(Author's note: I am not a writer, just taking my first step into creating fanfiction. I heavily used ChatGPT, so if there's anything wrong or things I should add, inform me so I can fix it.)
The summons arrived just after her final lesson of the day, delivered with Professor McGonagall's usual crisp efficiency. Evelyn was to report to her office at once. There was no explanation attached, no reprimand implied, yet the formality of it settled uneasily in her chest. McGonagall did not call students in without reason.
The Transfiguration classroom had long since emptied by the time she approached the adjoining office. The door stood closed, polished wood gleaming beneath steady torchlight. When she knocked, the response came immediately.
"Enter."
Professor McGonagall sat behind her desk, posture immaculate as ever, tartan robes falling in precise folds. The office reflected her personality—orderly stacks of parchment aligned perfectly, brass instruments polished to a muted shine, a tall cabinet of carefully labeled files along the back wall. Even the fire burned in controlled measure, neither roaring nor dwindling. She gestured for Evelyn to sit.
"Miss Carmichael," she began, folding her hands atop the desk. Her tone was not sharp, but it carried weight. "I wished to speak with you regarding your recent academic developments."
Evelyn inclined her head slightly. "Yes, Professor."
"I have reviewed Professor Flitwick's report concerning your second spell." McGonagall's gaze was steady, analytical rather than accusatory. "Umbra Praesidium. A shadow-based defensive charm."
"Yes, Professor."
McGonagall's eyes lingered on her a moment longer than comfort allowed. "You will understand, I hope, that I take particular interest in students who demonstrate… unusual patterns."
Evelyn remained composed, though she felt a subtle tightening beneath her ribs. "Patterns, Professor?"
"Your first spell, Shieldum, was developed during a moment of crisis." McGonagall's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "I have long suspected it was an accidental formation born of instinct—an impressive one, but born of necessity." She paused. "Your second spell, however, was deliberate. Structured. And again, protective."
The word lingered between them.
"Most first-years," McGonagall continued, "experiment broadly. Levitation variations. Light manipulation. Minor utility charms. You, on the other hand, have focused your considerable talent exclusively on defense." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "May I ask what you believe you need protection from?"
The question landed with quiet force.
Evelyn felt the sudden, hollow awareness that she had no memory to draw upon. Nothing existed before Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—no childhood recollections, no foster homes, no corridors of another life within this body. She could not describe a room she had slept in, a guardian who had raised her, a single concrete detail. If McGonagall pressed for specifics, there would be nothing authentic to provide.
Think.
She let a measured breath steady her. Panic would betray more than ignorance.
"I don't believe I'm in immediate danger, Professor," she began carefully. "But I am an orphan. I have lived without… consistent stability." The statement was true enough in the broadest sense, even if its origins were fractured. "When the troll incident occurred, Shieldum wasn't something I planned. It was instinct. Afterward, I realized I understood the structure of protective magic more clearly than other branches."
McGonagall's expression did not soften, but neither did it harden. She was listening.
"I studied the framework," Evelyn continued, keeping her tone steady and grounded in theory rather than emotion. "Defensive magic relies on reinforcement and intent rather than projection. It felt… logical. Umbra Praesidium was an expansion of that understanding. Not fear, Professor. Structure."
The office fell quiet except for the faint crackle of firewood. McGonagall observed her with the same scrutiny she applied to complex transfiguration matrices. She was not seeking sentiment; she was evaluating coherence.
"Protection," McGonagall said at last, "is wise. Particularly in uncertain circumstances." Her gaze drifted briefly toward the window, where February's fading light pressed faintly against frosted glass. "However, one must be cautious not to live as though attack is inevitable."
Evelyn absorbed the warning without flinching. "I understand, Professor."
"Do you?" McGonagall asked quietly, though not unkindly. "Hogwarts is meant to be a place of growth, Miss Carmichael. Exploration. Not preparation for unseen threats."
For a fraction of a second, an image flickered in Evelyn's mind—shadows pooling in stone corridors, a sense of something hidden beneath the castle's foundations. The memory carried no detail, only unease. She held McGonagall's gaze evenly.
"I don't expect attack," she said. "But I believe preparation allows freedom. If I know I can protect myself and others, I don't have to fear what I don't understand."
That answer lingered. It was not defensive in tone, nor melodramatic. It was reasoned.
