First Year — Autumn, Hogwarts Castle

  It always starts small. A gnce that lingers. A question that doesn’t come from curiosity but from intuition. That sharp edge of attention. It’s subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice.

  Evie Lockhart, however, was not most people.

  And I was beginning to suspect she was far too clever for my liking.

  Evie’s Eyes“You’re different, you know that, right?”

  She said it without looking up, her hands busy weighing powdered Mistletoe Berries beside our bubbling cauldron. Steam drifted up in vender curls, and Jake was still trying to crack his Bezoar open with the back end of a brass spoon. I gnced at her. She met my gaze from beneath those crimson shes.

  “You never talk about where you’re from,” Evie continued, voice casual. “You don’t act like a kid, and when you cast spells… it’s like you already understand them before the wand moves.”

  “Or maybe I just study more,” I said simply, stirring the liquid clockwise, slow and steady. “You’re observant. But assumptions are still assumptions.”

  She smiled. Not the kind that showed teeth. The kind that knew better.

  “That wasn’t a denial.”

  Jake, of course, heard none of this. He was too busy decring war on the Bezoar like it had insulted his mother.

  The Cauldron Conspiracy“Alright css!” came Slughorn’s voice, cheerful and warm like he was presiding over a feast rather than a room of students with cauldrons that might explode.

  “Today we’ll be crafting a cssic: Antidote to Common Poisons. Useful, practical, and a good measure of teamwork. Which brings me to our next activity…”

  His voice brightened. “You’ll be working in groups of four! One cauldron, one potion, one grade!”

  I barely suppressed a sigh.

  “Your ingredients,” Slughorn continued, “include a Bezoar—careful not to waste it, we have limited stock—Mistletoe Berries, Unicorn Horn shavings—diluted, don’t worry—and standard base infusion.”

  I looked up just in time to see a Slytherin boy, Toren Mulciber, lean over his desk and smirk in our direction.

  “Gryffindor’s got an injured bird and a red-haired fangirl,” he sneered. “Should we wait for you to catch up?”

  Jake raised his head slowly, eye twitching. “Say that again, pond scum.”

  Desmond pced a calming hand on his shoulder.

  Slughorn ughed, clearly entertained. “Let’s add a little spice to the brew, shall we? The team that makes the most accurate antidote will earn an invitation to my Christmas gathering. Some of you have already heard of the Slug Club, I suspect?”

  Half the Slytherins lit up like nterns.

  Jake turned to me, instantly serious. “We’re winning this.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. “Because I needed more stress in my life.”

  Beneath the SurfaceWe worked in silence—at least, until Jake accidentally dropped half the mistletoe into the cauldron.

  “Jake.”

  “What?! It’s festive!”

  “It’s a poison neutralizer, not a Christmas pudding,” I snapped, siphoning the extra berry pulp out with a whispered charm.

  Evie, oddly calm, kept measuring the Unicorn Horn powder to the micrograin.

  “His chaotic magic is still effective,” she murmured beside me. “But you—every motion you make has intention. Like you’re calcuting.”

  I met her eyes again.

  She wasn’t just guessing now. She was studying me.

  “Maybe I’m just really good at pretending I know what I’m doing,” I said.

  Evie didn’t smile this time. She tilted her head.

  “You’re not pretending. That’s the part I can’t figure out.”

  I turned back to the potion, keeping my face neutral. There it was again—that glint. That itch behind the eyes when someone was too perceptive for their own good.

  In another life, I’d have silenced her. Permanently.

  In this one, I was eleven. And she was offering trust, not threats.

  For now.

  The Duel of CauldronsAcross the room, Mulciber’s group’s potion boiled to a dull green—acceptable. Ours shimmered in a soft silver-blue, faintly glowing. The scent was sharp but not acidic. Clean. Pure. The kind of concoction you’d expect in a high-level apothecary, not brewed by first-years with a wounded Quidditch pyer.

  Slughorn approached with exaggerated curiosity.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  He dipped a silver dle into our brew and let a single drop fall onto a poisoned rat liver from a storage jar.

  It hissed—and turned white. Completely detoxified.

  “Impressive,” Slughorn murmured. “Who’s responsible for the ratios?”

  “I measured,” Evie said softly.

  “Jake gathered ingredients,” Desmond offered.

  “I adjusted heat and stirred,” I added ftly.

  Slughorn’s eyes twinkled. “A team effort. Brilliant. Brilliant!”

  Mulciber scowled. His potion had left behind a faint yellow burn mark on his own rat liver.

  Slughorn’s voice boomed. “Gryffindor team led by Caelum Rosier and—ah, yes—Miss Lockhart! You’ll be joining my Christmas party this year. Do dress nicely, won’t you?”

  Jake made a strangled noise of victory.

  “Evie and I—Christmas! This is fate. This is… divine will!”

  “You’re not even invited,” I muttered.

  “Minor detail!”

  Evie snorted. “I think he’s fainting again.”

  Desmond shook his head. “Potion fumes got into his brain.”

  Slughorn walked off humming, probably imagining us as future alchemists.

  Evie leaned close one st time before the bell rang.

  “You’re not what you seem, Caelum. And I’m going to figure you out.”

  I gave her a small, tired smile.

  “You can try. Just don’t expect an antidote if you look too deep.”

  She smiled back, this time showing teeth.

  “I’ll risk the poison.”

  [End of Chapter 17]