Matthew Knight's first real Hogwarts lesson began before he reached the classroom.
That seemed unfair.
The morning itself had already been difficult enough. The staircases had moved twice. A portrait of a witch holding a basket of turnips had told Aidan Rookwood to take a shortcut that led to a broom cupboard. Percy Weasley had looked personally offended by their delay, even though the delay had been caused by architecture with poor discipline. Katie Bell had laughed at the broom cupboard. Elara Vance had said the castle was either highly adaptive or irresponsibly designed.
Matthew had said both.
Then, three corridors away from Charms, the spell came from the corner.
No warning.
No shouted incantation.
No visible attacker.
Only a sickly yellow-green bolt of light snapping out from the left, fired low and fast from a side corridor toward Matthew's face.
Matthew did not think.
Thinking came after survival.
His body moved first.
Step half-left.
Wand up.
Angle, not wall.
His cedar-and-cherry wand warmed in his hand, and the motion that came out of him was not the formal shield charm Samuel had made him practise under the sanctuary lamps. It was smaller. Sharper. Less a wall and more a slanted pane of light placed in exactly the wrong place for the incoming spell and exactly the right one for Matthew.
"Reflecte!"
The spell struck the shimmer.
The jinx snapped backward along its own path.
A boy yelped.
Then screamed.
A second-year Slytherin stumbled out from behind the corner, both hands flying to his face. Red, angry boils erupted across his cheeks, chin, and nose. More burst over the backs of his hands and ran down both wrists where the reflected magic had spread.
Several students gasped.
Someone whispered, "Cassian Flint."
Matthew did not know him.
He knew enough from the surname.
Cassian Flint was not in Matthew's year. He was not in Matthew's Charms class. He was a second-year Slytherin, taller than Matthew, broader in the shoulders, and already carrying the heavy confidence of someone who had spent a full year learning which corridors could be used for cruelty without teachers appearing too quickly.
He had expected to frighten a first-year.
He had not expected consequence.
"You cursed me!" Cassian shouted.
Matthew looked at him.
"No."
"My face!"
"Yes."
"You attacked me!"
Matthew glanced at the corner.
Then back at Cassian.
"I was walking to class."
Aidan made a strangled sound behind him.
Katie whispered, "Matthew."
Elara said very softly, "Accurate, but possibly not enough for the political situation."
Cassian's face twisted beneath the swelling boils. "You little—"
"Wands down!"
Professor Flitwick's voice rang down the corridor like a bell.
The Charms professor came hurrying from the classroom doorway, robes fluttering, wand already raised. He was small enough that a foolish person might have underestimated him. Matthew had already decided foolish people deserved what followed.
Flitwick took in the scene quickly.
Cassian Flint, blistering.
Matthew, wand lowered but still warm.
The spell residue near the corner.
The angle of reflection fading in the air.
Aidan, Katie, and Elara behind Matthew.
Cassian's two second-year friends still half-hidden in the side corridor.
Flitwick's expression brightened in the most alarming way.
"Mr Flint," he said. "Lower your wand."
Cassian looked as if he might object.
Then another boil swelled across his knuckles, and he lowered his wand instead.
"Mr Knight," Flitwick said. "Explain."
Matthew took one breath.
"I was walking to Charms with Aidan, Katie, and Elara. A spell came from the corner. I did not hear an incantation. I did not know what spell it was. I reacted without thinking and reflected it back along its path."
Flitwick looked at the corner again.
"You reflected an unidentified spell?"
"Yes, Professor."
"Deliberately?"
Matthew hesitated. "Partly."
Flitwick's eyebrow lifted.
Matthew corrected himself. "I deliberately made it not hit me. The reflection was instinct."
"Honest," Flitwick said softly.
Matthew looked at him. "I am sorry, Professor."
Cassian made an outraged sound. "He should apologise to me!"
Matthew looked at him.
Only then.
"No."
The corridor went very quiet.
Flitwick turned his head slightly toward Matthew.
Matthew kept his voice steady. "I am sorry for casting in the corridor. I am sorry for reflecting a spell I had not identified. I am not sorry Cassian Flint was hit by the jinx he sent."
Aidan whispered, "Oh."
Katie looked at the floor.
Elara looked like she had just seen a sentence become both correct and extremely dangerous.
