"Another fight between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. That's the third this week."

  "The younger Ravenclaws have gotten uppity since the war started.”

  "Thank Merlin for the Hufflepuffs. They're the only ones keeping this place running. And they're the ones maintaining the victory garden since we lost so many house-elves to the war effort. Did you hear they organized a support group for students who've lost family from the latest attack?"

  "Not that they'll get any credit for it. Never do."

  - Overheard outside the faculty lounge, 2 October 1941.

  Cassandra pulled her black merino wool cloak tighter against the chill of the Scottish autumn as she made her way to the Quidditch pitch. A leather-bound copy of Intermediate Transfiguration was tucked under one arm, her nicest eagle-feather quill and silver inkwell in her bag. One couldn't skip Quidditch matches – it would be noticed, remarked upon. Besides, Caeso and the other first years had made pointed comments about the necessity of "supporting one's house."

  She found a seat in the top corner of the Ravenclaw section before the match began, carefully arranging her skirts before setting up a makeshift study space. If she had to be here, she could at least be productive. She didn’t even notice the teams flying out of the locker rooms.

  Then Ravenclaw scored against Gryffindor and the stands erupted. Someone bumped into her from behind – she never saw who – and her inkwell upended across her notes and the borrowed library book. Black ink spread across the pages and onto her lap.

  "Oh no," Cassandra whispered in a tiny voice. Then she sprang into action, frantically mopping up the ink with her sleeve. It stained her white blouse bluish-black.

  Maggie Clearwater was suddenly there, trying to help. "Here, let me-"

  "Don't!" Cassandra's voice cracked, yanking the book away. Oh what a stupid silly girl you are! She raged at herself. Why would you bring a LIBRARY book to a Quidditch match? What were you thinking? She pulled out her wand with trembling fingers. "Tergeo. Tergeo! Oh please, Tergeo!" The ink bubbled, some of it evaporated, but the parchment stayed soaked black. “Oh no.” She grabbed the book and fled down the rickety wooden stairs, her eyes welling, Maggie at her heels.

  Cassandra got to the ground and burst into inconsolable tears, holding the ruined book.

  "Is everything alright?" a soft voice offered. A small Hufflepuff girl with round glasses stood nervously nearby. "I-I know a better cleaning charm. My mum taught me because I'm always spilling things..."

  Cassandra looked at her ruined clothes and book, then at the earnest faces of the two girls. Her first instinct was to refuse. But then she thought of the librarian’s face when she tried to explain why the book she had checked out looked like a funeral shroud.

  "Yes, please," she whispered.

  The Hufflepuff girl — Briseis Pevensey — knelt beside her, wand already in hand.

  "It’s called Clarivello. Mum taught it to me when I spilt milk all over her writing desk. It lifts the stain but leaves writing alone. Watch.”

  She flicked her wand in a slow spiral. “Clarivello.”

  A silvery sheen rippled across the page, and the ink began to lift like black morning fog off the surface of a lake. Cassandra watched, transfixed, as the text emerged beneath it, untouched.

  They spent the rest of the match practicing the charm together, crouched in the shadow of the stands. When Ravenclaw finally won — Cassandra only knew from the sudden eruption of blue and bronze above them — she had a clean library book and, unexpectedly, something approaching a normal conversation with two other girls.

  "Cassandra?" Maggie caught her in the hallway after Transfiguration the following week. "I was wondering... that is... could you maybe help me with matchstick-to-needle? Professor Winterborn says you're the best in our year..."

  Cassandra blinked, surprised. "I suppose I could."

  "Could I come too?" another Ravenclaw first-year named Emma Branstone piped up. "I keep getting stuck halfway and ending up with wooden toothpicky-looking things..."

  That was how the Tuesday study groups began. Cassandra set up in the library's second floor corner to explain wand movements and principles. To her surprise, more students kept coming. By the third week, she had five regular attendees - all Ravenclaw first-year girls.

  "Would it be alright if I joined?" Briseis asked one day, standing shyly next to their table and clutching her Transfiguration text. "I know I'm not in Ravenclaw, but..."

  "House affiliation is irrelevant to academic improvement," Cassandra replied stiffly. Then, seeing Briseis' face fall, hastened to add, "That means yes. You're welcome to join us."

  Cassandra didn't smile – Hightowers didn't beam like common shopkeepers – but she did pull out the chair next to her.

  Of course, not everything improved. The Gryffindor boys continued to take personal offense at her existence.

  At first, she'd tried to ignore them. That was what Mother told her – "A lady never stoops to acknowledge rudeness." But something about Marshwiggle especially made her blood boil in a most unladylike way.

