who had practiced this explanation in front of a mirror. "Lots of willing volunteers, extensive consent forms, comprehensive liability waivers, and everything is totally temporary with scheduled reversal spells." Her voice dropped just slightly, taking on a conspiratorial tone. "Mostly."
"Mostly," Susan repeated, her tone as clinical and bone-dry as a coroner's report. Her eyes narrowed as though scanning an invisible legal document for loopholes and liability issues. "So you're telling me there's a non-zero statistical probability of someone being left permanently transformed into decorative furniture?"
"Not permanently permanently," Enid protested, bouncing slightly on her toes with nervous energy. "Just… longer than initially planned sometimes. And only if the timing gets off or the spell reversal gets delayed due to unforeseen circumstances or bureaucratic complications. It's actually super rare! Like, less than five percent of cases!"
Ginny smirked with the satisfied expression of someone who had found exactly the kind of chaos she'd been hoping for. "Bet that makes for a fun excuse in class. 'Sorry, Professor, I couldn't finish my essay because I spent the entire weekend as a garden ornament contemplating the futility of existence.'"
Wednesday's gaze sharpened with predatory interest, the corners of her lips curling like a cat toying with a dying mouse. "Imagine the artistic potential of an unwilling subject. The frozen expression of someone caught mid-scream—an exquisite study of pure terror and the precise moment when hope dies. A gallery of authentic human suffering preserved for eternity."
Hermione nearly tripped over her own trunk, academic scandal warring with reluctant fascination across her features. "That's absolutely unethical from every possible standpoint," she said, her voice pitched with moral outrage while her scholarly instincts clearly found the concept irresistibly intriguing. "But… theoretically speaking, it would allow for perfect preservation of momentary emotional states. An anthropological archive of genuine human reaction under extreme stress."
"Exactly," Wednesday murmured, almost reverently, as though discussing a particularly beautiful sunset instead of artistic torture. "Statues of grief carved from living flesh. Sculptures of panic with authentic tears turned to stone. A permanent gallery of dread where every piece tells the story of someone's last conscious moment."
Susan sighed heavily, sounding exactly like a UN delegate forced to referee a food fight between warring nations. "I'm hearing liability lawsuits, wrongful petrification claims, medical negligence charges, and about seventeen different violations of international human rights conventions."
"Human rights," Wednesday replied with the casual tone reserved for discussing breakfast options, "are such a limiting concept. Stone, however, is eternal."
Luna, who had been trailing behind examining the torch brackets as though they might contain messages from interdimensional beings, suddenly spoke up with dreamy conviction. "The Nargles say the gorgons don't mean to hurt anyone. They're just very sad because everyone's always closing their eyes around them. It must be lonely, creating beauty that no one dares to look at directly."
This observation seemed to catch even Wednesday off-guard, though she recovered quickly. "Loneliness," she said thoughtfully, "is just another medium for artistic expression."
"The Scales," Enid pressed on, her voice maintaining its relentlessly bright tone as though sheer enthusiasm could smother the Gothic shadows curling through the hallway like smoke from a crematorium, "are our siren students. They're absolutely amazing at music, obviously—I mean, their voices could make angels weep with joy or demons flee in terror—but they're also brilliant at linguistics, communication theory, diplomatic negotiation, psychological manipulation—basically anything where the power of words and voice matters."
The stairwell seemed to hum faintly as her words echoed back from the stone walls, the torches guttering as if reluctant to illuminate the thought of voices powerful enough to bend will itself into new and interesting shapes.
"They run most of our student government," Enid continued, oblivious to the way her companions had begun exchanging increasingly worried glances, "all the social coordination committees, conflict resolution panels, and basically every organization that requires people to actually agree on things. They're naturally gifted at finding solutions that work for everyone involved."
Hermione, struggling to wrestle her trunk around a particularly narrow curve that seemed specifically designed to frustrate students carrying libraries, straightened abruptly, her scholarly brow furrowing with the intensity of someone who had just identified a fascinating ethical catastrophe. "Sirens in positions of governmental authority?" she asked, her voice brisk despite her obvious physical exertion. "That raises enormous ethical concerns regarding consent and democratic legitimacy. If they possess the ability to influence decision-making processes directly through vocal persuasion, can any form of representation truly be considered free of coercion?"
"There are checks and balances!" Enid said quickly, hopping up two steps at once like a pastel squirrel powered by caffeine and good intentions. "Lots of institutional safeguards, oversight committees, regular reviews of all major decisions. Honestly, they're usually really good at finding solutions that genuinely work for everyone involved. Sirens are naturally diplomatic—it's part of their whole innate ability to sense what people really want and need on a deep psychological level."
Susan arched one elegant eyebrow with the practiced skepticism of someone who had grown up watching political maneuvering over dinner conversations. "Or they're exceptionally gifted at manipulating people into believing they're getting what they want, while the sirens quietly consolidate power and influence behind a facade of democratic participation. That's not diplomacy, that's soft totalitarianism wrapped in a pretty melody and tied with a bow made of false consensus."
