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Chapter Text

The wand of a wizard is sacred. The art of the making wand is near sacred to the magic community; it is the beginnings of their gateway to the magic world. Castanea Ollivander was always around wands, and raised to hold them to a certain value. Her father’s and grandfather’s work, dating back much farther than she knew or cared to recount. 

She often spends her time, as she is now, lounging on the second story window seat, across from the stairs with a bird’s eye view of Diagon Alley and the family wand shop.

 Her brother scurries around at her father’s feet. Robur, fifteen, doomed to the life of a wizard-born in a wand shop. To be around all of these magical sticks and condemned never to possess them. He hopes to inherit the family business, and Castanea certainly won't stop him. 

Her parents don’t say as much, but she knows they hope for her to be magical. It’s odd, growing up in a wand shop. She has a clear view on wizard society. And secretly, she thinks she might be even more of a disappointment than her non-magical brother. 

“Cassie!” Her father calls from down the stairs. She hears him, but does not respond to his yelling, in a silent hope that he will walk up the stairs so she does not have to degrade herself by yelling back. 

“Cassie!” This time, she repositions herself so that she knows she’s in his line of sight, so he can see that she is intentionally ignoring him. He does, and instead of responding how she’d like, summons her book out of her hands and to him. She watches as the pages flutter, already forgetting her spot in the novel. 

“What?” She yells back, tone clipped. 

“Get down here!” Garrick calls, frustration laced in his voice. Something he is making no attempt to hide.

“Just tell me from up here!” 

“I need you down here!” 

“Why?” 

“Just-!” He clearly is at his wit’s end, if the way he stomps up the stairs is any indication. Castanea finds herself echoing her mother in a moment of clarity. She waits until he marches up to her at the window, pauses, looks him in the eye and says: 

“There, was that so hard?” 

His lack of response is concerning. Castanea eyes the vein spidering across his forehead and his nails pressed into his palm; she is confident that she has upset him, but his reaction is out of character and doesn’t reveal much. 

Castanea gives him another once over, then peers over the railing. There is a man with his hair not dissimilar to her fathers- resting above his shoulders- wearing magenta. He has the beginnings of a beard and seems to be waiting patiently. For what, she doesn’t know. She says as much. 

“What does he want?”

“Cassie, we need to talk about your manners,” He hisses.

“Is that all? Or was there another reason you wanted to speak to me?” She’s pressing his buttons now. She knows it, he knows it. But there is company, and her father cares about his reputation. She does not.

Care about his reputation, that is. She hardly has one of her own, and intends to keep it that way. Her father looks like he wants to say something but settles for taking a deep breath. With the pause of the conversation she notes Robur trying to make small talk. The man looks at him with pity, something that Robur clearly recognizes, leaving the small talk awkward and weirdly polite. She, apparently, is staring quite a bit, because the man looks up at her and they make steady eye contact. Her father rests a hand on her shoulder, and she turns to him. 

“That’s Dumbledore.” 

“I see.” Castanea remembers him. He’s visited the shop before, many times, but the last time he was here was four years ago when he came to talk to Robur. She keeps her face carefully blank, trying to edge excitement into it. Trufully, she’s not too pleased to see him- but she is curious. 

“He’s here to talk to you.” 

“It’s July.” What she means to say is ‘I have over a month until Hogwarts. Why now?’  Her father, ever the Ravenclaw, picks up on this and sighs. There’s a reason for the sudden gated speech, and although Garrick does not know why, he notices the switch. His hand pats her on the shoulder then slowly turns her towards the stairs. 

When Robur was eleven, this man and her father had a lengthy conversation behind closed doors. She doesn’t remember much of it, for she was not there. She spent the better half of the day at home. It was August, and she read muggle books with her mother under the oak tree until sunset.

She remembers it clearly, for this was not a planned event. The events, as she recalled them were as such: 

She was fooling around with Robur while her father chatted with customers. There were a lot of students that day, shopping to prepare for the coming school year. Robur had not yet received his letter, but there was still hope up until then. But when the first muggleborn came in for their wand (you could always tell by their shoes and awed look) with some professor from Hogwarts, Robur turned very red and ran out the room. Castanea knows her family is not pureblood purists, for her mother is a muggleborn, and so was her grandmother. It was quite odd to watch Robur react this way, but looking back, it signaled that he would not be getting his letter. Wizarding families knew what to get in preparations- muggleborns did not. 

Garrick got the child situated with their new wand, and pulled the professor aside. The professor, being the purple man, went on his way and returned later, for tea. That’s what her mother said. They flooed home in the backroom (where her perch was), but Castanea did not see any tea cups or cakes. 

Later, Robur and her father came back. Her father was very red and didn’t say much and Robur’s eyes were puffy. She can only guess what went on in the backroom, but is nearly certain it was not tea. 

And, the coming year, Robur did not attend hogwarts. He, instead, was sent to study with her muggle cousin in Kingston. And when she wrote to him, she had to use a mailbox and not an owl, which was very difficult to do. Once you put your letter in, you cannot take it out, which can be a tricky thing if one forgets postage and the letter gets trashed and you have to rewrite the whole thing. 

She is still very upset about it. 

So here is Dumbledore, and he wants to have a chat with her. Her father, noticing her hesitance once more, gently squeezes her shoulder, thinking it nerves. 

She is less worried than she is curious, but plays the anxious card for all she’s got. 

“Ah, coming!” She said, scurrying down the stairs. She realizes that she is not in proper attire to be meeting with a professor. She is barefoot, not planning to come down stairs, and is largely dressed in her brother’s old clothes. She is wearing his old muggle trousers, cut off at the knees, and some knitted jumper that was left in the shop that she’d claimed as hers. Her mother had sent her in a nice sundress; she had abandoned it as soon as she arrived in favor of the random assortment of clothes she keeps in a trunk in the back room. 

Then again, he was wearing a bright purple suit and checkered scarf, so maybe there weren’t words to be said about how they were dressed. 

“Professor,” Said her father in his Customer Voice which he used to mask annoyance. “This is my daughter, Castanea. Castanea, this is Professor Dumbledore. He would like to talk to you to day.” Castanea said nothing, nodding at her fathers words. 

“Hello, it is very nice to meet you.” He smiled down at her. It was a kind smile, but a practiced one. His eyes were soft yet sharp.

“You as well.” Castanea smiled back. When her father shifted his weight, indicating that she should talk more and that this would not be a one-sided thing, she added, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

This was the wrong thing to say, and she knew it, as the predicted follow-up was offered. “Good things, I hope,” He jested. She offered a polite laugh, not confirming or denying. He continued. “As your father mentioned, I would like to talk to you today.” They all settled into the corner of the shop with the waiting area. Dumbledore sat across from them, and Castanea next to her father. 

“Do you know what it is about?” He asked. Castanea had a fair idea, given that her father had given Robur leave when the man appeared, thinking it to be magically related. Her parents have kept the magic talk to a minimum while her brother is there, in an attempt to not alienate him. She knows that this only alienates him more, but when she tries to include him in such conversations, it’s even worse. 

“No,” She says. Not a lie, she did not have a definite answer. But she must have been thinking for a bit, because he gave a good natured chuckle at her delayed response. 

“Miss Ollivander, you are aware of your brother’s… condition,” He started. Castanea did not like his pause before condition, and judging by the way her father bristled, he didn’t either. 

“Yes.” She says simply. 

“Well, as you may or may not know, most children begin to show signs of magic around age seven. Now, delayed development in this area is not unheard of, you see, but not uncommon. I have been granted permission by the ministry, under the guidance of Hogwarts, to observe you practicing magic in a safe environment.”

Ah, Castanea thought. This was a test. She did know magic. She did not have a wand, herself. Or rather, she did (her father having picked it out long ago, noticing the box shaking as she walked by it) but wasn’t allowed to use it quite yet. 

Castanea did know magic. And because Castanea knew magic, without a wand, she quietly thinks to herself all too frequently, that maybe, wands are entirely unneeded. Not useless, mind you, unneeded. 

She grew up around them. Their importance was stressed everyday. And, somewhere along the line, she realized that a wizard without a wand that cannot do magic is not a wizard, but a man with a wand. And, following that thought and a wand without a wizard is still magic. So that maybe, wands were the real wizards. 

And, following that, wands are made for spells, not magic. Yes, spells and curses and such are magic, but forms of them. Pure, archaic magic is something raw and needs to be refined, but there are ways to do this without a wand. Castanea thinks the wand is a crutch. If you go to a magic school to learn magic, you really are really learning the wand. There are memorized spells and such meant for a wand, but none for the wizard. 

She thinks that wands are a middleman, and that really, she’d be better off without one. She does not want to rely on one so much that if it were stripped from her she’d be rendered magicless. Wizards lose themselves in their wands, she knows, and somewhere in that mess a wand becomes more magical than themselves. 

She knows all about the types of wands, and the wood and magic in them. How their length and core matter, so on and so forth. It’s her family’s work, life, and blood. She never says this aloud. 

She can do magic. She knows the basic summoning spell (granted, only if the object is in sight and in the room) and to create light. While that’s about it, she thinks herself pretty good at magic so far, and feels bad about the wand in her father’s desk that she’ll likely never use. 

“How am I to do this?” She asks. She knows she can do this magic. She knows that if Dumbledore is here, he certainly doesn’t know, and her father as well. She doesn’t do her magic around Robur, and so she supposes neither of her parents have seen her either if this man is here. 

“That is a fair question. Now, because your father is the proprietor of this fine establishment- the importance of such that can’t be understated- we are offering you the premature grant to own a wand.”

Castanea supposed she should be excited by this. She smiles widely, and hopes that that’s what he’s looking for. It is, and he continues. 

“Ollivander's wand shop is a pillar in our wizarding society and one of, if not, the best wand shop in London, if not the known wizarding world.”

Castanea thinks that he’s laying it on a bit thick. She waits for the blow to come, probably indirectly about Robur. 

“Therefore, it is absolutely crucial that Ollivander’s continues in its business, and thusly, has an heir.” 

Ah, there it is, she thinks. She wants to say something about how her brother’s “condition” does not prevent him from continuing this shop, and perhaps that that’s what he’s even planning to do. But maybe she’s selfish, and maybe she wants to see how she can play her cards here. 

“You want to test my magic. Or, rather, that I have it.” She clarifies. 

“Yes.” 

“I see.” Castanea pauses. “Do I get my wand early then?” 

The man chuckles. “It has been decided that you do. After all, there is but two months between now and the start of school, and your father is quite the wandsman, so we believe you can be trusted with it.

“And if I don’t? Have magic, that is.”

“Come, now, don’t think like that. I have faith in you, Ms. Castanea, so surely you should have some in yourself.” He says what he thinks are comforting words, but Castanea is possessed by the distaste that he thinks she needs to be comforted. 

“Professor Dumbledore,” Her father speaks up. “If I am to understand this: you wish to grant my daughter early access to her wand, to ensure she is not a,” he paused. “To ensure she is not like her brother?” 

“Ah, it would seem so, yes,” Dumbledore nods. 

“And who will provide the wand?” Garrick asks, sitting by the shelves with thousands of them. Dumbledore laughs openly, and Castanea is shocked at how loud he is suddenly. 

“Ah, Mr. Ollivander. Ever the sharp tongue,” He says, not quite answering her father. “Yes, I do suppose it will be at the cost of the ministry. You will be fully reimbursed.” 

“I’ll hold to it.” Her father gets up and strides to his desk. He goes to the bottom left drawer, where two boxes lay stacked upon another. One opened and put back nearly four years ago, and one brand new. 

The box seems, if boxes could seem, excited. Her father has a good hold on it, but it seems to want to fly to him. 

“Ten and three fourths, chestnut wood, unicorn hair. Belonging to one Miss Castanea Ollivander.” Garrick recited, looking like he had been waiting for this day all her life. He most likely had. The importance of a wand to a wizard, especially if that wizard comes from a long line of wizards whose lives were spent making them, could not be understated. His eyes twinkled, but Castanea saw sorrow in them, for this was his second child, but the first time he had given his child a wand. Perhaps he had given it to Robur, but Robur certainly wasn’t allowed to keep it. 

“Chestnut?” Dumbledore mused. Indeed, Castanea was named after the chestnut tree for her deep brown hair, and so the wood was rather fitting.

The box was maroon in color, and wrapped in twine. Castanea recognized her father’s loopy handwriting, with her name scrawled on a note atop it. 

“Are you sure it’s mine?” Castanea drawled, watching the box shake in her father’s hands. Her father, in response, let go of the box and it flew to Castanea’s lap. 

“You tell me,” He responded, equally as dry. Castanea untied the twine and lifted the box top off, revealing a slender dark wand against velvet. Castanea lifted it up out of the box, and held it up to admire it. 

Its handle was notched, and though smooth, she could still see the wood grain. It was a very nice wand, not that she’d be using it as much. She was glad it wasn't something unmaintainable, like sycamore or a phoenix feather. 

“Give it a go,” Her father instructed. She looked at him. 

“What do you want me to do?” Castanea asked for clarity. 

“Oh goodness, Castanea,” Her father huffed. “You’ve practically lived in a wand shop all your life. You’ve seen this done I think more times than you’ve seen the sunrise!”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” She quipped. Dumbledore gave a dry chuckle. 

“Give it a swish, dear,” 

“Alright,” Castanea stood up and turned away from her father. She raised the wand, then hesitated, deciding to get one last go at him before she sealed her fate. 

“At what end does the magic come out?” Dumbledore guffawed quite loudly and her father turned a brilliant shade of red. 

“Wave the damn thing already!” 

And she did.

There was no flash, no bang, no streak of color or a dramatic display like the ones she’d seen in the past. Her father and the professor waited with bated breath, silently hoping that not both the Ollivanders would be duds. 

Then, a burst of thunder shook the room. It was a loud clap, and oddly, no lighting in sight. Several wands fell off the shelves, and she could see the outside shop sign swinging. The deep vibrations shook the shop, and her father, a good amount. 

“Well,” The professor began. “I daresay that was magic.” He was talking a bit loud, Castanea thought, and was over-enunciating. 

