The days in August fell into a rhythm, not unlike a pendulum that swung between discipline and solitude. The summer air in Hogsmeade was crisp in the mornings and languid in the afternoons, the evenings warmed by candlelight and the occasional hum of magic woven through the walls of my little house.
Each day began the same way. I'd rise just after dawn, when the light filtered through the window above my desk, casting angled shadows across the spines of rune tomes and Charms scrolls. The wards around the house pulsed faintly each morning when I stirred, attuned to my presence—my magic—and every day I rechecked them. Not for fear, but for discipline.
Breakfast was simple. Toast, eggs, tea—prepared by hand, no magic. It kept me grounded. There was something quietly meditative about whisking eggs or slicing fruit, a reminder that I was still flesh and blood despite the power at my fingertips.
By eight, I was in the garden, barefoot on the grass. I used that time to train—not with wands, but with focus. Wandless levitation of a pebble. Silent flame conjuring. Tracing the lines of protective runes into the earth. Even practicing the first steps of occlusion: letting my mind settle into stillness. The older magic I studied in the Chamber—the MAGICKS—required a stillness of mind that no book on modern dueling ever taught.
The house had become my silent classroom.
Late mornings, I returned indoors and studied. Runes dominated my attention in July, but in August I worked through advanced Arithmancy and Charms at alternating intervals. I found comfort in formulas—magical equations that, while rigid, hinted at elegant solutions to problems modern spellwork hadn't yet solved. Soul Croaker's Arithmancy lectures replayed in my head even now, his dry, biting tone somehow more memorable than the words themselves.
At noon, I'd pause to eat. Then I would read—always from Salazar's collection, always with a cautious mind. His writings were equal parts brilliance and obsession. He had explored branches of magic that most wouldn't dare name aloud. Soul binding, blood inheritance theories, elemental invocation without wand, pact magic—all laced with ancient philosophy and Parseltongue notations that curled on the page like serpents.
Sometimes his portrait would speak to me, offering cryptic observations or subtle mockery. We no longer spoke at length every day, but he watched. I could feel his painted eyes track my work.
"You read like a boy preparing for war," he had said one afternoon, as I poured over a scroll on magical symmetry.
I hadn't replied, because part of me agreed. I was preparing—not just for war, but for expectation. For the weight of the Starborn name, the inheritance of the Slytherin line, the silent prophecy written into every look I received from the old guard of wizarding Britain.
Afternoons, when the sun crested high and the air turned heavy, I practiced spells. My wand moved through the air like an extension of my mind. Summoning. Banishing. Cutting. Reshaping. Disillusionment. Partial transfigurations. I practiced incantations at varied speeds, silent casting, redirecting mid-motion.
One day I transfigured an entire patch of grass into water and then froze it again into jagged spikes—trying to imitate what Dumbledore had shown me weeks ago. It shattered, imperfectly, but it was a start.
The weekends were still sacred. Dumbledore and I met at the ruin every Saturday and Sunday without fail. Our sessions had grown quieter—not less intense, but more thoughtful. He spoke less and watched more, correcting only when necessary.
"You've begun to anticipate possibilities," he noted once, after I countered a hex before he even finished the wand motion. "That's the mark of someone who no longer fights the spell—but the spellcaster."
By late evening, I was back inside. Sometimes I'd write letters—short ones to Eleanor or Henry, though I never sent them. What would I say? That the house was quiet? That I was becoming more than I had ever imagined, and still not enough?
Instead, I wrote in my journal. Observations. Spell tweaks. Reflections on ancient theory. An entry from mid-August read:
"True wandless magicks are not about focus, but about essence. The magic is not projected—it is released, like exhaling something you've always carried inside. The difference is vast. The difference is terrifying."
Some nights, I returned to the Chamber. The descent was familiar now. The magic of the place no longer resisted me—it accepted me. The wards remained inert under my touch, and the air tasted of dust, stone, and knowledge long buried. I limited myself to four hours a week, as agreed. But even in that short time, I learned of ancient rituals forgotten to the modern age. Ways to imbue spells with memory. Techniques to inscribe intention into objects without enchantment.
I didn't try them.
Not yet.
I understood Salazar's warning now: Power ahead of discipline is rot waiting to bloom.
The days bled together in the best of ways. No drama, no duels, no whispers of war—just purpose. Just study. Just... becoming.
And when the last day of August arrived, I stood outside as the sun set over Hogsmeade, hands in my pockets, eyes tracking the silhouettes of owls returning to roost.
I wasn't sure what fourth year would bring. More learning, certainly. But also more attention. More eyes.
