October arrived with a chill that seeped through the castle walls and settled into the stones. The grounds that had been green in September were now dusted with frost, and the lake had taken on the dark, opaque quality that preceded winter. The first Quidditch match of the season was approaching—Slytherin against Gryffindor—and the common room buzzed with anticipation.
Cassius Warrington had tried out for the Slytherin team and made it as a reserve. He paced the common room with the energy of a caged animal, his practice broom tucked under his arm.
"We're going to destroy them," he said for the hundredth time. "The Gryffindor seeker is a third year who's never caught a snitch in his life. The Slytherin seeker is Theodore Nott. His father played for the Wasps."
Horace Slughorn, who was trying to study for a Potions quiz, looked up from his books. "Nott's a first year."
"He's a prodigy."
"He's a first year with a good broom. That's not the same thing."
Cassius waved a hand. "You don't understand Quidditch."
"I understand that you're going to fail your Potions quiz if you don't sit down and study."
Cassius sat. Edmund, who had been watching from the sofa by the window, smiled and went back to his runes.
---
The match was held on the last Saturday of October. The stands were packed with students from all four houses, their scarves and banners bright against the grey sky. Edmund sat with Horace and Astrid near the top of the Slytherin section, while Arthur had found a spot in the Gryffindor stands across the pitch.
Cassius did not play—the starting beaters held their positions—but he cheered until his voice was hoarse. The match was close. Slytherin led for most of the game, but Gryffindor fought back, their chasers weaving through the Slytherin defense with practiced precision. The score see-sawed back and forth, the crowd roaring with every goal.
In the end, it was Nott—Theodore Nott, the first-year seeker—who caught the snitch. He dove through a screen of Gryffindor chasers with a grace that made the crowd gasp, his fingers closing around the tiny golden ball just inches above the ground. The Slytherin stands erupted.
Edmund watched Nott as he was lifted onto the shoulders of his teammates. He was young, younger than Edmund, his face sharp, his eyes cold. He looked like his father, Edmund thought, and wondered what that would mean in the years to come.
Cassius found them after the match, his face flushed, his voice hoarse. "Did you see that? Did you see that dive?"
"We saw," Horace said. "You're going to lose your voice."
"Worth it."
---
The weeks after the match settled into a rhythm. Edmund attended his classes, studied in the library, and spent his evenings in the Room of Requirement, practicing the spells that were beyond the second-year curriculum. The room gave him what he needed—targets for dueling practice, cauldrons for potion-making, books for theory review.
He was not alone. His friends came to practice with him.
Cassius focused on dueling. He had a natural talent for defensive spells, quick reflexes, and a competitive streak that drove him to practice until his wand hand cramped. Edmund sparred with him, learning to cast Shield Charms that could withstand Cassius's fastest jinxes.
"You're getting faster," Cassius said one evening, shaking his hand after Edmund disarmed him for the third time in a row.
"I'm practicing."
"So am I. But you're still faster." Cassius looked at him curiously. "What's your secret?"
Edmund thought about it. He did not have a secret. He had a system that tracked his progress, but the progress was his own. He had spent years practicing, failing, trying again. There was no shortcut.
"I've been practicing since I was ten," he said. "Before Hogwarts. I taught myself the basic spells in my garden."
Cassius stared at him. "You taught yourself? Without a professor?"
"I had books."
"That's insane." Cassius shook his head. "You're insane. But it worked."
---
Horace focused on potions. He brewed the Draught of Peace until it was perfect, then moved on to more complex potions—the Antidote to Common Poisons, the Wiggenweld Potion, even the beginnings of the Draught of Living Death. He worked methodically, carefully, recording every success and failure in a notebook that grew thicker by the week.
"I want to be ready for anything they throw at us," he said. "Potions is unpredictable. You never know what ingredients they'll provide."
Edmund helped him where he could, but Horace's natural talent was already beyond Edmund's. He was content to watch, to learn, to offer the occasional suggestion.
"Your timing is off on the stirring," he said one evening, watching Horace's cauldron bubble too vigorously. "You're adding the ingredients too fast. Let the potion settle between steps."
Horace adjusted his pace, and the potion smoothed.
---
Arthur practiced his dueling with Edmund and Cassius, but his real strength was in the written examinations. He had been reading ahead for years, devouring books on magical theory and history that the others ignored. His grandmother, Galatea Merrythought, had been coaching him since he was a child, and his knowledge was deep.
"I'm not going to win the dueling tournament," Arthur admitted. "But I might do well on the written exam. Grandmother says the theory questions are designed to separate the thinkers from the memorizers. I'm good at thinking."
Edmund believed him.
Astrid did not practice with the others. She studied alone, in the library, with her rune stones spread across the table and her books open around her. But she came to the Room of Requirement sometimes, to watch, to offer quiet advice, to sit in the corner and read while the others practiced.
"The runes are about intention," she said one evening, when Edmund asked why she didn't duel. "The magic comes from within. I don't need to practice spells. I need to practice understanding."
She touched a rune stone on the table, and it glowed faintly. "When I understand the rune completely, I will be able to use it. Not before."
Edmund thought about his ring, the spiral that he still did not fully understand. He had been wearing it for months, and it had taught him things, but not everything. There was more to learn.
---
The first snow fell on the last day of November.
Edmund stood at the window of the Slytherin common room, watching the flakes drift down through the dark water of the lake. The green light shifted on the walls, and the fire crackled behind him. His friends were scattered around the room—Cassius arguing with Horace about Quidditch, Arthur reading a letter from his grandmother, Astrid carving rune stones at a table near the hearth.
He thought about the months ahead. Second year was halfway over. He had made progress—the system's numbers told him so—but he was not where he wanted to be. He wanted to be ready for what was coming. The wars. The darkness. The school he was meant to build.
But for now, he was here. In the common room. With his friends.
That was enough.
---
**Progress – End of November**
Charms: 60%
Transfiguration: 52%
Potions: 55%
Defence Against the Dark Arts: 48%
Herbology: 45%
Ancient Runes: 42%
Care of Magical Creatures: 35%
*Projected third-year proficiency in Charms: March.*
*Projected third-year proficiency in Potions: April.*
*Projected third-year proficiency in Transfiguration: May.*
He was on track. The roadmap was holding. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice—the system's voice, or his own, or the ring's—whispered that he was ready for more.
He turned from the window and went back to his books.
---