“My poor ears,” Her father mumbled in good humor. “You know, it’s rare there is a non-visual effect to the first ‘spell’. Often, it’s some sort of flashy thing- I’m quite surprised there is no lightning. Then again, I will have to reshelve some of these wands, so it’s not entirely unseen…” 

Dumbledore, seeming to have recovered, turned to Castanea, looking wonderfully excited. 

“My dear, that was simply marvelous!” He uploaded. “Truly something.” 

“Ah, thank you.” She responded politely. “Are you alright?”

The man simply laughed. “Ms. Castanea, I assure, more than alright. It’s good to see the Ollivander legacy carry on!”

All praise and flatter Castanea had gotten from the man turned like spun sugar in water- dissolving immediately. She was reminded once more of the values of this man, and didn’t quite like them. To so quickly discount her brother, in front of his family. She wonders if it was intentional, but he had not noticed the mood turned sour and carried on. 

“Oh!” Dumbledore said. “Here you are, young Ollivander. One letter to Hogwarts. You good and well deserved it.”

“Ah, thank you,” Once more was all she was capable of saying. 

“I’ll see you in September!” He cheered. Then, turning to her father: “You’ve got quite the talented young witch. I’m glad.” 

“Thank you Professor Dumbledore. Do stop by again. I’ll be expecting reimbursement in the mail soon.” 

“As you should.” Dumbledore shook hands with her father and parted. 

And, with a swish of his robes, he walked out the door of Ollivanders and into Diagon Alley. 

Castanea turned to her father, and found he was looking at her. Or rather, her wand. 

“It’s mine now,” She said. Her father sighed and began walking back to his desk to gather his things. 

“Yes, it is.” He said, packing up for the evening. He seemed rather somber, picking up the discarded boxes and reshelving them. Castanea watched as her father grew quiet, mulling over what just happened, most likely thinking of Robur and all the wizarding world had to offer him- being nothing that is. It was disheartening, watching her father close up shop. Normally he’d be talking about how the day went, the exciting matches, the wands and wizards and witches. This wouldn’t do, Castanea thought. She cleared her throat, and her father turned to her, ‘what now’ written on his face. She thought, perhaps, it would be best to leave the man to himself for a break. But she knew he would, much like herself, think himself into a tizzy. 

“Do I get a back up?” She asked, breaking the silence. 

“Do you- pardon?” Garrick turned to his daughter, who was blinking owlishly at him. “Do you… get a back up… wand ?”

“Do I?” Castanea asked. This did the trick. He stood up taller and took a good look at her, stolen jumper and all, absolutely astonished. 

“No!” He cried. No, you do not get a back-up-wand! Why on earth would you probably need one?”

“Just in case mine breaks.” 

“Just in case- Cassie .” He took a deep breath. “You aren’t even at Hogwarts. You shouldn’t even have your wand right now to begin with! Merlin, child!” 

“For precautions!” Now, Castanea did not want a second wand. She couldn’t particularly care for the one in her hand right now. But her father’s face was animated and his thoughts no longer on the future, but instead, the sheer audacity his flesh and blood had. “You truly do not think this is a good idea?” She pressed. 

“Are you planning on breaking your wand?” He asked incredulously. 

“No, but,”

“But!” Her father threw his hands up dramatically. “But! ‘But’ she says.” 

“Is that a no?” Castanea kept the smile out of her voice, but a grin was plastered on her face. Her father looked her square in the eyes, and said in a loud, clear voice: 

“Castanea! Under no circumstances will I gift you a second wand when you have a perfectly good one at hand! One that’s been waiting for you for years, no less!” 

“What if I purchase it? So it’s not a gift?”

Garrick howled in disbelief, grabbed his coat and a pinch of powder and marched upstairs. Castanea followed him, and when they got home, her brother eyes her new wand, and her mother spent the evening soothing her father, who swore his head had gone half gray from today alone. 

Summer rolled into autumn with orange and yellows, and the talk of Hogwarts became unavoidable when a barn owl dropped a well-expected letter down the chimney. But just because it was inevitable doesn't mean it was well received. Her father and mother were excited, as parents would be, for the new school year, but they played it down as to not upset Robur. She was encouraged to be quietly grateful, and meanwhile her parents made a big deal about Robur and his muggle school. She supposed this was to balance it out- they weren’t necessarily making one seem more exciting than the other, they were just trying to make Westerpuck’s Private Academy for Young Men level with Hogwarts, school of witchcraft and wizardry. This was a problem, as Castanea wanted to learn arithmetics, and Robur how to turn a needle into a matchstick or toad. They had both attended primary together, mostly so her parents could work unbothered. At that time, her mother still helped out around the shop. 

She and Robur were the only two in on the whole magic thing, so they often ate lunch together and such. They were very close and both eager learners, gathering as much muggle knowledge as they could before they went to wizarding school. 

Which, admittedly, did not turn out well for one of them when he was suddenly very bored and very alone. 

Her mother began to spend more time with her brother, though he had already been in muggle school for four years now. Castanea was told not to call it muggle school, but also wasn’t supposed to call her school a wizard school, so she didn’t really know what to do there. 

Her father, meanwhile, spent more time around his daughter, giving her a crash course of everything he’d learned in his first year so she’d know what to expect. This included scholarly information, like potions and spells she’d be taught about, and some more practical things, like how to get into the kitchens and handle ghosts. 

“I don’t think I’d like to go,” Castanea said one evening. The table got quiet. 

“Don’t be ungrateful, Cassie,” Her mother said gently. Her mother was Ravenclaw as well, and it was often said that Castanea got her looks from her. She had aged gracefully, if at all, and was a gentle hand and a gardener in her spare time. She took to floristry, and had a job at a muggle flower shop in London, once she deemed Castanea old enough to handle herself. Or, rather, because that day hadn’t quite come according to everyone else, to re-enter the muggle world with her son so that they could both be acquainted with the modern non-magic world. 

She and her father talked about plants and symbolism like nobody's business, naming both their children after trees, their daughter, the chestnut tree, and their son, the oak. Her father, on the taller side, had darker hair and gray eyes. He was thin and sharp, where her mother, Alora, was softer. Alora, which was also a plant name, would have been a herbology professor, but as muggle-born, and muggle-loving as Hogwarts claimed to be, they really weren’t looking for a witch with no family reputation.

Her brother had her mother’s hair, though it was shorter, so its curls were tighter. He had his father’s jaw and brow, though his eyes were her’s, if not darker. 

She had her father’s eyes, cold and gray. They were like a foggy sea, dangerous and masking the unknown. Her hair had taken her mother’s shade but her father’s texture, slightly wavy and thin. 

Robur looked at his sister. She looked back. Her father was visibly tense. 

“Why not?” Robur asked evenly. 

“I just don’t think it’s for me.” No one moved, waiting for what Robur would do next. Which was nothing apparently. “It think I’d rather-”

“If you’re doing this in solidarity, don’t. Frankly, it’s insulting,” He cut her off. 

“What was that, a power play? Wait for me to speak and just-”

“Castanea.” Her brother snapped. They were talking fast and aggressively now.

“Robur.” She sneered, mimicking his tone. He stood up abruptly and pushed his chair back. She matched his movement. 

“I know what you’re doing.” 

“What, standing? Brilliant observation, dearest sister.” 

“Is this some sort of reverse psychology?” 

“What would that accomplish? You don’t want to go to Hogwarts, I say go, you don’t anyway. Ah, yes, the cookie cutter example of-.” 

“It's a mind game of some sort.” Things had escalated quickly. Her mother looked like she wanted to intervene but her father was willing to let it run its course. Tensions had been high since the visit, though largely not talked of. 

“Ah, the wonder of Castanea, ever superior and turning down every silver platter-”

“What does it matter to you? It’s my life!” 

“Oh, is it?”

“If it’s not, that’s news to me.” 

“Okay, it’s your life. Wonderful point. Stunning, really,”

“Yes, it is! Maybe get one of your own!”

“I would if I could, but no one will let me!”

“There are other ways to live, Robur, other than the magical way-”

“What would you know? Do you spend your days learning maths and sciences? With automobiles and cheap food? Scratchy, worthless uniforms and stupid muggle history?”

Her mother stood up and slammed her hands on the table. 

“Robur! Castanea! That’s enough out of you!” Three of four members of the Olivander family stood around the dining table, posed and intensely staring at one another. Her father sat still, watching as his family with what he thought was a passive face. Her mother’s eyes hardened. 

“I think you’ve forgotten where I came from. Where you came from.” She spoke slowly, bringing the energy back down and pitching her voice low. She paused, taking a breath. Castanea’s eyes rested on her and she followed her mother’s movements, calming down with her. “I grew up in the very world you’re too eager to discount. There is nothing wrong with it.” 

“For you, maybe.” Her brother said snidely. Her father stood up, now. 

“Robur!” He snapped. The whole family, now upright and over a discarded dinner. The power dynamics had shifted. Castanea had relaxed, her shoulders dropped and stood casualty, almost guiltily. Her mother was in a similar position, calm but still engaged. Her eyes were not as sharp as they were, but still fierce, and watery. 

Her father and brother stood at full height, rigid and staring at one another. Robur was still shorter than his father, but he was growing and catching up. Castanea looked to her mother for guidance but found the woman was focused on her brother instead. 

“What? I’m right.” Robur’s voice rose. 

“I think it’s subjective,” Castanea piped up. 

“Cassie, not now-” Her mother pleaded. 

“Who cares what you think?”  Robur was outright yelling. Castanea wanted to say, ‘Dumbledore!’ but that was a low dig. But she must have thought it hard, or maybe Robur caught her glancing at her wand, because he seemed to know what she wanted to say. 

“Oh, wow, the fancy Hogwarts professor says little Cassie’s so smart.” He mocked. She knew he was running on fumes, his words lacked the bite he started with. Rubur was turning to insults rather than a proper argument, and Castanea took this as a win. He noticed how she stood a little straighter and barreled on with a direct hit. “It’s a low bar, Cass. It’s not a bar at all. If I’m nothing, you’re worse. There’s no expectations for me, but you have Garrick for a father,”

“You will not call me by my first name!” Her father corrected harshly. Her brother continued making no note of it. 

“Are you afraid everyone will laugh that the wandmaker’s daughter can’t possibly live up to him? What about the wandmaker's son who can’t hold a wand? Do you have any idea how insulting it is to see my very own sister get all I ever wanted and turn their nose up at it?” He finished his rant, panting angrily. 

“Robur, really,” Her mother tried. Castanea opened her mouth, and her father turned to her. 

“Do not!”

She paid no mind, and was done with her brother’s fit. “I’m more than my father’s daughter and you more than just his son. Step out of his shadow, Robur,” She said. He took a sharp breath and looked like he was beginning to say something. His face, much like her father’s would get, was flushed and angry. Just before he could speak, she added: “It’s not healthy to aim for something so out of reach.”

Robur inhaled sharply, pushed his chair away, and stormed out of the room. 

“Cassie!” Her father hissed. “That was uncalled for!” Her mother stood there silently, then sighed and began clearing the table. 

“Dear,” Alora said. “I think it best that we separate the two for now. I’ll start bringing Robur to work with me, and you can do the same with Cassie.” 

“Yes, I suppose that’s for the best,” Her father says, eyeing her. Castanea scowled at his scrutiny. She did not think that she was in the wrong here, everything she said was factual, not insulting. She moved to help her mother with the dishes, the muggle way, then paused and took a step back.  

Her father seemed to know what she was thinking, as as she pulled her wand out, he knocked it out of her hand. 

“Why?” 

“You know why.” Her father sighed, now looking much older than he actually was. 

“Clearly, I don't, that's why I asked.” Castanea countered, if not a bit rudely.

“Garrick, let her be,” Her mother sounded defeated from behind the sink. “It’s not worth it. Now, help me with the dishes,” Castanea’s eyes flashed to her fathers quickly. She did not smile, not quite in the mood for it, but there was an almost sadistic glee hiding behind her guilt.

“And Cassie,” This time, her father looked at her, with a matching expression. She had not quite won. “Why don’t you practice in the garden, or something. Just stay quiet and out of your brother’s way.” 

Castanea nodded dutifully. She looked to her father. He was still staring at her; there were both waiting for the other to move to them for the wand. She knew this tactic and didn’t budge. 

“Oh, for goodness-” Her father huffed, pressing the wand into her hand with more force than needed. “Scram. And be careful with that thing.” 

“I will,” She said, exiting the kitchen and walking out to the backyard. 

They lived in an ivy-covered brick cottage in Horley, Surrey, with a nice garden. They were a bit out of the way, nearly an hour commute to london the muggle way, but close enough to muggle neighborhoods that they weren’t so lonely. Not that it mattered, they were already thought of as a ‘peculiar type of people’, as Robur reported. ‘Not unkind, though’, they say, so all’s well. 

Castanea settled on their porch with her wand and stared at the stars. She let the wood roll over her palm and thread it through her fingers. It was beginning to cool down, being almost fall and all, and it was nice weather all things considered. If not a bit muggy. 

She looked back inside, where Robur’s light was on and thought about what he had said. She supposed she had been a bit cruel, but figured she’d be better off in her father’s shop rather than Hogwarts, as she’d spend just as much time either place learning about wands. 

Wandless magic was not unheard of. The wizard was supposed to have his magic and the wand was made to channel it. She thought it a shortcut, though a convenient one. 

Perhaps, she thought, I may start out this way and continue without my wand. She was content with this for a moment, then was worried once more that she’d cheat out of it and stick with the stick for ease or because she’d grown too reliant. 

If she went to Hogwarts, was she really learning Magic? Or was she learning how to use the wand?

Then, a wonderful thought came to her. All Castanea had to be was a student at Hogwarts, not necessarily a good student at Hogwarts. 

It was settled. She’d go to her magic school with her magic wand and do as she pleased. Dumbledore had already (though not outright) said that she was the only heir to the Olivander legacy, and it being a legacy, they couldn’t kick her out. 

Her mother had quite an array of stories of pureblood foolery potent enough to frighten a bogart, and if they never got expelled (and went on to work in the ministry), then why would she? 

Castanea did consider that she was not a pureblood. But then remembered she didn’t wish to go to Hogwarts in the first place, and getting expelled would actually work in her favor. 

