“Grey, did you just press down on your pocket?
Was there something moving inside?” Penelope Clearwater stopped beside Lynn, still clutching a roll of the first-year roster.
The corners of the parchment were creased by her tight grip, but she didn’t look down.
The Ravenclaw line was moving down the corridor.
The first-years were busy memorizing the way, while the older students were busy scaring them; no one heard her question fully.
Lynn’s hand was still resting on the edge of his robes’ pocket.
The hardback notebook had already quieted down.
But the line of words from just now still weighed on his mind.
*The Sorting Hat didn’t see you.* *But the castle did.* Lynn didn’t let go immediately.
He fished out the brass compass his father had given him from his pocket and flicked open the casing with his thumb.
The needle spun twice before stubbornly pointing toward the wall.
“A little gadget from my father,” Lynn said, holding up the compass.
“He said if I got lost in the castle, at least I could make sure I wasn’t walking in circles.” Penelope glanced down at it.
“Using a compass in Hogwarts?” “A family blessing.” Lynn closed the lid.
“It might not actually work, but it gives my father peace of mind.” Penelope didn’t laugh.
She looked at his pocket, then at the compass, before rolling the roster back into her palm.
“Your father cares about you a lot.” “He almost brought a frying pan to drop me off,” Lynn said.
“I stopped him.
On my first day at Hogwarts, I couldn’t let Muggle kitchenware have a misunderstanding with the castle.” Someone up ahead let out a chuckle.
A brown-haired boy turned around, a Ravenclaw badge pinned to his chest and a spot of blue ink on his cuff.
He was older than the first-years and stood with a relaxed posture, but he spoke with easy familiarity.
“A Muggle-born first-year bringing a compass to Hogwarts on day one.
Grey, you’ll soon find that this castle has its own opinions on directions.” Lynn pocketed the compass.
“That’s great.
Schools without personality usually only assign homework.” A few first-years laughed.
Penelope’s expression softened slightly, but she didn’t entirely drop her suspicion.
Lynn made a mental note of her.
*Sharp, restrained, knows how to care for first-years, and remembers unreasonable little details.* *A suitable entry point for school news.* *Not suitable for fooling a second time.* The group moved through a long corridor.
Most of the portraits on the walls had already gone to sleep, though a few old wizards in dressing gowns leaned against their frames to watch the commotion.
An old wizard wearing a laced nightcap yawned.
“Another batch of little eagles.
Someone will get lost on the stairs tomorrow.” The brown-haired boy waved at the portrait.
“He’s right.
Last year, a first-year tried to take a shortcut to Charms class, ended up in the Trophy Room, and still insisted he had found a hidden course.” “What happened next?” a first-year asked.
“Filch caught him and gave him a half-hour detention,” the brown-haired boy said.
“After he got out, he even wrote a three-foot-long dissertation proving that the path could theoretically lead to the classroom.” A girl whispered, “Did it work then?” “No,” the brown-haired boy shrugged.
“But he did get a ‘your train of thought is encouraging’ from Professor Flitwick.” Lynn noted down a few terms.
*Trophy Room.
Filch patrolling.
Moving staircases.
Students getting lost.* Information at Hogwarts was never posted on bulletin boards.
It was hidden in the complaints of the older students, the mockery of the portraits, and the roars of Filch.
This school was very generous.
As long as you were willing to listen.
The brown-haired boy turned back again.
“I’m Stephen Corner, third year.
I heard Penelope say just now that you mentioned Ancient Runes at the feast?” Penelope glanced at him.
“I didn’t report the first-year’s speech to you.” “You didn’t,” Stephen wiped an ink smudge with his sleeve, only to smear it further.
“I overheard it.” Lynn said, “I only said that class sounded useful.” Stephen paused in his tracks.
“Useful?
First-years usually say mysterious, ancient, hard, or that it sounds like it could intimidate others.
You say useful?” Several older students turned their heads.
This question wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy to answer.
Answer too superficially, and he’d be written off as a bookish first-year who just memorized things.
Answer too deeply, and he’d be remembered.
Lynn thought about it.
“If a castle has a thousand years of history, old inscriptions are bound to be left on the walls, doors, and behind portraits.