McGonagall inclined her head slightly. "Very well." She reached for a parchment and adjusted it absently. "I will not discourage your work, provided it remains balanced. You have exceptional talent, Miss Carmichael. Ensure it does not narrow your world rather than expand it."
"Yes, Professor."
The dismissal was gentle but final. Evelyn rose, offering a respectful nod before stepping out into the corridor. The door closed behind her with a soft click, sealing the warmth of the office away.
Only then did she allow the breath she had been holding to release fully.
McGonagall had not accused her. She had not probed beyond what Evelyn could fabricate. But the underlying message was unmistakable: her pattern had been noticed. Faculty were no longer observing isolated incidents; they were tracing intent.
As she walked back toward the Ravenclaw tower, the castle felt subtly altered—not hostile, but attentive. She had maintained her narrative. She had answered without revealing the emptiness where a childhood should have been.
Still, one thought echoed beneath her composure.
If even McGonagall was questioning what she was preparing for, perhaps she should be asking herself the same.
The corridor outside Professor McGonagall's office felt colder than it had moments before, though the torches burned steadily along the walls. Evelyn moved at an unhurried pace, her footsteps measured against the stone, maintaining the appearance of composure should anyone pass. Inside, however, her thoughts were recalibrating rapidly.
McGonagall had not been suspicious in the manner of accusation. She had been concerned. That distinction mattered. Concern meant observation had shifted from academic curiosity to personal evaluation. It meant faculty were no longer asking whether Evelyn could create spells, but why she was choosing the ones she did. Pattern recognition had begun at the adult level.
That altered her trajectory.
Until now, her public development had followed a careful rhythm—incremental progress, visible research, methodical documentation. Defensive magic had felt safe. Protective spells were morally uncomplicated, socially acceptable, even admirable. But McGonagall's question lingered: What do you believe you need protection from?
The honest answer was unsettlingly simple. She did not know.
Whatever foreknowledge she had once carried about this year had eroded into indistinct fragments. She remembered that something was wrong beneath the castle. She remembered that Professor Quirrell mattered. She remembered that the Philosopher's Stone was involved. But the sequence, the mechanism, the climax—all of it had blurred into uncertainty. She was preparing against an undefined threat, guided more by instinct than memory.
That instinct had served her well so far. Shieldum had formed in crisis. Umbra Praesidium had expanded her control. Yet if faculty began interpreting her focus as fear-driven rather than theory-driven, scrutiny would intensify. And scrutiny restricted freedom.
She slowed near a tall window overlooking the courtyard where she had practiced earlier in the month. Snowmelt traced thin lines along the stone, pooling in shallow depressions before freezing again overnight. The landscape was in transition—neither winter nor spring. The metaphor did not escape her.
Adjustment was required.
Her magical development could not remain exclusively defensive. Not publicly. She would need to diversify—perhaps explore controlled utility charms, structural refinements, or theoretical expansions that appeared academic rather than preparatory. It would not diminish her true focus; it would simply rebalance perception. The narrative must evolve before it hardened into suspicion.
The realization steadied her rather than alarmed her. Strategy was familiar territory. If authority traced patterns, she would adjust the pattern.
By the time she reached the Ravenclaw tower, her expression was once again composed, almost serene. A few students glanced up from their tables as she entered, whispering faintly about upcoming essays and Quidditch standings. No one asked about the summons. If they noticed it at all, they assumed it academic.
She seated herself near the arched window and withdrew her Grimoire, opening to a fresh page. Instead of defensive diagrams, she began sketching branching applications of light refraction charms—benign, theoretical expansions of Lumos into prism effects. She did not intend to pursue them deeply, but the exercise served two purposes: it broadened her visible range and reminded her that magic need not always be anchored in vigilance.
Still, as her quill moved steadily across parchment, her thoughts drifted back to McGonagall's final words. Ensure it does not narrow your world rather than expand it.
Was she narrowing it?
Her world had already narrowed in one irreversible way. Daniel's memories—once expansive and predictive—had faded to shadows. Hogwarts was no longer a story unfolding along known lines. It was immediate and unpredictable. If she did not prepare, she would be no more equipped than anyone else when the unseen threat surfaced.
Yet preparation must not look like fear.
She paused, tapping the quill lightly against the page. The balance would require precision. Continue strengthening defense privately. Broaden visible experimentation publicly. Maintain academic excellence to offset any perception of obsession. And, perhaps most importantly, monitor Quirrell more carefully without drawing attention.