She spent the night playing with her wand, spending some bonding time with it. Wands are sort of intelligent, something she’d gleaned from her father’s many wand-related ramblings, so she figured she’d just sit with it and get acquainted before she asked anything of it. 

Her wand seemed to understand this, but it was a piece of wood, so to what extent, she did not know. She wanted her wand to get the sense that she appreciated it, but it was most likely to take a backseat. The wand did not do much in return. It was a wand.

Chapter Text

The next morning. Her father dragged her with him through the fireplace and into the shop. She was dressed properly today, as they were going shopping. Castanea had her wand in her right hand and her list in her left. 

Her father was determined to get this done as fast as possible. The shop opened at 9, muggle time, and it was almost dawn. He said he’d treat her to a sweet of her choice if they got done earlier than that. 

Her grandfather had gifted her a thick, dark brown cloak with bronze fastenings for the winters at Hogwarts. It was the exact shade of her wand, and she had a sneaking suspicion it was not by coincidence. It was embroidered with chestnuts at the bottom, and bloomed into catkins and blossoms in the spring. It being September, they were ending their cycle and back to nuts. It matched her hair nicely as well, she thought. It had pockets on the inside and a hood, and inside “Ollivander” was embroidered. It attuned to her height so it would grow with her. She was touched, and even with it being still warm out, proudly wore it around Diagon Alley. 

When she asked, it was confirmed that yes, her brother had cloak too. He was aware of it and it was stashed in his closet. It was magical as well, though he was not permitted to wear it around muggles. So really, not allowed to wear it at all. 

Her father had taken her for uniform measurements the week before, and so all she needed to do was stop by and pick up her robes. They were navy blue, as standard, and fit her nicely. She assumed. She did not get to try them on but they could be magically resized if not. They rushed in and out with a thank you and a shopping bag and into the next store. 

They grabbed plain black pair of two sets of gloves, both dragon hide. Her father remarked that because they were for protective reasons, it was best to have a back-up pair in case they did not do their job properly. 

She, in turn, brought up the back-up-wand conversation once more and was promptly shut down, just as she had been before. She let her father drag her around, collecting books and equipment, content so long as she wasn’t the one who had to carry them. He said something off-handedly about giving her his old Ravenclaw scarf. She asked why he was so certain she was Ravenclaw, and he barked a harsh laugh instead of answering.

She was manipulative and pushed buttons, didn’t that make her a Slytherin? Her father pointed out that she’s individualistic to the point of offensive, and all but spits in the face of tradition. 

Insightful, that man. They made their rounds and circled back to the shop, pockets lighter and bags heavier. 

She was atop her regular perch when a muggleborn boy entered the shop. This wasn’t irregular, in fact, many people had been coming in recently. What was odd was he was alone, if not slightly lost. She was trying very hard to keep her attention on her book, but the more she tried to read the more fascinated she became with the boy. 

He was clearly muggleborn, wearing a gray jumper and muggle shoes. What caught her eye was how hard he was trying to fit in; he was dressed darkly and his hair combed neatly in a popular style for young wizards. His eyes darted about but he didn’t move his head, so out of the corner of one’s eye he did not look particularly awed or eager- but the way his eyes flickered was telling. 

He then caught her off chance by looking up. Castanea waved at him. He did not wave back. 

That wouldn’t do, she thought. She put down her book (a new one she had pushed her father to buy while getting textbooks about potion-ingredient substitutes and alternate methods) and walked over to him.

“Hello,” Castanea gave him her best, and most disarming smile. 

“Hello,” The boy greeted her politely, though notably unenthused. Or at least, he tried to be. “I’m here to get my magic wand.”

“Ah,” she said simply. Muggleborn indeed ('magic' wand). And not one interested in making small talk, either. “I’m Castanea Ollivander.”

“Ollivander? As in, the owner of the shop?” He made a strange face at her. 

“My father,” Castanea offered. “He’s matching that boy over there,” She gestured off hand to where her father, indeed, had a stack of wands and was fitting him to a pale-haired child who was far too uppity for his age. Far to uppity for any age, though, judging by the family crest proudly sewn onto his robes, it was to be expected. Castanea did know which pureblood family he belonged to, but it was prominently displayed so they must be important, or think themselves such.

“Do you have a magic wand?” The boy asked, eyeing the licorice wand bundle (or, what was left of it) in her pocket.

“Yes, I have a wand.” Castanea said, correcting him in a subtle way that he took note of. She pulled the wand out of her other pocket and held it out evenly. “Do you have a name?” The boy turned quite a pretty shade, and unfortunately for him, Castanea found that she quite liked the way he looked when he was flustered. 

“Tom,” He offered. She looked at him, before he coughed up: “Riddle.” A loud crash came from the backroom. Her father had moved onto the next in line, a girl in yellow who was having some trouble finding her match. 

“Well, Tom. You’re after the next person. Would you like to sit with me?” Castanea offered. Tom very much looked like he wanted to say no, but followed her anyway. They settled on the couches on the far side of the room, the ones always under boxes that were rarely used because they were hidden by shelves. She liked this seat the second-best, being partial to places she could observe from without being observed. Her new friend seemed to share this, as he nodded, almost to himself, at the spot she picked. 

“Licorice wand?” She offered, bringing the bungle out of her pocket and setting it atop an empty wand box. 

“No, thank you,” 

Castanea took one but left the bag there in case he changed his mind. 

“I’ll be a first-year at Hogwarts this year. What about you?” She started soft, though was certain he would be in her class as well. 

“I, as well,” Tom apparently did not want to say much. Rather, he was looking for answers and she was the sap who was willing to give them to him freely. 

“My father went there. He’s told me quite a bit,” Castanea dropped, indicating that she does know things and is a source he can use, so maybe he’ll find her in the future. “You know how there’s the four houses? Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Gryffindor?” 

She gauged his reaction. His face remained neutral, but this was not new information judging by his impatient nod. 

“He’s in Ravenclaw, and believes me to be as well. My mother, as well, was in Ravenclaw. She’s a muggleborn,” 

There, now he knows he’s not the only muggleborn. Ah, wait, he already knew it, he’s looking around again. Always trying to learn something, she muses. Maybe because he’s got a lot to make up for. Though, she hopes it’s part of his nature and he’ll end up in Ravenclaw with her.

“I’m excited for potions, but I think what I’ll like most will be herbology class. Both my parents quite liked it, though I hear it can be a bit dangerous. They don’t put it on the list, but you might need an extra set of gloves. Those aren’t for the creatures, but for the plants.”

Tom’s attention snapped back to her. “Oh?” He prompted.

She was quite pleased when his dark eyes snapped back to hers. Castanea had his attention now, and found she liked it more than she was expecting. It was beyond the high she'd get from telling someone something they didn't know, proving them wrong or correcting them. She usually relished the feeling of being the one behind enlightenment or new information, but now found that  having someone hang on her every word and movement was much, much better. 

“Yes. They can be quite tricky, you know– often sentient. I hear they are bringing Mandrakes into the curriculum now, quite a challenge. They scream, and you have to plug your ears or you’ll faint. Though I prefer them over plants that bite, like the Fanged Geranium. I can’t believe they use such awful plants in healing. You’d think the mandrakes were enough, but they have to go and make the tooth flower into a bone-growing-fixing potion.” 

“I see,” Tom took this information in. “Do you think the first year students will be working with them?”

“Seems a bit risky to me, but knowing Hogwarts, probably. You never know what Hogwarts will be up to, really. A general rule of thumb, or so I’ve heard, is that if it favors purebloods or endangers students, Hogwarts is all for it,” Castanea mused. “Now, that's not to say Hogwarts is a bad school. I’m grateful for the opportunity, of course,” She didn't want to come off as entitled or spoiled. She knew first (second) hand, that the chance she was given was not one to be looked over. Also, she wasn’t necessarily lying about the school not being bad, just omitting that Hogwarts wasn’t a good school, either. 

“Next!” Her father shouted. Tom jumped up eagerly. It was almost insulting how quickly he abandoned her, but she was not hurt as a wizard’s first wand was quite a big deal. 

She watched from afar as they went through the motions, not paying much attention, instead finishing off her licorice wands. She supposed she’d see him again on the train, or in class. She had made her connection, done her part. Hopefully she kept him interested enough so that he'd come find her later. Because she made the first approach, she'd leave the second to him or chance. Castanea didn't want to seem desperate.

She was reading when Tom unexpectedly came back to her. He hovered over Castanea, waiting for her to look up. 

She was aware of this, but wanted to see how long he’d hover. She rationalized it as measuring her importance, or even testing how patient he was, but truthfully she thought it’d be quite funny to see how he reacted.

She didn’t have to wait for long. Tom politely cleared his throat. 

“Ah, hello again,” Castanea said. “How’d it go?”

He brandished his wand. It was elm, around 14 inches, and he looked quite proud of it. Castanea could see why- she respected wands, but wasn’t as obsessed with them as her father (or how her father would like her to be) but it was polished. It’s funny- Elm was usually conceited reserved for the purebloods, and she rather liked that her muggleborn friend had gotten one. 

“Dragon Heartstring?” She asked. She figured it’d suit it well enough, a quick learner and a tad flamboyant. 

“Phoenix,” He exclaimed proudly. Castanea nodded, appropriately impressed. 

“Well, good luck with that,” She offered. 

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, they normally are… temperamental. Never had one myself, but they tend to have to be won over, you could say.”

“How so?” Tom demanded with a certain force to it that wasn’t needed. Castanea frowned.  

“It’s not an insult. I’m sure you can do it,” She reassured. “But coming from such an independent and free-willed animal, they tend to, ah, be finicky.” 

“Finicky?”

“Well, you’re off to a good start. They’re rare for a reason- tending to be picky with their masters.” 

Tom seemed rather pleased with himself. “Your father said something about that. They also have a great range of magic, yes?”
Castanea paused, mulling over how to answer it. 

“Well, the wand itself doesn’t have a range, I think. Instead, you do, and the wand is capable of, ah, channeling it. The wand and wizard have to work together to produce spells.”
Now, you could do magic without spells, but not ‘spells’ without a wand, so everything she said was correct. Spells are magic, magic isn’t necessarily spells, it just happened to be less known and consequently less acted on. Castanea planned to change this. 

“So,” She continued. “It’s like a funnel. That's what I think.”

“Excuse me?” Tom looked disturbed, if not a tad confused. She didn’t like the way he was standing over her. She motioned to the chair, but he made no movement to sit. She made no effort to continue, until he sat himself down. 

“The wand’s the small end. It takes your magic, and concentrates it into a steady stream where you can conduct it as you wish.” Well, if anyone really had magic. She thinks it more like wizards being able to channel the world’s, or universe’s, magic, and the wands being the middleman. Or even, the wizard gets a pool of magic, like an allowance, they can pull from. Maybe the pool is unlimited, but it takes effort to draw, so they’re not measured by the pool but how much they can take out of it?

“Some wand cores are better at this, but each has their strengths. For example, unicorn hair, which I have, tends to produce the most consistent magic, but its range is considered narrow. This is because the opening is big and catches all the magic, but the tube is small, so it doesn’t matter how much magic you put into it, the stream will remain the same. But this means that large amounts of magic, while only on occasion, can be difficult to direct because they still come out in that small stream. 

“Range of magic does not refer to casting the elements, or types of magic, but instead how much magic you put out. It’s measured in, say, surface area, rather than a concentration. So the same amount of magic coming out of a Unicorn hair is packed heavily, and has to be directed to cover the same amount. It’s more of a conscious effort.

“But with, say, Phoenix feathers, your funnel has a wider tube, so the magic is less consistent depending on how much you put in the funnel for the spell. But, with bigger spells that require more magic, you can cover more areas easier. It’s harder to direct where your magic is going when you’re looking for smaller spells, because you’re only trickling a little in, and the tube is so wide you don’t have a concentrated stream to direct. This makes a lot of wizards have to ‘over-do’ the amount of magic they put in, to get a more consistent flow, but often turns out poorly, and runs out of magic quicker.” 

Again, maybe not run out of magic, but get exhausted by the conduct of it.“I see. So bigger magic is more suited for bigger funnels.” Tom recapped. Castanea paused, thinking it over.

“Well, not necessarily. Sometimes spells require almost a target, where you have to aim for the center and if your stream is too big, you have trouble there, and overflow. Go beyond the surface you need to hit. Bigger magic sometimes requires more precise methods, rather than mass coverage, but it still requires a large amount of magic. So small funnels can still cast bigger magic and be good at it, it just depends on what kind. For instance, hexes require a lot of magic, but a smaller stream makes it easier to do more complicated ones. If you overflow a hex, it can be quite disastrous. However, the casting time may take longer if you need to get all the magic over in such a small tunnel. But large, drastic curses, meant to do damage no matter what, need that large amount of magic and a large amount of surface area. It’s nearly impossible to overcome a curse. Of course, some magic is time sensitive, which brings much more complications. 

“Magic is about control, monitoring how much you funnel in. Unicorn hair is good for this, as it forces a small stream, but if you were to put an amount of magic smaller than the funnel, it would face the same problem as Phoenix feathers, and you’d have a hard time directing it. The funnel, wand, matches what the wizard will naturally be casting, and generally It’s all about what you put into it.” 

She finished her little rant. Tom nodded, taking it all in. He looked grateful for this information, as well as frustrated that he did not get it sooner. 

“This is the theory of magic and wands, of course, and is not well known or taught. Not out of secrecy, but most people wish to learn how to cast the spells rather than why the spells work.”

“That seems like a waste,” Tom remarked. Castanea looked at him, glee evident in her face. 

“Thank you! That’s-” She sighed happily. “It’s honestly refreshing. No one wants to talk about magic unless it’s how to conduct it, and I’m tired of– well, it’s just great to speak with someone about what goes on behind the scenes.”

“Speak at someone,” He remarked dryly. Castanea flushed slightly, mostly still happy rather than embarrassed. Tom did not seem annoyed, or ungrateful; he was rather interested in the whole manner. “Don’t tell me Hogwarts doesn’t teach the why, only the ‘how to’.” 