Ginny smirked, hauling her trunk with the casual ease of a Beater who had learned to make difficult things look effortless. "So basically, they're like Hogwarts prefects with better cheekbones and significantly more potential for brainwashing. Can't wait to see how that particular power dynamic plays out in practice."
Wednesday, who had been trailing behind with the silent poise of a stalking crow contemplating which eyeball to peck first, finally spoke, her voice a soft scalpel slicing through the increasingly tense atmosphere. "The concept of government administered by those whose very breath corrupts the concept of free will is… refreshingly honest. Imagine how much more efficient politics would be if voters were simply compelled into obedience by carefully crafted lullabies. No more tiresome debates about policy. No more messy elections. Just melodious songs of submission echoing through marble halls."
The torches flickered violently, as though recoiling from the image she'd painted.
Hermione stopped dead on the stair, moral outrage painted across her features with the broad strokes of someone whose worldview had just been personally insulted. "That's absolutely horrifying! Legitimate governance should be based on reasoned argument, transparent processes, accountability to constituents, and the informed consent of the governed—not hypnotic coercion disguised as student leadership!"
Wednesday tilted her head with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing an interesting specimen, her expression unreadable and somehow bored. "And yet, the ultimate results remain remarkably similar across all systems. History demonstrates quite conclusively that democracy, monarchy, oligarchy, and tyranny all eventually lead to corruption, decay, and ruin. At least the sirens make the inevitable descent into oblivion melodically pleasant."
Ginny let out a bark of delighted laughter. "God, you're magnificently twisted."
Susan sighed with the weary resignation of someone calculating future legal ramifications, adjusting her grip on her trunk as though it were a briefcase full of diplomatic disasters waiting to happen. "I can already hear the court cases. 'Your honor, my client only signed the binding magical treaty because the opposing counsel sang their closing argument in a particularly compelling minor key with overtones of existential longing.'"
Enid, apparently unshaken by the increasingly dark turn their conversation had taken, beamed with the kind of weaponized optimism usually reserved for defusing nuclear incidents through the power of positive thinking. "Oh, come on, you guys! They're not evil masterminds plotting world domination through musical theater! They're wonderful, sweet, organized, helpful students who just happen to have voices that could convince someone to voluntarily walk into a volcano. The Scales make student life run so much more smoothly than it would otherwise!"
Wednesday's gaze lingered on her like a cat regarding a particularly naive mouse that had somehow survived another day through sheer luck and adorable stupidity. "Smoothness," she observed with clinical detachment, "is just conformity dressed in prettier clothes and accessorized with the illusion of choice. And conformity always tastes better when properly marinated in false contentment before drowning."
"And the fifth group?" Ginny asked, adjusting her grip on her trunk with the practiced strength that came from years of Quidditch training and wrestling with magically temperamental sports equipment. Her tone was casual, but her eyes glinted with the kind of genuine curiosity that suggested she was already planning how to exploit whatever system she was about to learn about.
Enid spun on her heel with theatrical precision, nearly colliding with the ancient stone banister in her enthusiasm, curls bouncing like pastel fireworks exploding in slow motion against the torchlit backdrop. "Wands!" she announced, throwing her arms out as though revealing the climax of an elaborate stage production complete with backup dancers and pyrotechnics. "Witches and wizards who practice traditional magic—wands, spells, potions, ritual circles, all the classical academic disciplines. Super intellectual, very theory-driven, brilliant researchers and scholars. Basically the advanced book club of Nevermore, but with significantly more explosions and considerably more bubbling cauldrons."
She bounced on the balls of her feet like a sugar-powered metronome, eyes flicking across the group with growing excitement as though she were about to reveal state secrets or possibly the location of buried treasure. "Which brings me to something really fascinating about you guys specifically. You're not exactly typical Wands, are you? I mean, you've all got these unique specializations that make you stand out even within an already exceptional group."
She gestured enthusiastically at Hermione, who was still wrestling with her trunk like it contained the collected knowledge of several civilizations and possibly a small dragon. "Hermione—obviously you're a genius with traditional spellwork and magical theory. Your academic reputation preceded you by approximately six months and three continents."
Hermione, cheeks flushed from exertion but posture remaining perfectly straight with academic pride, pushed a rebellious curl out of her face with the air of someone who had heard such praise before but still appreciated proper recognition. "Well, I've always believed that consistent study, precise wand movements, and rigorous application of theoretical principles are the absolute cornerstones of magical mastery," she said, her tone carrying the well-rehearsed quality of someone who had defended this position in approximately seventeen different debates—though the faintest flicker of unmistakable smugness warmed her brown eyes.