The castle hummed softly around her, unaware of the strategic adjustments taking place within a single first-year's mind. February was closing, and with it the quiet phase of growth. Attention had shifted upward.
From this point forward, every move would require greater calculation.
The library carried its usual evening hush, punctuated only by the soft turning of pages and the occasional distant cough. Candles floated overhead in steady rows, their light reflecting faintly off polished tables worn smooth by decades of restless scholarship. Evelyn slid into her usual seat beside Hermione, placing a modest stack of books between them. Across the table, Ron leaned back in his chair with visible impatience while Harry stared at a parchment covered in crossed-out names.
They had been searching for weeks now. Nicolas Flamel had finally been identified, thanks to Hermione's relentless cross-referencing, and the confirmation of the Philosopher's Stone had only intensified their efforts. If the Stone was hidden at Hogwarts—and all evidence suggested it was—then the third-floor corridor was its likely vault. The question was not what, but how.
Hermione flipped another page in a dense alchemical volume. "If multiple professors contributed protections," she murmured, "then each obstacle would reflect their specialty. Logical layering. Redundancy. It's quite brilliant, actually."
"Brilliant or not, someone's trying to get past it," Ron muttered. "And that someone's Snape."
Evelyn looked up slightly. "You're certain?"
Ron leaned forward now, animated. "Think about it. We've seen him corner Quirrell more than once. He's always glaring at Harry. He tried to referee the Quidditch match after that broom incident. He's obsessed."
Harry nodded immediately. "He hates me. That's obvious. And he was definitely doing something to my broom." His jaw tightened at the memory. "Quirrell was terrified that day. Like he knew something bad would happen."
Hermione hesitated only briefly. "Snape has motive," she admitted. "He knows about the Stone. He helped guard it. That means he knows at least part of the protections."
"And if Quirrell added something," Ron pressed, "then Snape would need to threaten him to find out what it is. That's why Quirrell's been so jumpy lately."
The logic formed quickly, smoothly, almost too neatly.
Evelyn folded her hands atop her open book, considering. She had observed the same changes in Quirrell—the trembling hands, the distracted gaze, the way his stammer seemed less theatrical and more strained. But when she pictured him, the sensation that surfaced was not cunning or concealment. It was something else. Pressure. Fear.
"Quirrell has been more skittish," she said slowly. "Especially in the corridors. He avoids eye contact now. And he seems thinner."
"Exactly," Ron said triumphantly. "Because Snape's been cornering him."
Harry's expression hardened. "If Snape's trying to steal the Stone, we have to stop him."
Hermione nodded with reluctant agreement. "It fits the evidence we've gathered. Snape's knowledge, his behavior, his access to restricted areas. And if each professor added something to the protections, he would need to understand all of them to bypass the defenses."
The theory settled across the table like a completed equation.
Evelyn felt the faintest ripple of unease beneath her calm exterior. Something about the simplicity of it tugged at her instincts. A memory—faded, fractured—tried to surface. She recalled once knowing how this unfolded. She remembered that the Stone's protections were layered by multiple professors. She remembered danger in the final chamber. But the identity of the true antagonist slipped from her grasp like mist.
She searched her mind for clarity and found only absence.
Ron was still speaking, outlining possibilities. "If Snape's planning something soon, it'll be before the end of term. He wouldn't wait until everyone's distracted by exams."
Harry's gaze sharpened with resolve. "Then we watch him."
Hermione closed her book decisively. "Carefully," she added. "We need proof before we accuse a professor."
Evelyn nodded, though her thoughts remained unsettled. The theory made sense. It aligned with observable behavior. It even accounted for Quirrell's growing anxiety. And yet…
There was a faint echo in her mind, a warning without context. She could not attach it to a name, a face, or a sequence of events. Only the sensation remained—a quiet insistence that something about their conclusion was incomplete.
"I'll keep observing," she said at last. "Patterns don't lie. If Snape is moving toward the corridor, we'll see it."
The others accepted that easily. The plan felt solid. Watch Snape. Monitor Quirrell. Stay alert.
Around them, the library continued in peaceful ignorance of the theory forming at one table near the windows. Candlelight flickered softly across open pages, unaware that four first-years believed they were tracking a thief among professors.
As they gathered their books and prepared to leave, Evelyn allowed herself one final glance across the room. For a fleeting second, she imagined what it would feel like to remember clearly—to know with certainty whether they were right.