“Well, I’ve never been.” She laughed. 

“You seem to know quite a bit, though,” 

“One generally does absorb information if they’re exposed to it constantly.” Castanea gestured to the wand shop. Tom gave a chuckle at this, noticeably less forced, but still guarded. 

“Was this learned first hand, or do you have any books?” He inquired. She was delighted that he was interested enough to ask for further reading materials. 

“Ah, no. There’s not much on the theories behind magic, only the history behind it and how to use it.” She admitted. 

“That’s a shame.” 

“Isn’t it? Perhaps I’ll write it all down someday. It’ll hardly be a bestseller, but at least it’ll be out there.”

“I’d buy it,” Tom offered. Castanea barked a loud laugh, and several customers turned to her. 

“I suppose you would, given you put up with my unedited ramblings so far,”  

“Ramblings?” 

“I’m giving myself too much credit, aren’t I?” She decided she liked Tom, and was no longer driven by a desire to impress him or keep him around. The conversation flowed easier, and she felt that she had been read as much as he was reading her. They seemed to come to a mutual halt in their analysis of one another. For now, they were simply observing and perhaps would look into it on a later date. She wasn;t fooled into thinking all walls were let down, but they were let down enough for something more than polite conversation. If integrations and lectoring could be considered polite conversation, that is. 

“Are you getting an owl or a cat?” He asked. 

“You don’t think I’d go for a toad?” 

“You don’t seem like the toad type.” Tom said definitively. He was right, of course, but she thought his characterization of her amusing. 

“Maybe I’m just good at hiding my warts.” Castanea teased. He nodded, looking quite serious for a moment. 

“I suppose you couldn’t be a true witch without one,” Tom gave her something smile-adjacent. Castanea hesitated to call it a smirk, but it was a unique expression, one of self-amusement.

She snorted, quite unladylike. “No, I suppose not,” Muggle stereotypes were rather amusing when they were false, and unharmful, which was rarely the case. She often delighted in the innocent ones, though. 

“Well, cats are good for company, and Owls for mail. I like toads well enough, but am not overly fond of them. They are rather useless, all things considered. Company if you dislike cats, maybe?”

“So?” Tom prompted. 

“We have two owls at home, and a cat. I always thought I might take one, but maybe, there’s no harm in seeing what they have here. It might be cruel to take them away from their home,”

Tom stood up. “Well, I’m headed there, if you’d like to join me.” He extended a hand to help her up. Quite the gentleman, or trying to be. 

Castanea smiled at him, and took his hand. “Let me grab my shoes and robe.”

“You’re not wearing shoes?” He looked down at her feet. She was indeed only wearing stockings. 

“Well, I wasn’t planning on leaving the shop.” Castanea shrugged. 

“So you took off your shoes?”

“I’m indoors!” 

He sighed good naturedly, eyes flickering around the shop. She wandered to the stairs and began her assent. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” 

“I’ll be here for multiple jiffies.” 

She laughed. “Ah, I suppose if I’m using it as a quantifier for time, it’s only fair you do too.”

“Hurry up.”

 She giggled her way upstairs, grabbed her standard gray robe with wide arms and her black slippers. Castanea dropped some coins in her pocket and met Tom at the door. 

“Let’s go,”

They walked north to the shop, making idle small talk. He didn’t reveal much, obviously content to allow Castanea to let him in on the background information he missed as a muggleborn. She didn’t mind it- he wasn’t as subtle as he may have thought himself, but what she was telling him was common knowledge. She occasionally sprinkled in some insight and expectations, which while less common, were still relatively harmless. 

He must have known she was humoring him, but her words remained true and what she was telling him was useful, so Tom was fine with that. She knew he knew, he knew she knew he knew– she knew he knew she knew he knew– while it might have been easier to talk outright, they were fine with the arrangement. Castanea rambled and Tom listened intently, and it worked in eachother’s favor. 

When they arrived at the shop, Tom looked affronted at the snake lounging in the window. The snake’s tongue flicked at him. Tom paused in step, shook his head, and entered the shop. 

It was dimly lit. and the walls were lined with cages. Castanea thought their living conditions were quite poor, as they were cramped and it was loud. Tom scrunched his nose at the stink, and Castanea unconsciously did the same. There were crates of birds and rodents, and cross bird-rodents, and she had a hard time looking at most of them.

“What is that?” Tom whispered at Castanea. It was quite loud, so she didn’t hear him at first. He repeated himself louder, and she turned to where he was ponting. 

“Ah, that’s a puffskein. They eat moths and spiders- a popular low maintenance pet amongst children.” 

Tom looked at the puffy ball with distaste. It had an upsettingly large tongue. 

“Is that a two headed lizard?” He asked in the same hushed tone, looking at the cage to the left of them

“Double headed newt.” Castanea supplied, not bothering to look over. 

“Where does it, how,” Tom paused, thinking how to delicately phrase this. Castanea looked over her shoulder, and hummed. 

“Vomit, I suppose.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

“I’m sure it thinks we are, too,” She had wandered over to the Owls, leaving Tom  to question the nature of firecrabs and kneazles. 

“There are owls in Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, of course. For general usage.” She said as she heard him walk up beside her.

“They’re used for letters,” Tom recounted. 

“General postage. Packages, too. Of course, nothing too heavy.” Castanea added. “Most wizards and witches tend to have one. It’s the main method of communication, after all.”

They watched the owls preen themselves and flap about. She continued: “I’ll think I’ll get one, to write to my father. Of course, I’m not planning on conspiracizing or sending terrible secrets, but it’ll be nice to have some privacy.”

“Do I need an animal?” Tom asked. “Am I to feed it as well?” 

She turned to him. “No, to both. Hogwarts takes care of it, mostly.” 

He nodded. “Will they get bored?” 

Castanea paused. An odd question, one she was slightly worried she hadn't considered herself, yet. “Well, I suppose they have each other for company as well. Cats also tend to wander around the school, but generally keep to the dorms.”

“Will I need a litter box in my dorm if I get a cat?”

“No, there are magic means, I think.” 

“You don’t know?” He sounded condescending. Castanea, though as great of a resource as she may be, was not an encyclopedia. 

“For all my knowledge of Hogwarts, Tom, you must remember it’s never first hand,” She said firmly. He had the decency to look ashamed, though it was slightly forced. “Basic responsibility, feeding and grooming, keeping track of it and such, yes. I do not know where the cats ‘go’, thank you.”

“I might not get anything here,” He redirected and turned to the cats, who were largely lazing in the sun, paying no mind to either of them. 

Castanea supposed this made sense, but clarified: “You can still send letters to muggles, like your parents or friends. There’s also conversion stations for muggleborns to send owls to, Hogwarts then covers the postage and delivers them ‘normally’ to whomever you’d like.” 

“I don’t have anyone to send letters to,” He snapped. “Nor anyone I’d want to.” 

Castanea stilled at this revelation. This was possibly the most he’d told her about himself other than his wand and name. 

“I see,” She said slowly. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” He sounded short, rather than reassuring. 

“I won’t, then.” 

“Good.” 

It grew quiet between the two, the only noise being various animal sounds. She thought that maybe she’d crossed a line, but didn’t know if he’d accept an outright apology. 

“I can get you a owl-”

“I can get my own owl, thank you.” Tom snapped. 

“Would you?” Castanea eyeballed him. He stiffened, thinking it was a dig at him, his money, or his upbringing. She meant it as none of these, but a comment on his obvious front. Castanea, thinking of what to say next, echoed his words from earlier

“I don’t think you’re the bird type,” She let out ‘Owl’, as she didn’t want to exclude him from the wizarding community he’d been previously excluded from. ‘Bird’ left it generalized, and more about his personal incapability rather than a misfortunate upbringing. If misfortune was the word, he mother had made it very clear that muggles were different,  not worse . Though, she wasn’t quite sure he’d take it as she intended.

“What do you mean, not the bird type?” He looked irritated and walked over to the many cats in the shop’s corner. 

“Well,” She said, pleased he had taken the bait and now his attention was diverted from the awkwardness they created.  “I can see you curled up with a cat in your lap and a book in your hand. Yes, cats, I can see. But owls, birds– I, ah, I’m not sure if they’re for you.”

“What, and they’re for you?” Tom challenged. Castanea laughed, starling quite a few animals with its volume. She turned to the birds and settled on a tawny owl. She walked up to it and turned her head sideways, as far as it could go. Tom looked at her oddly, but the owl followed her head motions to a degree much further than she could. Righting herself, she chirped at it, and the owl twitter back. 

“Aw, aren’t you a sweetheart?” She cooed. The owl’s feathers became relaxed, and it allowed her to reach her hand through the bars to pet it. Tom scoffed, and approached the cages. 

“Hello,” He looked to a screech owl who looked rather angry to be approached. It clucked at Tom, and Castanea reached out and grabbed Tom’s arm before he could stick it in the cage. He flushed, embarrassed and perhaps, angry. 

“Clicking is aggressive behavior.” She informed him, before he could say anything. “Its feathers and body are stiff. You want to look for fluffier feathers, loose ears, in general a more lax posture.”

“What’s his problem?” Tom completely ignored everything she just said, except for taking a respectful step back. 

“Ah, he probably doesn’t like it much in here. It’s very loud, and owls have sensitive ears,”

“I know that. You should get him.” 

Castanea looked at Tom puzzled, wondering where something went wrong for him to suggest such a thing. Perhaps he had grown an attachment and wanted to keep the owl through her? Perhaps he wished her harm? Perhaps, he felt bad for it and trusted the owl with her? In any case, she untangled herself from the owl she was petting and turned towards the angry screech owl. 

“Ah, you don’t want him?” She asked. 

“I don’t want your money. Besides, I have no use for an owl,” Castanea noted that his desire to fit in was overshadowed by his desire to be independent. She knew that muggleborns were often accompanied by a professor, having observed them in the wand shop, so she wondered why he was alone. 

“I see,” She paused, looking between the two owls. “Well, I suppose if this one is more, ah, adjusted to this environment, he will be fine for a while longer. I don’t think he’ll be here for much longer, anyways. He’s very friendly,” 

She reached out, slowly, to grab the screech owl’s cage. He was very upset by this, and made her well aware by posturing and clucking at her.

“He’s a good challenge,” Tom offered. 

“He looks like he will eat my letters and defecate the scraps on my bed.” 

“A good challenge,” Tom repeated, though sounding more disgusted with the visual Castanea provided him with. 

She walked to the register with him, and the witch at the counter looked at her with pity. 

“This grump? Are you sure?” She cocked a slim eyebrow. Castanea nodded hesitantly. 

“I’ll also get some, ah, talon clippers, pellets,  treats, and do you have any,” She paused. “I suppose the word I’m looking for is toys. Owl toys? Do you have those?”

The witch looks perplexed. “No. We have some mice chews meant for the kneazles, though, if you’d like to purchase those.” 

“Ah, I’ll pass, thank you though,”

Castanea exchanged money with the woman, who gave her a heavy cloth to put over the cage. 

“I hope you're happy, Tom,” She said dryly, carrying quite a large cage back to her father’s shop. She couldn’t see much over the cage, but she could hear the smile in his voice. 

“You know, you didn’t need to get the owl. It was a suggestion,”

She huffed. “I’m going back to the shop to drop the owl off. You’re welcome to keep shopping.”

“I will,” Tom provided unhelpfully. They made their way back to the wand shop, with Castanea lugging the cage with expressed difficulty and Tom leisurely strolling beside her with a lightweight bag of pellets and treats in hand. She deposited the cage, which had been squawking the entire time, beside the door of the shop just out of the way of customers, and he handed her the bag. 

Once she had set the cage down, she looked at him, quite sweaty from the hauling. Tom looked back, appropriately amused and slightly smug. 

“I suppose this is goodbye, for now,” She sighed, slightly out of breath. 

“For now? Are you so confident you will find me?” 

“My owl has your scent. It’ll track you down,” 

He laughed, slightly confused. Castanea belatedly realized that Tom didn’t know if that was a joke– he assumed it was such, but she liked that the Screech Owl kept him on edge. 

“Any name suggestions?” 

“For the owl?”

“No, for my wand. Yes, the owl,”

“Perhaps something Greek, and dignified?” He looked to the cage where the screech owl seemed to be attacking the curtain. 

“What about an old man’s name? A grumpy old man.” 

“Earl?”

“Like the tea? Don’t ruin tea for me.” She laughed. “Yes, Earl fits him well. Old coot,” 

He laughed with her. “Well, I need to finish my shopping. See you on the train?”

“If not, at Hogwarts,” Castanea confirmed. 

“Until then.” He nodded, taking off down the alley. Castanea scooped Earl’s cage up, which he let her know and everyone in the shop he did not appreciate.

Chapter Text

No one in her family had taken a liking to Earl. Her mother had offered, several times more than necessarily, to rehome her owl and get her a new, nicer, bird. 

Robur hated him. But, she knew it was because he’d never really get to have one of his own. Castanea had come to the conclusion that her brother would hate her owl even if she had gotten the sweetest bird to exist. 

Her father was just glad that she was taking Earl with her, and told her to write as little as possible so he didn’t need to interact with the owl more than needed. 

Earl hated their other owls, Achilles and Echo. Achilles had done nothing wrong, he was a wonderful owl. He was submissive and cowardly, and played along to Earl’s whims, but they had still gotten in four fights within the first week. 

Echo, the darling, had quite literally flown the coop when Earl was brought home and was having an extended stay at her Grandparent’s house.

Achilles now sleeps in Robur’s room, and Earl has taken control of the living room. No one goes into the living room anymore without an offering to appease him. They started with regular owl treats, then frozen mice (they had gotten some in Diagon alley for snakes), and now are on human-grade raw meat. 

Earl once tried escaping. He flew out, presumably to chase after Echo, but quickly came across their neighbors' many hounds, which made him angry and scared. He proceeded to take his anger out on everyone at home, and her father suggested that they feed the old sot to the dogs, or perhaps get a dog of their own. Neither of which happened once Castanea found out, as she had an odd attachment to the little bastard, despite his behavior. She thinks he’ll get better if they give him his space. This was not a mutual decision, as he had now cut them off of an entire room of their house.
Earl, having monopolized a whole room of the Ollivander household, is possibly the happiest he’s ever been in his life. Castanea hopes that someday he will realize how unreasonable he is being and settle down into the life of a house owl. 