Being able to read them means you at least won’t mistake a warning for decoration.” Stephen slowed his pace.
“You think the most important part of Ancient Runes is reading warnings?” “Survive first, talk academics later,” Lynn said.
“That should be the right order.” An older girl ahead laughed.
“This first-year is much more normal than that boy last year who tried to number the stairs with his own self-invented spell.” Stephen looked at Lynn, his interest piqued even more.
“Runes aren’t just warnings.
They also involve ancient rituals, contracts, engraving methods, and can even affect the stability of spells.” “Which is exactly why they’re useful,” Lynn said.
“They aren’t ornaments meant to make someone look scholarly; they’re more like signposts left by ancient magic.
The question is, how many signposts can we actually read, and how many of them were deliberately set up wrong by others?” The line went quiet for a brief moment.
Penelope finally spoke.
“Have you read the Ancient Runes textbook?” “I flipped through a few pages of some old books at Flourish and Blotts,” Lynn said.
“The corners were worm-eaten, and the price looked very friendly.” “Old books?” Stephen immediately chimed in.
“Old books often have annotations left by former students.
If you’re lucky, you can find highly valuable notes.
If you’re unlucky, you’ll fall into the traps they wrote down incorrectly.” “Then I might need to ask you for guidance in the future.” Stephen raised his chin slightly.
Not the way Malfoy raised his.
He was more like someone who had finally caught an audience, itching to pull three rolls of notebooks out of his pocket on the spot.
“Sure.
I have a compilation of common misreadings from the third-year Ancient Runes class.
You won’t need it yet, but it wouldn’t hurt to look it over early.” Penelope interrupted immediately.
“Don’t drag a first-year into your runes pit on day one.
Last year you lectured the second-years on Fire Runes until the end of dinner, and three people spilled pumpkin juice all over their notes.” Stephen protested.
“That was because their hands holding the cups weren’t steady.” Lynn added, “Or perhaps their minds had already left the classroom, and only their bodies were still listening.” Penelope laughed this time too.
The atmosphere loosened up.
Lynn didn’t say any more.
He had already gotten what he wanted.
A third-year obsessed with Ancient Runes, whose sleeves were always stained with ink.
A steady but not dull prefect.
A group of first-years willing to listen to his jokes.
And a few older students who were starting to remember his name.
This wasn’t entirely a good thing.
The Spectator seats shouldn’t be too close to the stage.
Those in the very front row are easily pulled up by the actors.
The line continued upward.
The stone steps spiraled around the tower, growing colder with every step.
The night outside pressed against the glass, leaving the Black Lake as nothing but a dark silhouette.
The hardback notebook in his pocket didn’t move again.
Yet Lynn didn’t keep his hand too far from it.
Hogwarts was no ordinary school.
What the Sorting Hat failed to see, the castle might note down through the walls, staircases, portraits, ghosts, or even from the very moment a first-year stepped through the door.
If you were watched by a person, you could speak, mislead, or observe them in turn.
But being watched by a castle was highly troublesome.
So troublesome that he wanted to apologize to all his fantasies of school life from his previous life.
Stephen was still introducing things.
“The Ravenclaw common room is in the West Tower; it has a great view.
On clear days, you can see the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and if you’re lucky, the lights over by the Owlery.
Our common room doesn’t have a password—only questions.” A first-year froze.
“No password?” Penelope said, “The bronze eagle knocker asks questions.
You can only enter if you answer correctly.” Another girl immediately asked, “What if you answer wrong?” “Wait for someone else to come,” Stephen said.
“Or keep thinking.
Ravenclaw doesn’t punish mistakes; we only punish a lack of thinking.” Lynn glanced at him.
That was a very house-specific thing to say.
But having to answer a riddle to get inside when you were too tired to stand in the middle of the night…
the Ravenclaws hadn’t collectively broken down only because they were sustained by sheer passion.
Penelope stopped at the turn of the stairs and spun around to face the first-years.
“Remember the route.
The moving staircases change, the portraits will mislead you, and the armor sometimes blocks the way.
If you aren’t sure where you are, don’t wander around.
Ask a prefect, ask a portrait, or wait for someone to pass by.” A boy asked in a low voice, “Do the portraits always tell the truth?” Penelope answered quickly.
“No.”