Cassian's eyes bulged between boils. "You arrogant—"
"Mr Flint," Flitwick said.
Cassian stopped.
"Who cast first?"
Cassian's jaw clenched.
His two friends looked away.
Flitwick waited.
Cassian's answer came out thickly. "He was walking like he owned the corridor."
Matthew blinked.
That was apparently the defence.
Flitwick's expression became far less cheerful.
"So you cast a Bursting Boils Jinx at a first-year's face from concealment."
Cassian said nothing.
"Fifteen points from Slytherin," Flitwick said. "And detention when you are cleared by Madam Pomfrey. You will go to the hospital wing immediately."
Cassian looked horrified. "Hospital wing?"
"Yes. Reflected jinxes often behave unpredictably, especially when the original caster used poor aim, poor control, and poorer judgement. Madam Pomfrey will want to make sure the boil spread does not reach your eyes."
Cassian went pale beneath the red swelling.
Flitwick turned to Matthew. "Mr Knight."
"Yes, Professor."
"Five points from Gryffindor for casting in the corridor."
Matthew nodded. "Yes, Professor."
"And five points to Gryffindor for a defensive response under surprise attack without escalation beyond the reflected spell."
Matthew blinked.
Aidan grinned.
Katie's shoulders loosened.
Elara looked intrigued.
"Net zero," Flitwick said, "is not permission to repeat the event."
"No, Professor."
"Good. Mr Flint, hospital wing. Mr Knight, Charms."
Cassian was escorted away by a Ravenclaw prefect who had arrived at the sound of screaming. His two friends followed at a careful distance, as if boils might be socially contagious.
Matthew watched him go.
The boils had spread to both forearms.
Cassian would be in the hospital wing for a week.
Madam Pomfrey would later discover that the Bursting Boils Jinx had been modified with a second-year flourish to make it spread faster across exposed skin. The reflected version had doubled back through Cassian's own wand trace and sealed itself to the caster's intent.
Hermione would call that "a fascinating magical consequence."
Matthew would call it "karma."
Aidan would supply the rest of the sentence.
The Charms classroom was warm, bright, and much less hostile than the corridor.
Professor Flitwick climbed onto his stack of books at the front and smiled as though no one had just turned a Slytherin second-year into an educational rash outside his door.
"Welcome to Charms," he said. "We shall begin with safety, because apparently some students have already demonstrated why it is necessary."
Several students looked at Matthew.
He looked at the blackboard.
"Your wand," Flitwick continued, "is not a stick, badge, toy, threat, or substitute for manners. It is a focus. It helps magic travel where your mind, words, and movement send it. Therefore, the first lesson in Charms is not power."
He tapped the board.
A word appeared in neat chalk.
Direction.
Matthew wrote it down.
Hermione would want the exact phrasing.
Their first charm was Lumos.
Matthew had practised light charms in the sanctuary, first with Gareth's wand and later with his own. But Hogwarts felt different. Open classroom. Other students. Teachers watching. A castle that felt as though even the stones were keeping notes.
He raised his wand.
"Lumos."
Light bloomed from the tip.
Clean.
Gold-white with a faint edge like stormlight behind clouds.
Flitwick turned sharply.
"Oh!"
Matthew held still.
The light remained steady.
Flitwick's eyes shone. "Very good, Mr Knight. Prior instruction?"
Matthew chose carefully. "Supervised family instruction, Professor."
Flitwick's smile softened. "Excellent. Controlled practice is worth ten times reckless enthusiasm."
Aidan's wand flashed so brightly he startled himself and nearly dropped it.
Flitwick beamed. "And reckless enthusiasm, while dramatic, may occasionally be redirected."
Matthew liked him immediately.
By the end of the lesson, Katie produced a small but steady light. Elara produced a neat blue-white one after correcting her own wrist angle. Aidan produced three bursts, two sparks, and one light that appeared briefly behind his shoulder instead of at his wand tip.
He declared it experimental.
Elara called it wrong.
Flitwick called it worth understanding later.
That, Matthew decided, was a dangerous kind of teacher.
At lunch, the linked book was warm before Matthew opened it.
Hermione had already written:
Explain. Fully. Do not summarise.
Matthew sighed and began.
By the time he finished writing about Cassian Flint, Flitwick, the reflection, and Lumos, Hermione had sent six replies.
Cassian Flint is second-year, so not in your class?