That day is not today. 

No, today, Earl had decided that he would traumatize the cat who had been wisely staying out of his reign on terror. In doing such, he had to leave his kingdom of sofas and books he’d been tearing to shreds. Now, this didn’t really matter as they were able to magically mend whatever he had destroyed, seconds later, but it was the intent of it all that stuck more than anything else. 

Castanea had come out of her room already dressed, though her mother would heartily disagree, as she donned Robur’s old pants and an old quidditch tee that had certainly seen better days. 

She had oven mitts and was wearing boots and a thick woolen cap (Earl-Protection) and was scavenging for breakfast when she heard a loud crash and yowl. 

Castanea froze in place, eyes snapping to the living room where Earl’s makeshift perch was upsettingly absent. 

She reached for her wand, which was tucked in the belt loop of her pants. Slowly drawing it, she stood tensely waiting for the attack to come. 

It was silent in the house, though the silence was not as comforting as it should have been. The sun was barely up, and the pale dawn light did little to illuminate the kitchen. The lights were not on (they had a mix between candles and muggle electricity) and she was too far away from either to remedy that. 

She crept backwards, flattening her back against the cupboard so she couldn't be snuck up on. Castanea was quiet, her wand drawn but close to her chest. 

She didn’t know many spells, as she had little to no motivation to actually learn any spells, only magic. There’s a distinction there, not one her father recognizes, so he’s taught her the basics. Lumos and Accio, which she can do wandless, and Tergeo- the cleaning spell. She quite likes that one. Her father has yet to teach her offensive magic, or Alohomora, having worried what she will do if she learns them early. But, she has her parent’s old books that she’s been sorting through, and thinks she has a decent grasp on stupify. In theory. 

She’s pressed against the doors when she hears scratching above her. She cranes her head up, and sees the missing screech owl peering down at her with visible contempt, beyond his resting hateful face he normally has on. 

They keep eye contact for a beat. 

Earl descends. 

He’s diving for her hair. Castanea screams and her wand shakes. Her eyes are shut so he will not peck them out, and she’s howling for her father. She’s screaming and feels wind through her veins which she thinks must be the adrenaline. 

There’s the beating of wings and then a horrible screech which screech owls are known for, and then Garrick Rushes in. 

“Cassie!” He calls, worried evident in her voice. She opens her eyes and sees her owl, twitching and on the floor. He twinges with electric blue light every few seconds. 

“What did you do?” Castanea cries, terribly upset. She truly loved this owl, despite his awful nature. 

“What did I do? Cassie, dear, I just got here. What did you do?”

She looks at the owl, whose feathers are in disarray and eyes blown wide in fear. 

“I, ah,” She takes a deep breath, wand-hand still shaking. She slides to a seat on the kitchen floor. “Oh, Merlin, I hexed my owl!” 

“Looks more like a curse to me,” Her father comments, upsettingly calm about the fact that his daughter fried her owl.  “What did you cast?” 

“I didn’t!”

 “Well, clearly, you did something,” He hums. “Perhaps it’s wild magic? Best get that under control,” 

This is the first time Castanea has heard that phrase. “Wild magic?” She asks for clarification. 

“Wild magic is untuned magic that falls outside general casting. It’s innate archaic that the wizard naturally possesses or channels.”

“So what goes into the wand?”

“No, wild magic is a product. What goes into the wand is natural magic. It can be refined and made to work. It’s raw magic, pure potential energy. Wild magic and refined magic what comes after, different branches of where your magic can do. It can be channeled without wands. Wild magic is by nature impossible to fully control, where refined magic can be conducted as the user wishes.”

“What does wild magic do ?” 

“Well, anything, really. We can get into the schools of magic, which both can handle, but refined magic more deftly. Wild magic is brute force and blunt, whereas refined can do more subtle things. Wild magic is often frowned upon because it is channeled through emotion, rather than logic, so it’s sometimes considered ‘true magic’, because it needs no materials or incantations to harness. It’s just another form of magic, and a fatal one at that.” 

“Ah, fatal?” Castanea looked at her owl. 

“I suppose fatal has certain connotations. Irreversible, maybe.”

“Irreversible?” Her voice pitched higher. 

Her father signed and took a seat beside her. “Well, magic is like words. Once it’s out there, you can’t take it back. You can erase memories, dispel it, but it does not erase the act. Even with time travel, it still happened and will stick around.”

“So every spell that’s been cast is still around?” 

“In a way, yes. It’s been released as a spell in the world and goes back to worldly magic we can draw from. Some say it feeds the future generations of magic, and if no one were to cast to use magic ever, it would cease to exist.” 

Castaneda's mind was racing with what this meant. Maybe this is why muggleborns exist. When magic is cast around muggleborns, when they are susceptible, they gain the ability to harness it? 

Purebloods are around magic. Maybe everyone has the potential to have magic, everyone is a magic sponge. The magic you have is the magic around you? 

Magic is something that is recycled. If everyone used dark magic would there only be dark magic? Or does it go back to raw. What about magic animals or plants? Were they always magic? Do they have the potential to produce non magic offspring if removed from a magical environment? By how many generations does the magic fade? 

Is there a fixed amount of magic at all times? If we have too many wizards will we run out of magic? 

Do wands eat magic?

You put magic in wands. They put magic back out. They require magic to use, they take a cut of it. They need magic to conduct. That magic doesn’t come back. The funnel idea still works, but that means that’s not just a tube but a filter, and that it takes a little on the side. Or to begin with. Are they constantly eating magic, or only when you ask them too? Was that magic just sitting there?

Merlin. 

Wands eat magic. If the wizard community keeps using wands, they will run out of magic. What happens when a wand is wizardless? Does it just sit here, will all of it’s magic? If a wand requires magic to initially cast, where does that magic go? 

Hogwarts has a large flow of magic, and untrained wizards with magic leaking out of every spell they cast in addition to the spell they cast. You don’t refine magic when you get older, they’re just less to control because and that makes it easier. 

Her family is dooming the existence of the wizarding community. If magic is a fixed amount and cannot be created or destroyed. 

But then there’s Robur. He lives in a wand shop. Why can’t he cast? He had a wand chosen for him, he must have some magic. If it’s because her mother is a muggleborn, that means it’s hereditary. 

What if, the less he spent in wizard society, the less magic he was around, and then lost the ability to cast? But if you were constantly surrounded by magic- there are pureblood wizard borns. 

Can magic reject you? If he had a wand, then wands were magic. Do wands need to be activated? They do, they have to, if muggles can make the same things and they don’t channel magic. 

There was an experiment in the 1700’s, which her father talks about frequently. A wand maker is a skill that not anyone can possess. To handle one wand is a feat, to handle many is a remarkable skill. They gave three purebloods, three half bloods, three muggle-borns, three wizard-borns and three muggles the same materials to create wands.

The muggles, while with perfect craftsmanship, were unable to create magic wands with magic materials. The wizard-borns, even with the same background, as well. 

The purebloods were able to create wands, though two with poor quality and one passable. The half bloods created a decent wand, a sub-par wand, and a poor wand. 

The muggle borns created two decent wands and a sub par wand. This got Castanea thinking. 

Maybe, she ate all the magic. If there is a fixed amount, if one child absorbs more than the other, then–

If muggleborns had no competition when it came to absorbing magic, those who did absorb magic would be highly magical. 

Large pureblood families, even if they are around a lot of magic, have more sponges to feed and then end up with more wizard borns. 

Half Bloods with medium to small families are in the best position, there’s no one to absorb their magic. But you have to have them around magic. And they’re magic everywhere, but in wizard communities there is high concentration. 

So, this means that it comes down to the sponge size of the children, or if magic chose them to be a sponge. She thinks Robur desperately wanted magic, and her father wanted magic for his son, so the wand he activated with his magic was attracted to Robur. 

Which means either she caused Robur to be a wizard born by sucking up all the magic, or she was completely wrong and all of this theory is utter lunacy. She looked to her father who was sitting beside her. She wondered what he’d think, if she actively advocated for wand-independency. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure of what was going on either way.

It’s common practice for the wand to be burnt or buried with its master. Does the magic eventually leak out of the wand? And back up into the world, or does it sit there like an untapped magic well. Graveyards are often said to be magical places. What if ghosts are the product of wand-leakage when they are buried with their master? Or when you burn or destroy a wand, does the magic go back out into the world?

When a wand takes a ‘cut’ of the magic to cast, does that magic stay there or is it used up? 

Her mind was spinning with all the possibilities. She wanted to test this, but how? How does one measure magic? She doesn’t know how to begin to quantify it nor does she know how to detect the quantities of magic to categorize them. 

She turned to her father, who was observing the electric blue owl with detached curiosity. 

“How do you measure one's magic?” 

“You generally don’t. Magic can be categories but not measured, but categorized. It’s harnessed in different forms, and you can measure it by spell, I suppose.” 

“What?” 

“Well, say that this is an ‘Accio’ amount of magic, not a ‘Stupify’ amount of magic.” 

“But that’s measuring the difficulty, not necessarily the magic. The difficulty could come in complexity rather than quantity of magic needed.” 

“Fair. But there’s not much of a science behind magic, as you know. The science behind spells, and wands, sure, but not pure magic. It’s impossible to study something so lawless and imperfect, it’s best to harness it rather than understand the randomness of it.” 

When she got to Hogwarts, this would be her first priority. With ‘perfect’ spells, the quantity would be the same magic. Well, some spells may turn out more powerful than others, but so long as she has a control of the ‘default’ spell (being the instructors, as they were quite literally recreating replications of themselves casting that spell though their students) she could see the failures and classify them as she wished. However, wand type may play into factor here. Luckily she’d been raised to have an eye for this sort of thing, so telling wand time may not be an issue. 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to harness it if you knew what you were harnessing?” 

Her father sighed. “Wizards have spent lifetimes trying to figure out what makes them tick. So have muggles. Everyone is looking for a higher meaning or purpose which manifests in different ways. The Olivanders have found it best to be productive over questioning; to work with what we’re given rather than wonder about the very nature of it. Of course, it’s good to be knowledgeable, but the universe will give you answers as it pleases.” 

Castanea wasn’t content to wait around for the universe to give her answers. She doubted any answers were freely given, only sought and when found declared given. She was going to say as such when Robur stumbled into the room and across Earl.

She looked at Robur. Robur looked at her father. Her father looked at Castanea. 

“Is it still alive?” He asked, oddly calm. 

“Is what still alive?” Her mother called from the other room. Castanea looked at Earl, who was still pitifully twitching, and laid her hand on his chest to feel his pulse. She wasn’t sure if it was bodily functions or electric currents causing his movement. 

Wind rushed back into her hand and it felt as if she’d inhaled salty air off a stormy ocean. It felt tense, like the beginnings of lighting with a bouncing, sharp energy about it. It was sucked through her arm and into her chest like she’d just been hit with a particularly strong gust. 

And then the gust went through her. It was less like an inhale now and more of a passive filter, where the energy hit her between her fingers and then passed through her tips of her hair. 

There was a crackle behind her. 

Then Earl, the bastard, jumped up, alive and well, and bit her arm.
“Hey!” She cried, shaking him off her arm. Her mother quickly casts some binding hex she wasn’t familiar with and Earl stilled once more. 

“Well that was something,” Her father said, strained. Castanea turned around and saw his hair was more puffy than usual, and smoking slightly. 

Robur left two days later. 

He was very mad about this, and reminded everyone passive aggressively through a series of off-kilter comments. Robur had been increasingly agitated as their school’s start dates grew closer, and despite everyone doing all they could to appease him, his temper never quieted, only lulled. 

There were times where she’d sit on the porch with her brother, each reading their own books. They’d have some tea after dinner and read under the stars in quiet solidarity. Then, there were times where the two would face off, each with their own set of cutting analysis of the other’s behavior. 

Wrong analysis, but cutting nonetheless.

 Castanea had provided that Robur was trying to live through her, projecting on her, and that he didn’t hate her but hated himself. 

Robur, in turn, outlined her problematic nature of stringing people along and likened her to narcissistic psychopaths. He never called her one, per say, but detailed the similarities- such as her need to control the narrative of what others think about her, and disregard of, and perhaps delight in others discomfort.  

He also thinks her owl is her newest installment in her power-complex. 

She had packed, while he hadn’t been looking, an annotated version of the American-muggle novel “How to make friends and influence people” where she highlighted and gave (recent) examples of things he had done that directly opposed the book’s instructions. Castanea also added a note that she’d hope the book would come in handy, and that she wishes him the best.

The whole family escorted him, and even though they couldn’t send him off with an owl, when he departed, he gave them all a bird.

She thinks he found the book earlier than she’d intended. 

The following week, it became apparent that Earl was not as traumatized as Garrick loudly remarked that he’d rather the owl be. Earl was still a pest, though he was beginning to respect Castanea in a sense. Out of fear or begrudging acceptance that this was his life now was up for debate.  

 He began to confine to ‘normal’ screech owl behavior now, such as playing dead when handled. This was very much an improvement, except for when he’d decide half way through that no, this was not okay with him. Then he’d spring up and ‘hit and run’ in a bizarre game of tag. He’d become rather flippant, which Castanea read was a form of respect (ignoring, preening), but was still remarkably ill-behaved and well hated. 

Gradually, he became slightly more tolerable. He kept to himself, mostly. One day Castanea went to work with her father and picked up some of those Kneazle chews the witch had offered, and he was nearly a new owl. Granted, he attacked anyone he thought was a threat to his chew toys, but other than that, he was content to gnaw and be left in peace. 

When she approached him, he was at work picking the mouse into pieces. It was some frozen, wooden, meaty thing that was slimy and didn’t stink. She realized how cute he was from afar, and felt bad when she carried over the cage. 

They had traded his smaller cage (he himself, being a smaller owl) for a much larger one with a perch. It was Echo’s old cage, and because she was a Great Horned Owl herself, there was plenty of room for Earl to flap around and be a nuisance if (or when) he so decided to make a scene. She loaded it with chews and scraps and left it out for him to climb in on his own time. 