September 1st, 1934
The smell of parchment and soot clung to my cloak as I stepped through the fireplace of the Hog's Head Inn. One moment I was in the dim, smoky common room—alone save for the barkeep polishing a chipped glass—and the next I emerged in the Floo Terminal near King's Cross Station, brushing ash from my sleeves.
The crowds swelled immediately. Parents bent over trunks, owls hooted irritably in cages, and the occasional Muggle passerby flinched as magic crackled just outside their line of sight. I slipped through it all, eyes focused, trunk floating obediently behind me. The passage through the barrier at Platform 9¾ was as simple as ever—a whisper of pressure and then the roar of the scarlet engine waiting like a sleeping beast.
Steam curled in tendrils as I stepped onto the platform.
"Marcus!"
I didn't need to turn to know the voice—Henry Potter's enthusiastic bellow could cut through granite. I turned just in time to be hit by a clap on the back from my friend, his messy hair even wilder than last spring.
"You look like you've grown an inch," I said, smirking. "And possibly lost a comb."
"I don't believe in taming greatness," he said with mock seriousness.
Then came Elizabeth Abbott, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear and giving me a sharp, appraising look. "You look like you didn't rest at all this summer."
"I rested," I said. "Just not idly."
Eleanor and Edgar arrived soon after, their Ravenclaw robes already pristine and pressed despite the early hour. Eleanor gave me a hug—short, perfunctory, but real. Edgar offered a nod and a grin.
"Still ahead of the curriculum by three years?" he asked.
"Two and a half, depending on the subject," I said.
We laughed, and for a few minutes we were just students again—friends, not heirs, not scholars, not quiet weapons in the making.
We boarded together, found an empty compartment near the back, and settled in as the train began its slow chug from the station. The windows blurred with rain-streaked countryside and the occasional flutter of birds startled by the whistle.
"I read about a new spell that turns ink invisible until spoken aloud," Edgar said as he rummaged through his satchel for a book. "Apparently used for secure correspondence—"
"Let me guess," Eleanor said, folding her arms. "You're planning to use it to pass notes in Ancient Runes?"
"No," he said, clearly lying.
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, then turned to me. "What did you focus on this summer, then? Let me guess—Transfiguration?"
"Charms in February. Transfiguration in January. Runes in June. July was training. August was… integration."
Henry gave a low whistle. "You make me feel lazy."
"You spent two weeks in Ireland climbing cliffs and being chased by a hippogriff," I pointed out.
"Details," he said. "We both trained."
"I'm guessing you didn't meditate in a stone ring to sense ley lines," Eleanor muttered, half amused.
As the train rolled on and lunch trolleys came and went, the conversation drifted—from new course predictions to favorite professors to whispers of incoming first years and what madness the Sorting Hat might sing this time.
But beneath all of it, I felt it—that rising hum. The anticipation of returning to a place where the walls themselves pulsed with magic. Where secrets whispered behind every portrait and the past clung to every flagstone.
By evening, we were disembarking at Hogsmeade Station, cloaks pulled tight against the breeze. Thestral-drawn carriages waited for us, their skeletal drivers invisible to most. I saw them clearly.
No one commented.
The castle emerged from behind a hill, its towers lit like torches against the darkening sky. It struck me again, how it felt less like a school and more like a sanctum—alive, aware.
We entered the Great Hall together, the candles already floating, the four long tables packed with students new and old. The Sorting Hat sat waiting on its stool, and when Professor Dippet welcomed us with a smile and the Sorting Ceremony began, I leaned back in my seat at the Ravenclaw table, content to let the voices wash over me.
One by one, the new first-years were sorted—some nervous, some proud, some wide-eyed. I remembered that feeling. That blend of fear and hope.
And then it was done. The Hat was carried away, and Dippet offered his usual remarks about safety, schedules, and keeping out of the Forbidden Forest "unless accompanied by a professor." I caught Dumbledore's eye briefly across the staff table. He nodded once—subtle, affirming.
We applauded the food into existence, and the feast began.
I didn't eat much. I was too aware of where I was—of what I had become over the summer.
When I finally returned to Ravenclaw Tower that night and ascended the winding stairs to the dormitory, the door opened with a whisper of wards recognizing me. I stepped inside.
The bed was still mine. The bookshelves still brimming. My trunk slid into place at the footboard.
I took a breath.
*Fourth year.*
This was the year things would shift again—I could feel it. My path was still mine to walk, but it was no longer entirely my own. I was watched now. By professors. By portraits. By the name I carried and the legacy I had yet to fulfill.
But for now, I climbed into bed and let the castle wrap itself around me like a spell woven in stone.
And I slept.