But certainty no longer belonged to her.
And so she would proceed as they did—guided not by foreknowledge, but by inference.
By the final days of February, the castle had begun its subtle shift toward spring, though winter still clung stubbornly to the towers and shaded corridors. The snow along the grounds had thinned into uneven patches, and damp stone carried a faint chill that lingered even in daylight. It was during this transitional lull that Professor Quirrell's deterioration became impossible to ignore.
Evelyn first noticed it in Defense Against the Dark Arts. His lectures, once meandering but structured, had grown fragmented. He lost his place mid-sentence more frequently. His hands trembled not only when holding chalk but when adjusting his turban. The stammer, which had once seemed almost exaggerated in its theatricality, now felt strained and genuine. At one point, he paused entirely, staring at the blackboard as though he had forgotten the subject he intended to teach.
The class shifted uncomfortably in their seats. A few students exchanged glances. Even those who had long dismissed him as harmless began to look uneasy.
Evelyn watched closely. Not openly—never long enough to draw attention—but with the quiet precision she applied to spell construction. There was a pattern here. Quirrell's nervousness spiked when certain topics were mentioned: enchantments guarding objects, layered magical defenses, curse-breaking protocols. When a Slytherin asked whether dark artifacts could be shielded against detection, Quirrell's hand tightened so sharply around his wand that his knuckles blanched.
Fear, she thought. Not guilt. Fear.
Later that evening in the Great Hall, she observed him again. He sat at the staff table, posture rigid, eyes darting more often than usual. When Professor Snape leaned slightly in his direction to speak with Professor Flitwick, Quirrell visibly flinched. It was subtle, but unmistakable.
Ron, seated beside her, followed her line of sight. "See?" he whispered. "He's terrified of Snape."
Harry's jaw tightened. "He knows Snape's planning something."
Hermione did not immediately respond, but her gaze lingered on the staff table longer than usual. "He does look worse," she admitted quietly. "I've never seen him that pale."
Evelyn said nothing at first. She traced the rim of her goblet thoughtfully, mind working through possibilities. If Snape were threatening Quirrell for information about the third-floor corridor, the behavior aligned. Fear would manifest exactly like this—avoidance, tremors, deteriorating composure.
And yet.
There was something about Quirrell's expression when he believed no one was watching. A tension that did not seem directed outward toward Snape, but inward, as though he were listening for something only he could hear. Once, as students rose from their benches, Evelyn caught him murmuring under his breath, too low to distinguish words. His hand hovered briefly near the back of his turban before dropping abruptly when a Ravenclaw second-year passed by.
The sight unsettled her more than she expected.
She tried, once more, to reach for the fractured remnants of memory that had once guided her. She knew this professor mattered. She knew the Stone mattered. She knew the corridor concealed more than enchantments. But the clarity that should have accompanied those facts had dissolved.
In the corridor outside the Great Hall, the Trio paused.
"We need to keep an eye on both of them," Harry said firmly. "If Snape makes a move—"
"We'll see it," Ron finished. "And we'll be ready."
Hermione nodded, though she looked thoughtful rather than convinced.
Evelyn inclined her head in agreement, yet her thoughts remained divided. Watching Snape was logical. Watching Quirrell was necessary. But instinct whispered that the visible tension between them might not be as simple as predator and prey.
As they parted for the night, Evelyn lingered a moment longer in the corridor, gaze drifting toward the staff staircase. Quirrell had already disappeared from sight. The torches flickered faintly against stone, shadows stretching thin and restless along the walls.
Her protective instincts stirred again, not sharply, but persistently. Preparation without clarity. Vigilance without target.
She returned to the Ravenclaw tower and opened her Grimoire before sleep, writing only a single measured line:
Quirrell – instability increasing. Observe for external pressure versus internal fracture.
She closed the book carefully.
If something was unraveling within the castle, it was nearing its breaking point. And this time, she would not rely on memory to warn her.
She would rely on observation.
The final days of February passed with a tense rhythm, the kind that settled over Hogwarts whenever the end of term approached. Evelyn balanced her classes, the Trio's investigations, and her private spellwork with careful precision, though each activity seemed to carry an added weight. Even routine lessons now held the undercurrent of something more pressing. In Charms, Professor Flitwick's excitement about student creativity felt muted; the master of charms had little need to display it to Evelyn, though she sensed his quiet approval with every small detail she perfected in her demonstrations.