Her mother had jinxed it to close when Earl went in the cage himself, so there was that. 

Castanea wandered back to her room and finished up packing. She was leaving tomorrow, and made sure to get everything straightened out before she left.

She had two trunks: one for her books, and a larger, engraved, trunk for everything else. Apparently it was proper conduct to shrink your cauldrons and telescopes, which resulted in a two-hour long discussion with her father, which he very tidely succumbed to shrinking the rest of her luggage as well. She had learned the “engorgio” charm, after pestering him as well, so there was no worries there. Except for, of course, she did not know how to shrink things, so she had to be very careful with what she enlarged. 

She had packed her favorite novels, two journals, extra quills, and her recently embroidered robes that had her name on them. Garrick sat in the corner of the room, occasionally casting ‘reducio’ as she pleased. Once the trunks were filled with everything she’d possibly need, her mother came in and double checked what she had packed to make sure Castanea was not forgetting anything.

She then packed her satchel, a muggle’s ‘carry-on’ if you will, with some pens and paper, her wallet. The train was a newer addition, added in her parent’s later schooling years, so they didn’t have much advice on that. 

Castanea slept soundly that night, up until Earl entered his cage and woke everyone with his loud cries for freedom. 

That morning, she woke up quickly and without a trace of sleep in her eyes. The smell of breakfast wafted through the crack of her door, and Castanea was alit with excitement. She dressed in her uniform (minus the robe), donning  button down and plain tie, tights and her gymslip that fit her strangely. 

She slipped on a more comfortable pair of shoes, and packed her school ones in her messenger bag. Castanea ran a comb through her hair, shoved her wand in her pocket, and scurried out her bedroom and into the kitchen. 

Her father was sitting at the table with a mug of tea and the morning paper, and her mother thumbing through a novel with a muffin she was working at beside her.

“Where’d you get the muffins?” Castanea asked, looking around the room. She did not see baked goods, but she did see a comatose Earl. “And what happened to my Owl?” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Garrick drawled. 

“Your father hexed Earl last night.” Her mother looked up from her book. 

“What?” Castanea cried, running over to her owl. 

“But he felt so bad about it, this morning he woke up early and bought your favorite pumpkin-pistachio muffins from the bakery in Gilford.” Alora added. This soothed Castanea more than it should have, and she wondered what it meant for her if she rectified animal abuse with baked goods.

“The one near Aunt Jess’s house?” She clarified. 

“Yes, the one an hour away.” Her father grumbled. 

“Ah, well, thank you for breakfast, I suppose, and please do not hex my owl again.” Castanea said curtly, nosing through the pantry looking for her breakfast. 

“Noted.” He said, continuing to rifle through the news. 

“By the kettle, dear,” Her mother offered. Indeed, half a dozen large muffins sat waiting to be devoured by her. 

“Could you wake Earl?” She asked, picking what she thinks is the largest of the batch and placing the kettle on the stove. 

“Now why in Merlin’s name would I do that?” Garrick looked up from the article he’d busied himself in. 

“I want to feed him before we leave.” 

Her father sighed heavily. “Place the pellets in first. I’ve cast a silencing charm on the cage, which I won’t undo, but I’ll wake him, if that’s what you really want,” 

Castanea thought this was reasonable. She fed the cat and Achilles, then brough Earl a fresh bowl of water and pellets (mixed with lunch meat, for he was a picky eater). 

Her father lazily waved his wand at the cage. She grabbed the kettle and took a seat between her parents. Earl almost immediately began to fuss, but luckily, in silence. 

“Are you excited?” Her mother asked, as Castanea poured herself some tea and refilled her parents’ cups. 

“For what? The muffins?” She asked cheekily. Alora laughed fondly. 

“Yes, the muffins. After all, we’re letting you take them with you.” Her father made a disgruntled sound at this, apparently having planned on keeping them. “Perhaps you can share them on the train, and make friends that way. It is a long trip, after all,” 

“Mother.” Castanea said seriously. “I will not bribe my friends. Nor will I share my muffins.” 

“It’s a thought, that’s all.” She smiled gently, then paused. “You know, I was quite nervous going to Hogwarts. Of course, my first year, we didn’t have the train, so it was more confusing than scary. Still, it’s okay to feel anxious, it is a new school, and all,”

“She’ll be fine,” Her father said gruffly, nose still in the paper. “She already made a friend. What was it, the muggleborn boy? He had the elm wood and phoenix feather wand. Tim, you said?” 

“Tom,” Castanea corrected. Her mother’s grin widened, and she quickly realized her mistake. It was a trap, they got her to show interest and start talking about him. “Not that I care,” She backtracked. 

“Oh?” Her mother said slyly. “The boy that convinced you to get Earl, out of all creatures?” 

Castanea took a large bite of her muffin in lieu of answering. 

They arrived at the station. Castanea had her cart with her trunks and Earl’s cage. The trunks were abnormally heavy, containing more than they should, and primarily books at that. Her father had taken the morning off to walk her to the train station. He was in a navy suit, and her mother in a nice dress that buttoned down. 

They arrived at the station with no issue. As they were waiting in line to board, her father was giving her what he thought was a pep talk. To his credit, it did start out well. 

“Now, Cassie, remember- you are an incredibly talented and intelligent witch. You are competent, smart, and Hogwarts won’t know what hit them. I've worked with brats who think they’re all that, and when I tell you you are more than twenty times their worth, it comes not out of a place of love but out of honesty. This year, aside from maybe two or three (that pale in comparison to you) every wizard and witch that have come to my shop were bland and won’t get very far. Worthless idiots that you’ll no doubt surpass.” 

“Garrick, they’re children.” Her mother sighed. 

“Children or not, they’re still incompetent.” He said firmly. Then, turning to Castanea, he continued his speech. “However, you mind your manners and watch your step. Always assume everyone is out to get you and cover your own ass. Double check every potion ingredient, stay away from Peeves, be kind to the house elves and watch out for stray spells in the hallways. Make friends but watch your back, and if anyone messes with you, sic Earl on them and send me a letter. And above all else, Castanea, make me proud.” 

Her mother sighed and smoothed down Castanea's hair lovingly. 

“Cassie, don’t worry about what others think, including us. You don’t have to make us proud, we already are, more than you could ever imagine.” Her mother bent down and kissed her brow. “All I ask is that you be safe.” 

Castanea was uncharacteristically overwhelmed with emotions. She wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t speak without incurring she wouldn’t break down. Instead, she rushed at her mother and pulled her into a deep hug, and then did the same with her father. 

“I will,” She promised, adjusting her bag and getting a better handle on her luggage as they approached the front of the line. Her muffins were safely stored in her bag, although only two of them survived the trip to the station. 

“Write to us,” Her mother requested as she boarded the train. 

“We’ll write to you, actually.”  Her father corrected. “Keep that bird away from us,”

Castanea laughed and bored the train. 

She grabbed Earl and her bags and strolled down the aisle, looking for Tom. It was harder than she thought, as everyone was in uniform and he did his hair similar to most boys his age. She got to nearly the last row before she spotted what she hoped was him. She opened the door with silent hope, for it would be an awkward ride if it wasn't actually him. 

He turned to her, and she smiled widely like a fool. 

“Tom?” She asked, just in case. 

“I see your owl hasn’t mauled you yet,” He said instead of greeting her. She shuffled inside and put said owl on the seat across from him, and busied herself with stashing her luggage above them. “Who said you could sit here?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is this seat taken?” She replied, setting her bag and muffins and on the side table next to the window. 

“Doesn’t matter if it was, I see you’re making yourself comfortable anyhow.” Tom griped, but she recognized the fondness in his voice. 

She put Earl's cage as far away from her as possible and covered it with a cloth. “How have you been?”

“Awful, can’t you tell?” He drew. 

“You look fine to me,” She offered. His uniform fit him well, unlike the awkwardly pleated dress she donned. He looked pleased with this, and she realized he was seeking validation. 

“Well except,” Castanea added to keep him on his toes. Tom’s face dropped and she almost felt bad. “You have a little something…” She leaned forward, gesturing to a spot below the ‘v’ of his sweater. As predicted, he looked down, and she flicked her finger up and poked him in his face. He turned beet red. 

“You’re awful.” Tom said, astonished. She couldn’t tell much from his voice- it was flat. She wondered if that’s what he sounds like when he’s angry, and if she’d made him mad.

“Oh, come now,” She sat up, worried she’d offended him. 

“Horrible behavior from a girl with her shoes untied.” He really did sound disgusted. 

Castanea glanced down, but realized she’d been had when she saw her shoes were properly laced. She looked up and met his wild grin with one of her own. 

“Absolutely unforgivable.” She countered, still smiling.

Tom sighed dramatically and relaxed in his seat. “Yes, I suppose I’m quite the monster. Taking revenge on such a well-mannered, charming,  innocent–” 

“I think I’m rather charming.” Castanea interrupted. 

“At first glance, maybe.” He shrugged. “Well, if you were blind.” 

“Why would I be more charming if I was blind?” 

Tom looked away from the window. “No, it’s–” He saw her grin. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

“But I’m not wearing a suit, I’m wearing a dress.” 

Tom sighed dramatically and slumped into his seat even more so. The train lurched suddenly, and the scenery got blurrier by the second. 

“Insufferable.” He groaned. “Is it too late to change compartments?”

 Castanea laughed loudly. “Go ahead. I won’t be offended,” 

“Isn’t that what women say when they really will be offended?” He asked wearily. 

“That’s what anyone says when they really will be offended.” She confirmed. 

There was a knock on their compartment door, interrupting whatever Tom was going to say next. A large figure stood in the doorway. 

Chapter Text

“Hello?” A voice called. “Can I come in?” 

Tom looked at Castanea. Castanea looked at Tom. She’d rather they, whoever they were, didn’t. She’d like to be left with her friend, but then again, perhaps this person could also be her friend.

“Ah, okay,” She said, quite unsure of herself. Tom’s eyes widened and he gave her a strange look. (What are you doing?) She slightly shook her head and shrugged. (What? I can’t say no!) He glared at her. Tom clearly thought that she could, in fact, say no. 

The person seemed to be having trouble with the door. Tom sighed, got up, and opened it for whoever was having trouble. The door slid open, and, at first, Castanea couldn’t see anyone at all, much less the large figure that had been projected. 

Then, between Tom’s legs, she made eye contact with a short young man whose shadow was large, as the windows behind him alit a figure much grander than he. 

“Thank you,” He nodded at her shell-shocked friend. “I couldn’t find an empty compartment.” 

“Well, this one is also occupied,” Tom said. His tone was rather clipped. Luckily, their new companion seemed to find this amusing, and laughed loud enough to startle both her and Earl. 

Said person settled next to Tom. There was plenty of room on the seat, but Tom scooted to the very end, clearly uncomfortable with this situation.

The person was small. About three-foot and still growing, but she could tell he was not a child in the way he carried himself. He was kind, but not stupid. Tom seemed to underestimate him because he presented himself as good-natured and honest. And, perhaps, because he wanted to talk to her alone. 

“I’m Castanea Ollivander,” She smiled kindly, attempting to ease the situation. 

“Descendant of Garrick Ollivander, the wandman?” He seemed quite excited about this. Castanea didn’t know how he knew that– she was sure she’d remember him. Then again, she wasn’t as attentive as she liked to think, and ever since getting her own wand she’d been frequenting the shop about half as often. 

“My father,” She clarified. “And, you…?”

Tom was making intense eye contact with her, which she was trying to ignore. 

“Filius Flitwick, at your service.” He said, smiling pleasantly. 

He was very jovial, she noted. That wasn’t out of the usual, but it clashed with the atmosphere they’d created earlier. She and Tom were more sly, cunning. Biting words and tones- they were mean to one another. Quick wit that each other delighted in, and they seemed to share a sense of humor. Stupid jokes and sarcasm. 

Filius had a familiar edge in his eyes- not one unkind, but one taking everything in. An observant, passive gaze that reminds her much of her mother's– cool, forgiving yet calculating. 

“Nice to meet you, Filius.” She said cordially. She looked at Tom, finally, who was still looking at her with hard eyes. “This is Tom.” 

Tom sighed and straightened up. He donned a pleasant expression now (though fake, but Filius didn’t need to know that) and nodded at Castanea’s words. 

“Hello. Tom Riddle, It's a pleasure.” He introduced himself, sticking out his hand. Though he was smiling, Castanea could see that he didn’t mean it.

Filius grabbed Tom’s hand and shook it. Tom’s fist dwarfed Filius’s, as expected, and he shook it with vigor, that, perhaps, was too much. Tom had a tighter grip than needed, and Castanea could see Filius’s eyes flash behind his round glasses, taking it in and cataloging both her and Tom. Now, she liked Tom, but she also liked Filius- or she should like him, he seemed like someone she’d like to be friends with- so she quickly interjected to make amends. 

“Are you a first year?” She asked politely, eyeing the colorless tie and lack of house badge.

“Yes, I am. I assume you both are new as well?”

“Indeed,” Tom answered for the both of them. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you so small?” 

Castanea was taken aback at how upfront he was being. This was unlike the under-the-radar interrogations she was used to seeing from him. This was abrupt, unsugared, and borderline hostile. 

“Tom!” She scolded. Tom looked torn between standing his ground and taking back what he said. He opted to pretend like this was a perfectly normal and polite way to behave. Ah, he was hoping she’d cover for him. 

“And here I was hoping you hadn’t noticed,” Filius joked, slightly shifting in his seat. 

“Tom, well, he’s a muggleborn. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” She hastily tacked on before she continued. “But he hasn’t seen much beyond the realm of muggles, so you’ll have to forgive his lack of tact.” 

Tom looked at her sharply. He didn't like that she outed him as an ‘outsider’, apparently, and was expecting her to defend his behavior instead of explaining it. 

“Yes, I’m sorry if I offended you,” Tom said absentmindedly. He was too neutral for it to be sincere, but there was an off-putting amount of earnestness he had in his voice to completely discount it. 

It grew tense. Filius’ grin, though smaller than before, was still there. She felt bad for him, as he clearly wanted to befriend them and it probably wasn’t going as well as he had hoped. 