"Exactly!" Enid squeaked with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered her favorite band had released a surprise album. "And then Ginny—you're not just proficient with traditional wand magic; you've got that whole incredible Weasley family bloodline thing happening, with your clan's really unique magical resonance patterns and generational spell innovations. That kind of hereditary magical legacy makes you stand out even among accomplished practitioners."
Ginny rolled her eyes with fond exasperation, tugging her trunk another step upward with a grunt that suggested she'd had this conversation about her family's magical heritage approximately two hundred times before. "Yeah, nothing says 'special magical bloodline' quite like growing up with hand-me-down spellbooks held together with Spell-o-tape, a mother who can yell louder than a banshee when you track mud into the kitchen, and six older brothers who used me as target practice for experimental hexes."
Susan let out a low chuckle, dry as ancient parchment and twice as cutting. "Some would argue that surviving childhood in that particular household represents its own form of advanced magical training."
"See, exactly!" Enid grinned wider, completely missing the sarcasm and latching onto the comment like a life preserver in stormy seas. "Survival skills are magical skills! And Susan—you've got that whole incredible political family background, generations of training in diplomatic negotiation and magical governance theory. That's practically a specialized degree program in itself!"
Susan's expression tightened almost imperceptibly, her voice cooling to the precise temperature of professional diplomacy. "Or a generational curse that follows you everywhere, depending entirely on the day and how many international incidents your relatives have created recently." She adjusted her trunk strap with military precision, every movement calculated and economical. "Power and politics rarely produce anything but elaborate messes wrapped in official paperwork."
"See?!" Enid squealed, completely undeterred by Susan's obvious discomfort with the topic. "That perspective makes you uniquely valuable too! Your understanding of how systems actually work in practice instead of just theory! And then—" She turned toward Luna with obvious excitement. "Luna!"
Everyone else turned as well. Luna had been trailing behind the group, her pale fingers grazing the rough stone wall as though conducting a silent conversation with the ancient masonry itself. She tilted her head with dreamy curiosity, her wide silvery eyes reflecting the torchlight like pools of captured moonlight.
"I don't really think in categories the way other people do," she said serenely, her voice carrying the distant quality of wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "They're so… unnecessarily limiting, don't you think? The walls here agree with me—they've been listening to students talk about groups and labels for centuries, and they say categories are like cages made of paper. You can see through them, so you think you're free, but you still can't actually fly."
Hermione blinked, momentarily derailed by the metaphor's complete disregard for logical consistency. "That's… metaphorically inaccurate from several standpoints. Paper structures don't possess the tensile strength to create meaningful physical restrictions for flight, and the comparison between social categories and literal cages represents a false equivalency—"
"Unless the paper is particularly sharp," Luna continued with unshakeable calm, "or the person trying to fly has convinced themselves that paper is stronger than wings."
Before Hermione could formulate a response to this piece of Luna-logic, Wednesday's voice slid into the brief silence with the smooth inevitability of ink spreading through water. "Categories are useful for one primary purpose. They tell you exactly what to carve into the gravestone when the time inevitably comes."
Enid froze mid-step, caught between nervous giggling and visible wincing, her perpetual optimism briefly flickering like a candle in a hurricane.
"Wednesday…" she started uncertainly.
Wednesday met her gaze with eyes steady and unblinking as a serpent's, her voice maintaining its characteristic monotone. "Consider the possibilities. Hermione Granger: 'Died buried beneath a mountain of reference materials, still clutching a perfectly organized study schedule.' Susan Bones: 'Perished during a parliamentary procedure debate over comma placement in international treaties.' Ginny Weasley: 'Bludgeoned to death with her own broomstick, but went down fighting and probably took three opponents with her.' And Luna Lovegood: 'Vanished into thin air while following mysterious whispers in the wallpaper, leaving behind only a single radish earring and profound confusion.'"
Ginny barked out a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls with genuine appreciation. "At least mine sounds like it would make a decent ballad. Very heroic death, all things considered."
Susan raised an eyebrow with diplomatic skepticism, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I'd personally prefer mine to read 'Retired quietly to a Mediterranean villa and systematically outlived everyone who had ever annoyed her, dying peacefully in her sleep at the age of one hundred and seven.'"
Hermione huffed with academic indignation, her moral sensibilities clearly ruffled despite the obviously hypothetical nature of the discussion. "You can't just—just reduce entire human lives to pithy one-sentence summaries! People are complex, multifaceted, with rich interior lives and meaningful relationships and contributions to society that can't possibly be captured in epitaph form!"
Wednesday turned her head slowly toward Hermione with the deliberate precision of a predator zeroing in on movement, the faintest shadow of what might charitably be called a smile tugging at her pale lips. "Why not? Death is simply the universe's most efficient editor. It removes all the unnecessary complexity and reduces every story to its essential truth."
The stairwell seemed to groan in agreement with this assessment, the torch flames sputtering as if applauding the sentiment.
Luna nodded with serene approval. "The Nargles say death is just the period at the end of a very long sentence. Grammar, really."
---
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