The first day of classes ended just as I had expected — without much surprise. Herbology had been interesting. Magical Theory — even more so. At times, I was struck by how different this world was from the version I had read about in books… and how similar it was, all the same.
But it wasn't the lessons that occupied my thoughts that evening.
The castle.
From the moment I stepped inside, I could feel it was alive. Not a metaphor — I saw it. I felt it. The walls breathed. The stones remembered. Threads of magic pulsed through the air — not chaotically, but rhythmically. As if they had their own heart. Their own will.
I sat in an armchair in the Slytherin common room, writing down my latest observations. Others were talking about Potions, class schedules, the usual house alliances. I listened with one ear, the other tuned to the whisper of magic drifting around me. I wasn't looking for conversation. I was looking for… space.
My own place.
I need something more, I thought.
Not a shared common room, not a damp dungeon full of sideways glances. I wanted a place where I could train in silence, without witnesses. A place that wouldn't ask questions.
I stood up quietly and left. No one stopped me. They probably didn't even notice I was gone.
The corridors of Hogwarts were different at night.
Quieter. Deeper.
Magic seeped from portraits, from cracks in the walls, from floorboards creaking like old wood on a raft of memory. Ghosts wandered, but they avoided me. Even they sensed that I wasn't someone who sought company.
I saw threads of magic — as always. They trailed through the hallways, winding toward various entrances, slipping under staircases, climbing towers. But none of them pulled at me more than the others.
Because I already knew where to go.
The seventh floor. A corridor that led nowhere — and everywhere.
I walked with purpose. Passed suits of armor, portraits, staircases that liked to change their minds. I stopped only when I saw it.
The tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy dancing with trolls.
My heart quickened.
Not because I didn't recognize it. But because I did — instantly.
This is the place, I thought. The Room of Requirement.
I had no doubt. No need to guess or experiment.
I walked past the wall once. Then again. And a third time.
The thought was clear. Focused. Strong.
I need a place just for myself. Quiet. Safe.
A place to study. To train.
A place that understands I don't want to be seen.
Magic trembled.
The bricks gave a soft sigh, like something deep inside the castle stirred for the first time in years. Threads of magic coiled, thickening, gathering into one point. The door appeared almost imperceptibly — no flash, no sound. It simply… was.
Moments later, I was inside. The room was... simple.
Not a training arena. Not a storeroom full of vanishing cabinets, like in the Order of the Phoenix. No comfy cushions. No fireplace. No Gryffindor warmth.
There was silence. Stone walls. Dark wood. A high ceiling. One desk. Two bookshelves. A training mat. On the shelves — a handful of books. Titles etched in silver letters:
Practice and Theory of Intent-Based Magic
Runes – An Elementary Sketch
Thoughts on the Essence of Nonverbal Spells
Ancient Magical History
An Alchemist's Notes: Marginal Observations
I walked slowly, brushing my fingers across the spines. They were real. I could feel the magic in them. Not illusions. Not fakes.
The castle knew what I needed.
I sat down at the desk. Opened the first book. Read two paragraphs.
And for the first time that day — I smiled. Not broadly. Not joyfully.
Just… because I had finally found my place.
There were no hallway sounds here. No voices. No soft rustle of the lake behind a glass wall. The room felt... isolated. As if cut off from time and the world.
I picked up the book on nonverbal spells. Definitely not first-year reading. Some of the terms I didn't even recognize — yet. That didn't matter. I marked them in my mind, building a plan for learning.
With every page, my focus deepened. Hunger. Not the physical kind — the mental kind. This was what I needed. Something more than the basics. Something real.
After a while, I set the book down and stood. My body craved movement. The room — as if reading my thoughts — shifted slightly.
The wall opposite the desk slid open, revealing a training space. In the center — a wooden dueling dummy. Movable. Its surface bore marks from previous impacts.
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Reached for my wand.
— "Expelliarmus."
A red flash zipped across the room, striking the dummy with a dull thud. It wasn't a display of strength — more of controlled impulse. The energy was stable. Clear. Not chaotic like it often was with untrained students.
I repeated:
— "Expelliarmus."
— "Flipendo."
— "Lumos Maxima."
— "Nox."