He was sitting opposite her, and near the door. Tom was making himself larger on the opposite end, raising his chin slightly and taking a wider seat, drawing attention to their size difference. 

Filius handled this quite well, all things considered. He folded his hands in his lap and kept his posture yell, though not obnoxiously upright like Tom’s was. 

Castanea had put her feet up on the other side of the seat and relaxed against the wall near the window. She was slack and languid, hoping to come across as easy-going and friendly. Earl seemed to be taking a nap, as the rustling (though still silent) had stopped. 

“Would you like to play cards?” She offered, remembering she had some in her bag. 

“I’d be up for it,” Filius agreed good-naturedly. 

“No,” Tom said flatly. 

“We need at least three people,” Castanea said, wanting to include him despite that he had refused. “Please?”

“I suppose,” Tom said. She was pleased he’d come around that quickly; perhaps he wasn’t so opposed to new friends after all. He then completely disbanded that thought and all thoughts possibly connected by asking: “What are we wagering?” 

Castanea blinked. She hadn’t planned to bet with anything. Neither had Filius, because he made an odd face. 

“Wagering? I don’t think that’s appropriate for a friendly game.” This was very telling of his character, Castanea realized, and made note of it. 

“Well, I don’t see why we can’t make it more fun,” Tom said coolly. 

“You don’t even know what we’re playing yet,” Castanea pointed out, disrupting his plans. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Tom tried to play it off, attempting to regain his aloofness. 

“I think it might,” Filius grinned, completely aware of the posturing going on but smiling as if ignorant. 

Tom turned sharply, possibly to glare at him, but instead caught Castanea’s eyes which were hard and daring. She looked at him as if to say “go on, try it.” Then at Filius, who was watching him with an amused, and through Tom’s perspective, annoying understanding gaze.

Tom inhaled deeply through his nose. “Perhaps you’re right,” He said airily, again grasping on to whatever flippant nature he thought he was projecting. 

“Well, Castanea, what are we playing?” 

“Ah, well, I didn’t have a particular game in mind.” She brought out the deck and placed them on the side table. The cards began to shuffle themselves- it may have once been something she would not have batted an eye at, but not she was curious. 

“You said you needed at least three people.” 

“One generally does!” 

“Perhaps we play Rummy?” Filius offered. Castanea grinned to herself, watching as the gears ticked in Tom’s head as he figured out the best way to set himself as the dominant person here. Now that Filius had suggested the game, the only way for tom to regain ‘power’ here was if–

Tom said, “I’ll deal,” 

“You know the rules?” She asked, stopping the deck and preparing to pass it to him.

“Of course, I know the rules!” he snapped. Castanea did not like his increasingly aggressive nature and shut that down. She held the deck, waiting for him to reach over and take it from her. Perhaps the worst part of this was Filius’ awareness of what was going on– if he were ignorant, this would be easier for Tom, as Tom would likely get what he wanted through subtle cues. Filius knew it was happening and therefore anything Tom got was deliberately surrendered or handed, and for some reason, this was less desirable. 

Tom waited for her to pass the deck. She did not. The waiting game was one she was familiar with, and despite being patient to begin with, when she was outlasting someone she became even more so. She’d always be the last one standing, and Tom was too hot-tempered to wait for long. 

He reached forward to snatch it, and though she was tempted to keep it out of reach, she allowed him to take it and gave a simple “your welcome” which did the trick. 

In angering him, of course. 

They played a round, to which she claimed victory in. This was probably the best scenario for everyone: Tom was glad Filius didn’t win, after all. While Filius most likely did not care about the outcome of this game, it was also probably good Tom didn’t win either- not because it would upset the smaller boy, but because Tom was the type to gloat, or, take anything to extremes, really. 

Next round, she dealt. She won again, and Filius jokingly accuses her of setting the deck. Tom laughed along, but he looked at her hands closely the next time she shuffled. 

Third game: point Filius. He looked quite pleased with himself, but in a wholesome way. His face lit up and he grinned. Tom soured even more- he didn’t lose, (Castanea had lost this round by a lot) but he took Filius’s victory as a personal attack. 

Castanea looked between the two and wondered how she’d best diffuse this situation. One she’d brought on that was rather pointless, and she was embarrassed as she hadn't planned on it being so short-lived. She sighed dramatically, bringing the attention back to her, and collapsed on her seat. 

“Mercy! Surely you take pity on this poor soul,” Castanea sighed. Filius laughed good-naturedly and Tom snapped out of whatever funk he was brewing. 

“What does pity look like, in this instance?” Filius questioned, still smiling. 

“A new game?” She opened one eye from her fainting spell. 

“Poor sport.” Tom quipped. Castanea shot upright and gasped. 

“He’s right, you can’t change the game simply because you lost your winning streak.” Filius outlined, both correct and politely. She was glad that they were unifying themselves, even if she was at the brunt of it. 

They arrived at Hogwarts. Tom was giddy but schooled himself into unimpressed. Filius seemed charmed by the experience, less excited and more amused if that were the word for it. Castanea had a churning in her stomach, a gut feeling that something was wrong or was going to be wrong. This was beyond the usual nerves, this was pure intuition telling her to be wary and get ready to flee. 

They filed in line and waited for their names to be called. There were just over a hundred of them, already clumped into clicks and friend groups. Tom noticed this and paled considerably. He hadn’t banked on the train ride being the primary way students built relationships, and clearly didn’t want to be associated with Filius, even if they had soothed into more of a kinsmanship eventually. She disliked that he was ready to discount Filius, and possibly even her. 

This was the dread. The hat. She didn’t like that it could see, hear, and think. She didn’t like that she didn’t understand it or how deep it would go. Castanea was thinking herself into a hole, she wondered if she just walked over to Ravenclaw herself and if anyone would stop her. 

Dumbledore prattled off names, students came forth, and were sorted. 

Abbot, Hufflepuff. Black, Slytherin. Hornby, Gryffindor.

Filius went into Ravenclaw, which she was pleased to see. She zoned out until it started getting close to her last name. Lestrange, Slytherin. Longbottom, Gryffindor. Lupin, Gryfindor. Malfoy, Slytherin. Mulciber, Slytherin. Nott, Slytherin. 

“Ollivander!” Dumbledore called. 

She didn’t hesitate physically, mentally she was panicking. She walked to the stool (calmly, everyone was watching her, there wasn’t much else to look at) and allowed the hat to be placed atop her head. 

“Well-” A voice echoed in her head. 

“Merlin’s saggy balls, it’s in my head.” 

A deep chuckle rang out in her mind. She didn’t like that. 

“Quite cunning. A cutting wit. Ambitious, yet-”

“Do you account for futures, or just sort based on prepubescent ideals? Because those echo the beliefs of parental figures and those we are surrounded by, which are typically people our parents choose for us. I’m worried that placing like-minded students with like-minded students will not result in healthy intellectual growth and continue to parrot the same beliefs off each other.” 

“I sense this is directed at Gryffindor and Slytherin,” 

“I feel like it fits for all of the houses, in some way. It’s telling that you think these houses fit that description,” 

“Then I suppose you’re pushing for Ravenclaw? What’s wrong with Slytherin? You’re quite cunning, and I’m sure you could change a few minds if that’s what you wanted. You could be that outlet.”

“Yes, I believe Ravenclaw will suit me. Also, Inserting an outsider who may challenge the ideas they’ve been raised to uphold will harm the foundations of the Slytherin house. I’m all for discontinuing the legacy of circular thinking Hogwarts provides, but I’d ruin any aspect of unity.” 

“To ruin unity, perhaps, is the start of creating a stronger bond built upon your ideals, not those of your forefathers. You would not ruin unity, but their idea of it.” 

“Reality is but one’s perception. It would not be a healthy relationship to foster, especially when that puts me at odds with my roommates and those I’m to view as a second family. If you truly wish for me to provide them with a challenging experience, you will put me as an outsider- I have no desire to fit in with that crowd, nor any crowd, as I feel like Slytherin and Gryffindor function best when all share a desire to belong and fit in. That’s why those houses are prided in families, because they, at least publicly, are united under a cause and set of values.”

“Wouldn’t they take it more seriously if it came from the inside? Where those encouraged them to think were those they know and trust? What are the values that you think would exclude you?” 

“I honestly do not have many, or, not as concrete as you’re looking for. I’d at the very least like to explore various philosophies, rather than being in an echo chamber of overly simplistic fundamentals. I’m an opportunist and would not adhere to the standard. Yes, Slytherin does have those tendencies, but above all, a desire to fit in.”

“A free thinker, one flexible and curious indeed. You make good points, and though you have ambition, it is not to dominate and succeed, but to explore and learn. I see that your learning may not come from education, nor from any person. It comes from the uncharted. Quite Gryffindor, being brave. Hufflepuff are great finders, perhaps you’d do well.” 

“You misunderstand me, hat. I am a nuisance in that I am a thinker. I am not brave, nor noble-hearted. I look for things, but putting me with finders will not do well as I will search for answers that cannot be found, and if I find them I will pick them apart and create more things to look for. I sit on the stairs and harass passersby on their beliefs, live in a pipe, and tell kings to step aside. I aspire to be Diogenes, for I will behold a wand and call it a wizard, as it casts spells and we do not.” 

“Well then, young Diogenes, behold a-” Then, aloud: “RAVENCLAW!” The hat bellowed. 

She didn’t expect a hat to be so cheeky. Well, no surprise there, only relief, as strange as it was. The Ravenclaw house clapped politely, expecting this. She wondered if all the hat’s knowledge was second-hand, or if it sat in on classes. Does that mean the hat only knows that of first years? What a dreadful existence. 

“Prewet!” Gryffindor. 

“Prince!” Ravenclaw.

“Riddle!” Slytherin.

She paused. She didn’t know what to think of this- she supposed it made sense and belatedly realized that she might have been projecting onto Tom. After all, one of his driving desires was to fit in but she discounted Gryffindor and Hufflepuff almost immediately, and he wasn’t pureblood, so that left Ravenclaw. He didn’t have parents, or family in his life (so she’d gathered) so perhaps wizard blood couldn’t have been entirely ruled out. But he’d have to be a half-blood, at least, which meant two wizard grandparents. There was the little-known quarter blood, (one grandparent), but one or three quarters usually defaulted to half-blood as anything other than four wizard grandparents were not considered pureblood.

Then again, the Ollivanders were still part of the sacred twenty-eight and her mother was a muggleborn and her brother a wizardborn, so pureblood was more about reputation than magic. Tom could very well have four wizard grandparents, but perhaps each of them was muggleborn. But would he still be in Slytherin? 

The Slytherin table chucked and her heart sank, fast. Tom looked pleased and alarmed- he had seen that most of the ‘popular’ boys had been sorted into Slytherin, yet their reception of him was not what he expected. Castanea watched as the house head’s grin faltered for a mere moment, and though she couldn’t hear what was said, the congratulations left much to offer. Tom grew guarded. He stiffened, not in an uncomfortable way, but a proper posture and he remained stoic for the rest of the sorting. 

She was herded up into the Ravenclaw tower by some owl-eyed prefects, who pretended to be stumped at the knocker’s riddle and encouraged the first years to solve it. There were around 30 of them, (she didn’t count, but Hufflepuff had a similar lot, Gryffindor slightly more and Slytherin pulling around 40 students) and they all chattered excitedly. Filius turned to her and smiled warmly. 

“What do you think?” 

“About?” She had been taking an ambient stance, content to observe and analyze. Filius laughed. 

“I know, it’s a lot, isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Castanea said simply. Filius went to respond but a brunette with bright eyes shouted out “Half a pound!” and the door swung open. 

From there, she was led up to the girl's dormitory, and then to her room. She shared with Margot Droope, Eileen Prince, Harriet Page, and Elane Johnson. 

Margot was kind, wore thick glasses, and was a bit round around the edges, and Eileen was lanky- all bones and sharp edges. Eileen didn’t seem very happy to be here, but Margot did and that almost made up for it. Harriet was quiet, though Castanea did not mistake that for shyness for she recognized the gleam in her roommate's eye as one she’d seen on her own. Elane had been the one to answer the riddle earlier. 

They settled in nicely- Elane was very bubbly and loud, which Castanea did not like very much, but luckily Margot seemed to keep her occupied. Eileen had a sour look on her face but otherwise kept to herself, and Harriot began unpacking. They each had a bookshelf and a nightstand, and chairs were separating the poster beds with windows above them. 

She liked that the beds had curtains they could draw, and chose the one by Harriot, who had chosen the bed next to the door. Castanea almost chose that spot herself- she wanted a quick and easy exit, but not the vulnerability of being the closest to the door. Eileen also chose to sit by the door, and the poor girl had Elane beside her. Margot ended up in the middle of the room. 

There was some chatting, but mostly the girls unpack and spent the night reading and journaling. 

The next morning, Castanea ate breakfast at her house, and filled into charms, which she was delighted to learn she shared with Tom. Filius was also in this class, but he also ate breakfast with her.

She had learned he liked sweet things for breakfast, and also that Hogwarts pumpkin-pistachio muffins were subpar at best. She’d have to write to her mother and ask Alora to mail her some. (not using Earl, merlin forbid.) 

The teacher seemed alright. The wizard had a finely oiled mustache and a pinched look about him. 

“Hello, class,” He sounded snobby and had elongated his face in a way that did not make him look smart so much as it made him look stupid.

“I’ll go sit over there,” Fillus offered kindly, watching as Castanea was aptly eyeing the Slytherin students that were entering the classroom. “Do tell me how Tom’s doing, would you?” 

“Yes,” She said distractedly. She watched at the green house tricked in, in clusters of three or more, and how Tom awkwardly brought up the rear. 

“Ollivander, correct?” One of the Slytherins asked. 

“Hm, yes.” Castanea was still trying to make eye contact with Tom. He hadn’t seen her yet, but if he did, he made no note of it. It would seem he was attempting to keep a low profile. 

“Malfoy.” He introduced himself. “Is this seat taken?” Castanea finally looked at the boy loitering by her table. He was blonde, had fair eyes, and had combed his hair back in a way so that it made his ears look unfortunately large. 