  "Ahoooooooy Hightower!" Marshwiggle hailed her in the corridor. "Tutoring your little study group how to be proper stuck-up snobbies?"

  "Better than teaching them to be uncouth barbarians," she shot back, not breaking stride. "I suppose that comes naturally to some."

  “Ooooooo!” jeered Marshwiggle. “‘Uncouth!’ That’s a new five-knut word, jot that one down, Ollie!”

  "When's the last time you laughed, Hightower?" Henry asked, an annoying smile playing around his face. "Or does that wrinkle your ivory nose?"

  "I find nothing amusing about willful ignorance and stupidity," she replied coldly. "Though you seem to have made it your dual speciality."

  Henry puffed up like a pigeon, “Nobody calls a Ravenhurst ‘stupid.’” he replied angrily.

  "Careful, Henry," Oliver muttered. "Remember what she did to Avery when he tried to hex the bottom out of her schoolbag?"

  Cassandra allowed herself the smallest smile at that memory. The Slytherin boy's hair had been cotton-candy pink for a week. It had dissuaded the rest of his house from bothering her again for a little while.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  After a few weeks the friction between her and the Gryffindor boys calcified into the comfortable territory of mutual disdain.

  "Ho there, Your Grace!" Marshwiggle's voice echoed against the stone as Cassandra walked down the east cloister of the Transfiguration Courtyard. He was sprawled against a pillar, playing with a stolen practice Snitch, Henry and Oliver were taking turns snatching it out of the air. "Perfecting your pretentiality?"

  "Keep perfecting your idiocy," she replied, not breaking stride.

  "Hark!" Henry grinned, delighted that she rose to the bait again. "The ice queen cometh! Quick, Marshy, fetch my furs before we all freeze!"

  Teddy turned to a group of passing first-year Hufflepuffs. "Shield your eyes, my fellow Hogwarters! Her Majesty's glare turns men to stone!"

  The Hufflepuff boys laughed, and Teddy struck an obnoxious pose, shielding his eyes dramatically with his sleeve.

  Cassandra carefully considered her response before letting fly, “You should be safe then, Marshwiggle, as it only affects men.”

  Oliver and the Hufflepuffs snickered.

  The smile slid off Teddy’s face, “Yeah, well you’re no witch either.”

  Henry’s laugh had an edge to it. “Come on, Teddy.”

  They swaggered off with the Hufflepuffs. Teddy put on an impression of Cassandra’s walk, his hands folded primly around pretend books and his nose in the air. Oliver and Henry doubled over laughing, nearly tripping as they rounded the corner.

  The Slytherins were worse than the Gryffindors. At least Ravenhurst and Company were harmless in their dislike.

  The Sons of Salazar were scarier.

  "Think you're too good for us, do you, Hightower?" a large first-year boy named Rosier cornered her after Potions last week, accompanied by two other boys named Wilkes and Avery. "Ignoring us in the library, not responding to our invitations. Should've been in Slytherin, everyone knows it. But Little Miss Perfect's above all that, isn't she?"

  "My schedule and house placement is not your concern," she replied coolly, holding her books close to her chest like armor.

  "Your mother was a Slytherin," Wilkes pointed out. "Her mother too. All the Montagues are. But you think you're better than tradition, don't you? Picking Ravenclaw like that."

  “Think she’s one of those equitist witches?” wondered Avery (his hair was back to its natural black). “My da says there’s lots of them in Ravenclaw now.”

  "Worse than dark wizards, those," Wilkes growled.

  “If she is, I'd like to let her father know about it,” Rosier leered.

  “Naughty little girl running around behind daddy’s back,” cackled Wilkes. “She oughta be punished!”

  Cassandra’s fingers tightened around her books. She didn’t even know what an equitist was.

  It wasn't worth explaining that she hadn't chosen Ravenclaw to snub anyone – she had told the hat that because that’s what Papa had hoped her to be in.

  "Three boys on one girl?" interrupted a smooth voice. “How churlish.”

  Rosier and his gang whirled about as a young man with neat black hair stepped up beside them, his hands behind his back, dark brown eyes regarded them appraising.

  He was tall for a fourth-year, but not threatening.

  The atmosphere immediately shifted. Wilkes and Avery snapped to attention like grenadiers. Rosier looked mortified.

  Cassandra had never spoken to him before, but everyone at Hogwarts knew Tom Riddle.

  “G-Good afternoon, Mr. Riddle,” Rosier stammered, his smile slipping. “We were just welcoming little Hightower properly. She’s a bit lost, you see—”

  “I don’t recall asking for an explanation." Riddle’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “S-sorry, Mr. Riddle,” Rosier babbled.

  “Nor an apology,” Riddle replied.