Each spell was a test. I was measuring not just correctness — but how the magic behaved. How it vibrated in my hand. How it shifted the weight of the wand. How it resonated with my body.
It was a symphony. Subtle. And only understandable if you truly listened.
The dummy moved in rhythm with the practice — dodging, reacting, absorbing hits. Once, it even attempted to strike back — a reflex test. I smiled, faintly.
This room was alive. Adaptive. Understanding.
But I couldn't stay the night. I knew that.
The castle might tolerate my existence beyond its rules — but there were limits. Not returning to the dormitory would raise suspicions. And I hadn't yet earned the freedom to ignore them.
I glanced at the clock — it had appeared as soon as I thought about it.
Ten to ten.
Perfect. Enough time to return before the prefects started their rounds.
One last look at the desk. The book on spell theory lay open to a chapter on intent in disarming spells. I slid my fingers across the page.
— "I'll come back tomorrow."
The door appeared, as always, silently. No fanfare. No drama.
I stepped out.
The corridor was empty again. The tapestry with the trolls danced awkwardly in the half-light. The whole castle seemed to sleep.
And me — walking through that dream — I already had a place that belonged to me.
When I returned to the dormitory, several boys were already asleep. Draco was still whispering something to Crabbe but stopped when he saw me. Maybe it was the way I moved — quietly. Maybe it was my eyes. He didn't ask.
I lay down without a word.
And before I closed my eyes — I thought of that place again.
My room.
My space.
I woke early, as always.
Training went smoothly. Brief. Focused. The dormitory still slumbered, only the soft rhythm of breath filling the silence. No one noticed I had vanished before dawn. Again.
After breakfast — equally quiet, equally deliberate — I checked my class schedule one more time.
Tuesday. Potions. Gryffindor. Snape. Perfect combination.
The dungeons of Hogwarts weren't just cold. They were damp with memory. Decades of spilled potions, steam, the scent of herbs, metal, and blood. And of a voice that could silence a room with a single word.
Professor Snape entered quietly — almost soundlessly — and yet everyone fell silent at once.
His black robes trailed across the floor, as if they were part of the shadow he carried with him.
He stood at the front of the room.
Watched us for a moment.
— "There will be no wand-waving here," he said softly — a tone that was more threat than instruction.
"No theatrical explosions or sparks. Only proportions.
Patience. Silence.
We don't learn to cast spells here. We learn control."
He looked at Harry.
— "Ah. Our new... celebrity."
A murmur swept through the room. Ron stiffened. Harry opened his mouth, but said nothing. Snape moved past him as if he weren't there at all.
— "We begin with a calming draught. Simple — but revealing. Those who can prepare it without error... might earn a measure of grace. Ingredients are on your tables. Instructions — on the board. You have one hour."
The recipe appeared on the wall — exact, precise. The potion required careful heating, sequential ingredient handling, and strict stirring direction.
Perfect for me.
I started without hurry. My hands already knew some of the movements — from training.
Every gram mattered.
Every stir — vital.
The herbs I cut with surgical precision. The flame — just right. Stirring — rhythmic, even.
After forty minutes, the potion shimmered faint blue. No residue. No froth. Exactly as it should be.
Snape prowled between tables like a predator among cubs. He commented. Mocked. Taunted.
— "Weasley, if you scorch the mint leaf again, I'll make you eat it."
— "Longbottom, your cauldron looks like a chamber pot, not a potion."
— "Granger. Kindly stop whispering advice to everyone. This is not your tutoring circle."
Each word — a lash.
When he reached me, he lingered longer. Looked into my cauldron. His gaze — like frost.
He didn't smile.
Didn't praise.
But said quietly:
— "Ten points to Slytherin. For precision."
That was all. But for anyone who knew Snape — it nearly meant "well done."
Hermione scowled slightly. Her potion was perfect too. But she wasn't a Slytherin.
That's how fairness worked in the dungeons.
At the end of class, Snape asked us to write a short analysis:
"Which ingredient is most important — and why?"
I didn't write about lavender.
Nor mint.
I wrote about squid ink — the ingredient that didn't affect the potion's outcome, but bound the others together. A transparent anchor. Often overlooked.
Snape collected the parchments. For a moment, he looked me in the eye.
He said nothing. But I knew — he saw me.