In the common areas and corridors, the search for Nicolas Flamel remained active but more constrained. Without Hermione's meticulous record-keeping during the winter break, the group had made fewer breakthroughs than they would have liked. Evelyn contributed what she could, offering subtle insights and pattern recognition that occasionally sparked new directions. Harry, ever impatient, attempted to push them toward conclusions quickly, while Ron's enthusiasm sometimes distracted them from careful reasoning. Through it all, Evelyn's own focus was split between the investigation and the lingering questions from her spellwork, particularly the barriers she had crafted and the way they tied into her protective instincts.
Professor McGonagall summoned Evelyn to her office one afternoon, her expression one of cautious concern. The head of Gryffindor's attentions had noticed the pattern: two defensive spells in quick succession, Shieldum and Umbra Praesidium, and both originating from a first-year Ravenclaw. "Evelyn," she began gently, folding her hands over a stack of parchment, "you've created two highly unusual spells in a short period. Both defensive in nature. Is everything… alright at home? Is there anything troubling you? Any past experiences that might be influencing this focus on protection?"
Evelyn felt the question like a careful probe. Her mind raced, searching for a truthful response that would satisfy the professor while revealing nothing of her past life or her internal system. "I'm an orphan, Professor," she said finally, voice steady. "I've had to learn to be self-reliant. That's why I understand defensive magic, I suppose. It's instinctual. I… experiment." She allowed a faint shrug, emphasizing practicality over sentimentality. McGonagall studied her for a long moment but seemed satisfied, or at least convinced enough to let the matter rest.
Meanwhile, the discussions about the third-floor corridor had intensified. In one long evening in the library, the Trio and Evelyn traced their combined observations, comparing spells and potential countermeasures. Ron's theory about Snape threatening Quirrell became more detailed, connecting the professor's movements, the subtle changes in Quirrell's behavior, and the magical protections they had documented. Harry's patience kept them focused, while Hermione analyzed each logical possibility, mapping out contingencies. Evelyn contributed quietly, observing the nuances in Quirrell's reactions and the residual traces of enchantments left in hallways. Though she rarely spoke at length about her personal thought process, her precise observations often guided the conversation, prompting Hermione to consider angles she might have overlooked.
Even amidst these strategic discussions, the weight of her spells' existence loomed. Umbra Praesidium and Shieldum were no longer theoretical; both were tangible extensions of her abilities, and each required careful maintenance, practice, and documentation. Her Grimoire sat open on a nearby table, absorbing her notes, sketches, and experiment results as the magical book had been designed to do. It was the one place where her work remained entirely private, where her system could operate invisibly, protected from curious eyes.
As February waned, the castle seemed quieter than usual, though tension hummed beneath its stone. Students moved more quickly between classes, teachers spoke in clipped tones, and the corridors bore an undercurrent of anticipation. The Trio remained vigilant, following Snape's movements whenever possible, recording anomalies, and theorizing about Quirrell's actions. Evelyn, meanwhile, found herself increasingly caught between observation, experimentation, and participation—each demanding focus, each threatening distraction from the other.
In the quiet moments before sleep, she returned to her Grimoire once more, jotting notes and refining her understanding of Umbra Praesidium. She tested theoretical improvements mentally, imagining subtle variations of the spell's extensions, the way light and shadow could combine with protective barriers, and how her chosen emotions influenced the effectiveness of the charm. The spell was still new, fragile, and not yet fully understood even by her, but it represented progress, mastery, and control—elements that resonated deeply with her instinct to protect and to understand the world around her.
By the end of February, the Trio had agreed on their next steps regarding Quirrell and Snape. Their plans were cautious but deliberate, and Evelyn's observations had become indispensable. Yet even as strategy solidified, she felt the quiet pull of unresolved questions—of spells not yet perfected, of memories half-remembered, and of mysteries that lay just beyond the reach of perception. Hogwarts, for all its routine and tradition, was brimming with forces that demanded attention, intellect, and a measure of courage Evelyn was only beginning to grasp.
And so the month closed, a delicate balance of study, experimentation, and vigilance. The final days of February left the castle poised on the edge of discovery, with Evelyn at the center of it all—watching, learning, and preparing for whatever the next month would bring.
If you want to support me and my story, here's the link to my YouTube channel @pipplays3748 on YouTube