Correct.
Then he waited near your route. That matters.
Yes.
Do not ask him directly if he is related to Marcus Flint.
I was not going to.
Matthew.
He smiled despite himself.
Then came the line he had expected.
Reflecting unidentified spells is dangerous.
He wrote:
I know. Flitwick said.
Good. Listen to him.
Then, after a pause:
Are you hurt?
Matthew looked down at his hand.
The scars were warm only.
No burn.
No spreading ache.
No. Warm only.
Her reply came softer.
Good.
Aidan leaned over. "Is that Hermione?"
"Yes."
"Does she know about the boils?"
"Yes."
"Did she approve?"
"No."
"Did she approve secretly?"
Matthew considered.
"No. But she understands consequence."
Katie sat down beside him. "That means she is building a list."
Matthew closed the book.
Probably.
The story had already spread.
By dinner, there were several versions.
In one, Matthew had reflected three jinxes at once.
In another, his clothes had reflected the spell for him.
In a Slytherin version, Cassian Flint had been "testing the warded boy's reflexes" and Matthew had overreacted.
The Hufflepuff version, carried by Cedric Diggory with calm precision, was the most reasonable.
"If you throw boils at someone's face from a corner, you should expect your face to become involved."
Matthew liked the Hufflepuff version best.
The next morning began with Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall's classroom did not tolerate nonsense.
Matthew felt that immediately.
Even the desks seemed arranged with moral certainty. Ravenclaw shared the lesson with Gryffindor, which meant Elara Vance was already seated, quill ready, spine straight.
Professor McGonagall entered, looked across the room once, and without introduction turned her desk into a pig.
The pig snorted.
Aidan whispered, "That is deeply unnecessary."
Matthew whispered, "It is effective."
The pig became a desk again.
Professor McGonagall looked directly at them.
"Mr Rookwood. Mr Knight. If my demonstration has ended your commentary, we may begin."
Aidan went red.
Matthew sat straighter. "Yes, Professor."
Professor McGonagall wrote on the board:
What is the purpose of Transfiguration?
Not what is Transfiguration?
Purpose.
Matthew liked the question at once.
A Ravenclaw said, "To change one thing into another."
"A partial answer," McGonagall said.
Elara answered next. "To alter form according to magical intent within the limits of law and structure."
"Better."
Matthew raised his hand.
"Mr Knight."
"Transfiguration is disciplined change," he said. "Not making one thing look like another, but persuading reality to accept a new state without breaking the rules that hold the object together."
The room quieted.
McGonagall's eyes sharpened.
"That is a stronger answer than most first-years provide."
Matthew hesitated. "Thank you?"
"Do not turn praise into a question unless you intend to challenge the grading."
Aidan whispered, "Definitely praise."
Katie whispered, "McGonagall-shaped praise."
Then came the matchsticks.
This time, the theory helped.
Not because the matchstick had become less stubborn. It was still wood, still small, still apparently attached to its identity. But Matthew had practised focus for too long beneath the house to treat the task as merely shape.
Wood to metal.
Bluntness to point.
Grain to smoothness.
Purpose: fastening.
Object: needle.
Not ornament first.
Function first.
His wand moved.
The matchstick thinned.
Silver spread.
The blunt end vanished into a narrow point.
A needle lay on the desk.
Plain.
Proper.
Complete.
Matthew exhaled.
Then, because he was Matthew, he added a line of tiny inscription down the side.
Not active runes.
Not a working charm.
Only decorative marks shaped like a practice sequence: direction, anchor, intent, form.
The needle gleamed.
Elara leaned over.
"Did you just engrave the needle?"
"Detail stabilises attention."
"It was already complete."
"Yes."
Professor McGonagall appeared beside his desk.
Matthew looked up.
Her eyes were on the needle.
Then the inscription.
Then him.
"The task," she said, "was to turn the matchstick into a needle."
"Yes, Professor."
"You accomplished the task."
"Yes, Professor."
"Then added inscriptions."
"Yes, Professor."
"Why?"
Matthew looked at the needle. "To see whether detail could be added after functional success without destabilising the transformation."
McGonagall's mouth pressed into a thin line.
For one terrible moment, Matthew thought he had gone too far.
Then she said, "Five points to Gryffindor for completing the transformation cleanly."
Aidan grinned.
Katie smiled.