History of Magic
The room was stuffy, like no one had opened a window in decades.Rows of desks. Dusty parchment. And at the front, instead of a blackboard — a transparent ghost.
Professor Cuthbert Binns — the only teacher at Hogwarts who had died and never noticed.
He hovered about ten centimeters off the ground, his robes tattered, his face bearing the dull expression of someone for whom the world had long ago stopped offering anything new.
"Today… we move on to the period… of the first Goblin war…" he began, his voice like dry parchment turning in a locked library.
Most students checked out instantly. Ron rested his head on his arm. Harry pretended to listen, sneaking glances out the window. Hermione, of course, scribbled furiously.
Her handwriting was almost calligraphic — impressive, if slightly frantic.
Me?
I wasn't listening to the words.
I was watching the space around the professor. His magic — or rather, the absence of it.
Ghosts retained a trace of who they were, but not living magic. Binns was like an unfinished note, a sound that should have faded long ago — and somehow hadn't.
His presence interfered with the flow of magical threads in the room. They quivered near him, like something inside them wanted to vanish but couldn't.
I didn't write down a single date. But I did write one sentence:
"When history is told without intent, it becomes only a dead date.And dead dates teach nothing."
After an hour, most of the class looked like they'd been hit with a mild Sleeping Charm. On the way out, I heard a Gryffindor mutter: "That was torture…"
I didn't return to the dungeons right away. Something… stopped me.
In the corridor outside room 3C, I felt a familiar tension in the air. The threads of magic vibrated faintly, as if stirred by a breeze no one else could sense.
Other students passed me, chatting about dinner. I stood still — staring at a point in the air where something bent. Like a crease in reality.
A shadow. Vague — but visible to me.
Not a ghost. Not a specter.
It was a residual trace of someone's presence — an emotion so strong, it had left a mark on the fabric of the castle.
I followed the impulse. Not like tracking prey — more like following a melody only I could hear.
Stairs. A left turn. A corridor near the old caretaker's office.
And then… a door.
Not magical. Not hidden. Just an old wooden door with a worn brass handle.
It opened by itself.
The room was small. Forgotten. A dusty bench. A desk. Stacks of ancient books with cracked spines. The air carried a trace of old magic — dormant, but not gone.
I sat down.
That's when I saw it — a loose slip of parchment, wedged between the pages of an open book. Yellowed. The corner folded. No name. No title.
Just words:
I don't know what to call it.He didn't see ghosts the way we did.He said they weren't specters — just "traces."
When we first stepped into this room, he said:'Someone died here. But they didn't leave.'
Sometimes he'd stop — in empty places.He'd go quiet, like he was listening to something.He claimed emotions had scent.
I saw nothing.
He looked at walls as if he remembered their memories.
We thought he was making it up.
But once, when I got lost — he found me.Said I'd followed someone's anger.That it still lingered in the air.
I don't know if that was magic.
But I never joked about his eyes again.
I read it twice.Then folded it and slipped it into the inner pocket of my robes.
Could thaht shadow in the graveyard have been one of those traces? I had seen it before.
I always knew my eyes could see spirits — but I never thought it meant spirits in the usual sense. I lingered on the thought a moment longer.
Everything was beginning to make sense.
The day passed quickly. Before I noticed, it was already evening.
I ate dinner in silence. This time I sat closer to the end of the table. No one invited me closer but a few glanced in my direction. Then looked away. Maybe in a few days, someone would work up the courage.
Maybe not. It didn't matter.
When the last groups of students began returning to their dormitories, I went the other way.
Seventh floor. The tapestry. Three times back and forth.
I need a place to study. To experiment. The door appeared without a sound.
I entered.
The room had changed since yesterday — as if adapting to my new needs.
Next to the desk stood a runic chalkboard. On the shelf — a book that hadn't been there before: "Complex Magic and Combined Spells – Introduction."
By the wall, the wooden dummy was still there — but now a parchment lay beside it,listing basic defensive spells:
ExpelliarmusProtegoPetrificus TotalusFlipendo
It was more than a fulfillment of a request. It was recognition.
The Room didn't just respond to desire — it responded to readiness. I picked up my wand.
AN: It's missing some kind of classic adventure here, like "find the stone and defeat the dark wizard."