  Cassandra stood frozen, uncertain what to do. Was she supposed to thank him? Was this just another test?

  Riddle turned his eyes to her, his expression mild. "You’re Duke Hightower’s daughter, aren’t you?"

  She swallowed. "I am.”

  "Ah." His head tilted slightly, as if bowing. "Well, it’s fortunate I arrived when I did, then. I hate to see promising students dissuaded from reaching their full potential."

  Rosier cleared his throat. "It was just a bit of fun, Mr. Riddle. No harm meant."

  "I’m sure of that," Riddle said lightly. His eyes bored into Rosier, “And it will never happen again.”

  "No sir," Rosier exhaled sharply, shooting Cassandra one last look before muttering, "Good afternoon, Miss Hightower," and fleeing.

  Wilkes and Avery followed, eager to be anywhere else.

  Riddle ignored their departure. "You’ll have to excuse them," he said apologetically. "Some of our younger housemates are very insecure about themselves."

  “Thank you,” Cassandra hesitated, then added awkwardly. "I can handle myself."

  "I’m sure you can," Riddle chuckled. “The pink hair was a nice touch.”

  His smile transformed his face, making him look younger, more approachable. Cassandra felt a strange flutter in her chest.

  "I noticed your spellwork in Defense Against the Dark Arts," he continued. "Your shield charm is coming along nicely. Better than most third-years, if I may say so."

  Cassandra felt her cheeks warm at the praise. "Thank you."

  "I expect I’ll be seeing more of you, Miss Hightower." He gave a small bow and stepped away.

  Cassandra watched him go. Her hands were still clenched around her books, her knuckles white, her pulse racing.

  She forced herself to relax and breathe.

  The Gryffindors, meanwhile, had made it their mission to "knock her down a peg," as Marshwiggle so crassly put it.

  "Look alive, Your Highness!" Henry would call whenever they passed her in the halls. "Uneasy is the head that wears a crown!"

  His little gang took to bowing whenever they passed her in the halls – clumsy, exaggerated things that made their fellow first-years giggle. They weren't very good at it - being eleven-year-old boys - but the mockery was clear.

  Some of their pranks were creative – like charming her inkwell to write in pink glitter – most were very annoying, like enchanting her textbooks to read their contents aloud in squeaky voices when opened or trying to tie her shoelaces together while she was walking.

  Their magic wasn't particularly impressive, but they made up for it with persistence. It didn't matter that their attempts were amateur. What mattered was how they made her constantly on guard, checking her reflection in windows, double-checking her shoes and robes after leaving class.

  The worst happened in Charms class. Henry had managed to charm her quill to squirt ink up at her face when she dipped it. She'd ended up with blue spots all over her nose and cheeks, and even Professor Brightwell's careful charm hadn't removed all the stains. She'd had to sit through the whole day of classes looking like she had some sort of peculiar pox, her cheeks burning as Teddy made exaggerated gagging noises every time he looked at her.

  That was Henry's particular talent – finding ways to make her look foolish that couldn't be traced back to him. He was cleverer than Teddy, more deft at finding openings.

  "Morning, Your Highness!" he called in the corridor after class. "Spotted any ink lately?"

  His wit was infuriating.

  "Just laugh it off," Samantha Parkington the fifth year prefect suggested after Henry had jinxed Cassandra's porridge bowl to make slurping noises. "When boys do that, they're just trying to get a reaction. They’ll get bored eventually. Honestly, they’re probably just trying to get your attention because one of them fancies you."

  But Cassandra wouldn't laugh it off.

  That’s exactly what they wanted.

  So instead she doubled down.

  "Merlin's beard," she overheard Henry tell Teddy after she'd coldly ignored their latest bow-and-scrape routine. "I think we're actually making her worse."

  "Maybe if we got the whole house to—" Teddy suggested.

  "No," Henry cut him off. "Just us. I'm not having everyone picking on one girl, even if she is an insufferable snob."

  That hint of fairness made her even angrier.

  None of it showed on her face, of course. A Hightower never gave bullies the satisfaction of a reaction.

  But late at night behind her dormitory curtains, she wished she could vanish. Be someone else. Someone who didn't have to be her all the time.

  But she couldn’t. So she walked past them, head high, ignoring Marshwiggle's bow and resisting the urge to kick him in his poorly-combed head.

  She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her bend.

  The study group was waiting for her in the library. There she had a purpose. A place where her hard work was an asset rather than a subject of mockery.

  For her own part, she did take great satisfaction in secretly transfiguring Marshwiggle's quill to go live during their next shared class.

  His yelp when it slipped down the front of his robes was especially gratifying.

  She allowed a bit of spring in her step as she walked to the library after.