Matthew relaxed by a fraction.
"And two points from Gryffindor for unnecessary embellishment during a first lesson."
Aidan's grin vanished.
Matthew looked down.
"Yes, Professor."
McGonagall picked up the needle.
A moment passed.
Then she added, almost grudgingly, "The inscription is clean."
Matthew looked up.
"That does not restore the points," she said.
"No, Professor."
"But it does suggest you understand the order in which things should happen."
"Function before beauty."
"Accuracy before elegance," McGonagall corrected.
Matthew nodded.
"That too."
She placed the needle back on the desk and moved on.
Matthew wrote to Hermione later:
Completed match-to-needle. Added detail inscription. Gained 5, lost 2. McGonagall says accuracy before elegance.
Hermione replied:
I am proud. Also she is correct.
Matthew stared at the line.
Then wrote:
Both?
Both.
Potions came on Thursday.
The dungeon was cold, damp, and built like it had been designed by someone who believed sunlight was a moral weakness.
Professor Snape swept in and made the temperature feel warmer by comparison, which Matthew considered impressive in a terrible way.
Snape began with a speech of someone who loved a subject and disliked everyone currently present for failing to deserve it.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he said, voice soft enough to make the room lean away. "As such, I do not expect many of you to appreciate the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making."
Matthew listened.
Closely.
Snape was unpleasant.
The speech was still excellent.
That was annoying.
Then came questions.
"Mr Alderton. Difference between a root and a rhizome in preparation?"
Peter Alderton made a sound of panic.
"Miss Bell. Why are powdered ingredients not always preferable to sliced?"
Katie tried.
Failed halfway.
Snape's stare corrected her more thoroughly than words.
Then he turned.
"Mr Knight."
Matthew looked up. "Professor."
"Since your sleeves are apparently too intelligent for ordinary school robes, perhaps your mind can assist them. Why is monkshood also called aconite?"
Matthew answered at once. "Same plant, different name. Also called wolfsbane depending context and preparation."
Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What is a bezoar?"
"A stone from the stomach of a goat. It can act as an antidote to many poisons, though not all, and relying on it without identifying the poison would be careless."
A few students turned to look at him.
Snape's mouth tightened.
"What is the danger in confusing infusion with decoction?"
"Infusion extracts through steeping, usually gentler. Decoction involves boiling harder materials to extract properties. Using the wrong method can destroy volatile components or fail to extract enough from dense ingredients."
The room went quieter.
Snape stepped closer.
"Why do some ingredients require cutting rather than crushing?"
"Surface area, release rate, and damage to internal channels," Matthew said. "Crushing can release too much too quickly or bruise volatile parts. Cutting preserves structure when the potion needs gradual extraction."
Snape stared.
Matthew stared back.
Snape's voice became silkier.
"Who taught you?"
"Family instruction, Professor. Theory only. No brewing."
"That caveat may be the first intelligent thing said in this classroom."
Matthew did not know whether to be pleased.
Then Snape's eyes dropped to the cuff of Matthew's ward-cloth.
"Five points to Gryffindor."
Matthew blinked. "Professor?"
"For improved fashion."
The room died.
Aidan was not present.
This was tragic.
Katie stared.
Peter Alderton looked as though he had forgotten which direction breathing went.
Matthew stared at Snape.
Snape stared back.
"I beg your pardon, Professor?"
"Your clothing is less incompetent than standard student robes," Snape said. "It demonstrates practical thought, restraint, and a lack of dangling sleeves near ingredients. This is deeply irritating and therefore worth five points, so long as you do not smile."
Matthew immediately controlled his face.
"Yes, Professor."
Snape looked disappointed that he had succeeded.
"Do not become accustomed to it."
"No, Professor."
By dinner, the story had spread.
The exact details had not.
This was a problem.
Fred and George ambushed him before he reached the Gryffindor table.
"Snape gave you points?"
"For fashion?"
"Fashion points?"
"Dungeon fashion points?"
"Tell us everything."
Matthew sat down.
"It was not fashion."
Aidan appeared from nowhere. "I heard it was improved fashion."
"You were not in the class."
"Tragedy. I am gathering testimony."
Katie sat opposite Matthew. "He answered four questions correctly first."
Fred looked delighted. "Academic fashion points."
George nodded. "Worse. Better. Historic."
Matthew opened the linked book.
Snape asked potion theory. I answered correctly. He gave 5 points for improved fashion. Said do not smile.
Hermione's reply did not come for ten seconds.
Then:
Professor Snape gave you points.
Yes.
For fashion.
Improved fashion.
Another pause.
I need details. All of them.
Matthew smiled.
He was careful not to do it near Snape.
Defence Against the Dark Arts came Friday morning.
Professor Helena Wardwell stood at the front of the room before any student entered.
She did not smile.
Matthew liked that immediately.
The board behind her read:
The curse you see is rarely the one that kills you.
Matthew wrote it down before sitting.
Wardwell saw.
Her eyes lingered.
Once the class settled, she spoke.
"I am Professor Wardwell. I have spent twenty-three years opening tombs, breaking curses, mapping ruins, and identifying the final mistakes of people who thought confidence was a substitute for caution."
No one whispered.
Not even Aidan, who had managed to come along because Gryffindor shared Defence with Hufflepuff that morning and had declared it "educational destiny."
Wardwell walked between the desks.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts is not one subject. It is the intersection of several. Spellwork. Creature knowledge. Curse theory. History. Observation. Ethics. The ability to identify a threat matters before the ability to strike it."
She tapped the board.
The sentence changed.
Name the danger before choosing the defence.
Then she began with dark creatures.
Not dramatic ones first.
Not vampires, werewolves, or dragons.
Small things.
Hinkypunks.
Red Caps.
Doxies.
Grindylows.
Things students might underestimate because they were not impressive enough to fear properly.
"A hinkypunk," Wardwell said, "does not need to overpower you. It needs you to follow the light."
A chalk image appeared of a one-legged, smoke-like creature holding a lantern.
"What is the defence?"
A Hufflepuff raised a hand. "Do not follow?"
"Correct, but incomplete."
Matthew raised his hand.
"Knight."
"Mark your original path before investigating. Do not follow lights over unstable ground. Check whether the light source casts normal shadows. Call another person before moving if possible."
Wardwell looked at him.
"Good. You may live longer than your robes suggest."
Aidan whispered, "That was praise."
Matthew whispered back, "Possibly."
Wardwell moved on to Red Caps.
"Blood draws them. Violence feeds the circumstances in which they thrive. If you injure someone in a place where Red Caps may live, what do you do first?"
A Gryffindor said, "Stun the Red Caps?"
"You die while congratulating yourself."
Katie raised her hand. "Move the injured person away from the area?"
"Better."
Matthew added, "Stop the bleeding if you can. Red Caps are drawn by blood. Removing the source and the victim matters more than duelling the creature for pride."
Wardwell nodded. "Correct. Defence is often evacuation with less glamour."
Matthew wrote that down.
They learned that doxies looked ridiculous until one remembered their bites were venomous.
They learned that grindylows were not dangerous because they were strong, but because panic made people breathe water.
They learned that dark creatures were rarely polite enough to match textbook drama.
Then came cursed objects.
"If a box sits open," Wardwell asked, placing a small harmless training box on her desk, "what do you do?"
A student answered, "Do not touch it."
"Good. What else?"
"Check for curses?"
"Better. What else?"
Matthew raised his hand.
"Ask why someone left it open where it could be found."
The room went still.
Wardwell's expression did not change.
Her eyes sharpened.
"Correct."
Her last question came at the door.
"If a door in a ruin stands unlocked?"
A Ravenclaw answered, "Check for traps."
"A Hufflepuff?"
"Ask whether someone used it recently?"
"Good."
Her eyes found Matthew.
"Knight?"
"Ask why someone wanted it to seem easy."
The room quieted again.
Wardwell looked him over.
"Either you were raised by paranoid archivists, or you have already learned that doors lie."
Matthew answered before thinking.
"Both, Professor. And an overactive imagination."
The class laughed.
Wardwell did not.
But the corner of her mouth twitched.
"Useful. Dangerous if undisciplined. We shall see which you are."
Matthew's first half-week had already lost and gained points, been attacked by a second-year student, impressed three teachers in unconventional ways, begun the polite version of his homework locks, and discovered that actual Defence might be the most honest subject in the school, if Wardwell had anything to say about it.
Hermione's final note that night read:
Do not become smug. You have had a good first half-week, not a safe one.
Matthew wrote back:
Karma is a bitch.