“Ah, unfortunately,” She looked to Tom, and finally, his gaze snapped up to hers. “I believe it is.” 

“What, by the mudblood?” Malfoy scoffed. Castanea blinked. She hadn’t quite heard the word tossed around so freely before. She knew that there were some derogatory terms that wizards should not use, and, well, that happened to be one of them. 

“Considering he’s in your house, which is one based on blood purity, you'd have to think that he had some wizard blood in him.” 

“Looks like a mudblood, acts like a mudblood,” The Slytherin waved his hand in the air, gesturing wildly. 

“Well, in any case, he is sitting here.” Castanea smiled thinly. 

“Who says?” Malfoy snorted. 

“Ah, I did, I believe.” 

Apparently, Malfoy was a hotshot, and apparently, Tom didn’t want her running his chances with said hotshot. Castanea looked at her friend, who was looking at a seat, (oddly) near Filius and she relented. 

“You can sit here,” She finally agreed. Malfoy sighed and slid in beside her. 

“I didn’t really need your permission, Ollivander,” Except, he did. Castanea decided that if she were to make relations for Tom, it probably would be best if she didn’t point this out. 

“It’s Castanea, and, like this class, charmed.” Castanea snickered at her joke. If the way his jaw clenched was any indication, Malfoy had just immediately realized he had locked himself into a bad seat in this class. 

“Theodore,” Malfoy mumbled as the professor took the podium. 

The professor quickly began the class by going over explanations, the syllabus, and all general background knowledge that was mostly useless. Castanea was more interested in the back of Tom’s head, wondering why he passed her up for Fillus, who though was great in his own right, was not someone Tom had outwardly shown his approval for. 

Malfoy seemed interested in Castanea’s face, and after a few beats, she turned to look at him, to which he turned away and seemed suddenly interested in whatever the professor had to say. 

Malfoy’s Slytherin friends, meanwhile, were snickering to one another behind the two of them. At one point, when the professor’s back was turned, they tossed a note at their friend. Castanea, defying all logic in her brain acted on impulse and snatched the note out of the air. (Seeker’s fingers, her father called it- her quick grabby nature that made ‘Accio’ a natural spell to learn). 

Luckily, she caught the paper, and just set it down on the desk between her and Malfoy. 

“Ah, Young Miss Ollivander,” The professor remarked loudly. “I was just thinking how lovely it is to have someone who first-hand knows the relation between wand-wizard-and-casting, and as such, could you care to answer this question?” 

“Sure.” She said simply. The man waited for her to speak further, but, really, she had no idea what the question was, and to be hair had answered his question of ‘will you answer the question.’

The professor coughed politely. “So, to reiterate, as I was saying, could you please tell us the principle of casting that all charms, hexes, curses, and spells follow?” 

Castanea knew that it had to be something about wands, he had said it when saying ‘this is why I picked you' and so that was a natural conclusion. 

“I’d like to say wands, Professor.” She settled on it. 

“Oh?” He prompted. 

“Yes,” Castanea said, not wanting to elaborate much more on the matter. 

“And how is that?” 

Now, she was sure he did not want to hear her new-aged “the wand is a component of casting!” specheal, and so she smiled and opened her mouth not knowing what she was going to say, only hoping for it to be some illogical non-sequitur that would sound intelligent but be nonsense. 

“Well, you see, Sir,” She stalled, then decided to stand up because that took time. “All spells, hexes, charms, and curses follow a pattern in word and gesture components, but all of these have to come from the wand.” Castanea gave her Customer Service smile and then jumped onto the next sentence with but a brief idea of where it was going to go. 

 “Casting, well, anything requires a wand first, because just chanting and waving won’t do much,” Traditionally, she wanted to add. 

“When you take away the components of a spell, I believe it loses the moniker of ‘spell’, even if it accomplishes the same action. So, for linguistics sake, a pre-written and established spell, charm, hex, or curse, requires all components it lists as needed. While these vary, I think that a wand signifies the ‘casting’ act more than anything else, because it is the most consistent variable in all cases.” 

“Very good. I would have accepted wand, word, and wave- the core elements, as in the textbook “The Basics Of Casting Third Addition” but your explanation was still correct, even if it was advanced. Five points to Ravenclaw.” 

Castanea sat down. She didn’t like that he had been upset with her explanation, which to be fair, she had given rather half-heartedly and came from no sources but her own logic. But the way he had been disappointed in her “advanced” comprehension did not sit right. Teachers should want their students to be competent, and if he called on her expecting an answer on the first day, maybe that was on him. 

The note she had grabbed was gone. She looked to Malfoy, who looked like he had very much taken and read the note, and then to his friends, who were in the process of writing another note. 

When it finally came time for some hands-on learning, they were casting “Lumos” which seemed easy enough. Castanea had learned it recently, and was able to do it wandless, though given what she said earlier, she wondered if that even counted. She could make the tip of her finger glow, or make the tip of her wand glow from a distance. She still flicked and said Lumos (though less saying as of late) and so she supposed that would do. Castana decided now was a good time to do some observation and research on her classmates. 

The professor, (she still hadn’t learned his name) instructed and demonstrated a few times, and then started walking around the classroom. Castanea fiddled with her wand distractedly, until the professor cleared his throat and loudly proclaimed that the best way to learn was by doing it yourself, and Castanea felt like that was both pointed at her, and wrong. She had learned a lot by watching others, particularly those headstrong and incompetent thus far, and listened to continue to do so. 

Still, she didn’t want to be the teacher's pet by casting it first and answering his question, but there was something to be said about the students in this class. Castanea was counting on Tom or Filus to cast first, but then the professor hovered over her for a second too long and she got snappy. 

“Do you need help?” The teacher smiled kindly at her. 

“No.” Castanea said, very bluntly. “I’ve got it, thanks,” She added to not seem so cold. 

“Well, let’s see what you have so far.” The man insisted. 

She didn’t like being put at the center of it all, in fact, she very much disliked it. 

“Really, I’ve got it,” She insisted. “Thank you, though.” 

“Then let’s see it!” The Charms professor smiled, and Castanea had the thought that they literally had the same exchange and would continue to go in this cycle until one of them relented. She grabbed her wand off of the table and chanted the spell. 

“Lumos.” And, as she knew it would, it lit up at the tip. Her professor looked at it, dazed. She looked at him, not understanding his sudden hesitance or behavior. The classroom grew silent and Castanea was beginning to doubt herself and wondered if she even cast the right spell. Maybe this was its side effects and her teacher happened to be particularly susceptible to it. If that was the case, she wonders if this is the first time it had happened and if not, why was he teaching at Hogwarts and how had he lasted in wizard society this long. 

“Your wand’s backward, Ollivander,” Malfoy hissed in the dead silence of the classroom. 

“Ah.” Castanea said, realizing that he was right. She flipped over so that the correct end was facing out, and said again: “Lumos,” This time, correctly casting the spell. And, again, it lit up. 

The man blinked and shifted his weight. “Well done!” The professor said as he regained his composure. He smiled at her, if not a tad distractedly. “Another Ten points to Ravenclaw. I will say, young Ollivander, that’s the first I’ve seen of, well, that.” 

Chapter Text

Castanea decided she didn’t particularly like charms. She also learned that the classes were, unfortunately, grouped into Ravenclaw-Slytherin and Hufflepuff-Gryffindor for the most part, for best results. Apparently having the two, ah, opinionated houses together were not great for productive learning, which was unfortunate, as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff often worked great with each other, or so she was told. 

She was walking in the hallways, when Tom bumped into her. Well, intentionally, as they were headed to the same place. 

“What was that?” He hissed as they headed to the astronomy tower. 

“What was what?” She whispered back. Now that classes had been let out, students were flooding the halls and catching stairs with apt that alarmed Castanea. She wondered if any of them ever fell; most of the upperclassmen were walking without looking where they were going. 

“Your wand was backwards!” Filius piped up, dodging who he could in the crowded hallways. 

“Ah, well, that happens.” 

“Does it?” Tom asked. Logically, he knew she was joking, but then again, he was new to this sort of thing. 

“It does not!” Filius countered. 

“I disagree,” Castanea hummed, carefully eyeing the gap between the swinging stairs before stepping on. The two boys followed her- most of the Charms class seemed to share a similar schedule, but had been separated by staircases on their journey to the astrology tower. 

“Well, you’re wrong!” Said Fillus cheerfully. 

“What was the deal with that Slytherin boy, earlier?” She murmured to Tom. 

“Malfoy?” 

“Mhm.” 

“He’s fairly popular and tends to get what he wants,” Tom sighed. “Doesn’t like me much.” 

“I’ll put in a good word for you, then.”

“Don’t!” Tom hissed. “That’s embarrassing. Just, be civil, I guess.” 

“You should give him a letter of recommendation,” Fillus suggested. “Your father actually wrote me one when we came into his shop. Said I was a ‘remarkable wizard with incredible potential.” 

“What?” Castanea paused. It sounded like Garrick, but surely her father would have mentioned it or she’d have heard of it. 

“Ollivander, under no circumstances will you send Malfoy a bloody letter of recommendation- ”

“That’s interesting. When did you get your wand?” She looked at Fillus. 

“Oh, well, there was some debate on whether they let me into Hogwarts, and if I am fit to hold a wand. I went to your father’s shop, and he declared it a travesty if I didn’t get the education I deserved. Sometime in mid-to-end July?” 

Ah, so she had gotten her wand by then. She wondered why her father hadn’t said anything, this seemed like the kind of thing that would have come up in conversation. She’d have to write to him. 

“That seems beyond the normal scope of Hogwarts administration,” Tom said- it wasn’t quite a question, but by the way he paused, he was looking for confirmation. 

“Yes,” Filius agreed. “Hogwarts is currently workshopping the students they allow in terms of, ah, abnormality. I heard they’re planning to expand to more magical creatures as well,” 

“Unfortunately, they don’t define what, or who, they will admit so it often comes down to ‘can they use a wand’, which puts a lot of stress on my Father’s part.” She pitched in, remembering the many times her father went over wand laws, and about how goblins are struggling with them. “It has something to do with natural magic ratio to conductive magic ratio, though it’s still quite hard to measure it. 

“Natural Magic?” Echoed Tom. 

“Ah, it’s the ‘flat’ amount of magic a creature or being possesses as they are. So, Boggarts are pure magic and have one function, and can’t bend their magic beyond the scope of it. While they have leeway on what to turn into, they still only can turn into someone’s worst fears,” She added the last part so Tom would know what a Boggart was without having to ask. 

“I thought it was how ‘human’ someone was,” Filus added. 

“Well, humanity can dilute the magical nature, so perhaps there’s a correlation.” She shrugged. They were nearing the tower now, and there was a line outside the door for students to enter. She didn’t know why they were having astrology in broad daylight, but it didn’t matter much to her. 

“Then, could an offspring of a, say, mermaid and muggle be nonmagical?” Asked Tom. 

“No, probably not. Discounting muggleborns, the child would still have ‘natural’ magic that they couldn’t funnel into a wand for spells. They’d be magical, but not in the way you’re thinking.” They filed into line, and towards the back of it.

Before anyone could question her further, she added. “But there’s no real way to measure magic, only ideas, so this is all-” 

A scoff came from behind her. “Wrong,” 

Castanea turned, and behind her were some Slytherin boys in her year that despite not knowing their names, she knew what they’d say next. Filius looked on with curiosity, and Tom with what could only be described as utter embarrassment. 

“I suppose you’re going to say something about blood purity?” 

“Yes, and because you guessed that you must know that what you’re saying is untrue.” Sneered at a boy with dark hair and pale skin.

 They all kind of looked the same, she realized, with exception of Malfoy whose silvery-blonde hair stuck out from the crowd. And they all did their hair the same. She looked at Tom, and then back at the boy who spoke, and realized, upsettingly, that Tom also had done his hair in that style. She’d have to mark him with ink or something so she didn’t lose him. 

“One can be aware of beliefs and not hold them as true,” Castanea stated. “In fact, it’s often best if you know about other ideas than your own,” 

“Yes, well, measuring magic can be done and it has for centuries. Purebloods-”

“And, so how do you tell if someone’s a pureblood?” She interrupted, because he wasn’t proving what he thought he was. 

“Don’t worry, they’ll tell you,” Filius murmured loudly. Castanea resisted the urge to snicker, but Margot (who was in front of her inline and had obviously been eavesdropping) laughed a little. 

The boy flushed and scoffed. Castanea took this time to notice the dimple in his chin, which she decided would be his distinguishing feature. 

“Well, they’ll be better at magic.” 

“And how do you measure that?” 

“It should be obvious, can’t you tell if a spell’s any good or not?” 

“How do we tell if a spell is good, then?” 

“Because it’ll do what it’s supposed to do!” Dimple-chin was getting angry with her, which was odd, because he was the one who interjected himself into her conversation. 

“That would depend on multiple variables, though. The wand, the spell, and if you’re measuring how ‘good’ a person is at magic, how do you measure how bad a person is? Also, that leaves no room for improvement, and doesn’t account for factors like how long the person has been studying the spell, and how ‘hard’ the spell is- plus, at that point, we’re not even measuring magic, but the effectiveness of a spell,”

“Then how would you do it?” Dimple-chin said, not quite defeated but certainly not winning either. 

“I never claimed to have a way to do it. You were the one who said you did.” She pointed out. 

“Then how am I wrong, if you don’t have a way to do it?” 

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Though he was, she was tempted to add, “You just have failed to explain to me why you’re right. Based on blood alone- If I were to stab a pureblood, halfblood, and muggleborn, would you be able to point, and tell me which one was more magical?” 

At this point, they were nearing the front of the line and walking through, and the professor stood at the door, shaking everyone's hands and introducing himself. She thought that was rather sweet. 

“You’re ridiculous,” 

“No, I’m Castanea Ollivander. Charmed,” She smiled, happy for the cheeky opportunity to introduce herself. 

“Carius Mulciber. I still think you’re ridiculous,” 

“Mate, she just told you she’s Castanea,” One of the boys behind Mulciber quipped. 

“Shut up, Avery,” 

Once she finally entered the astronomy tower, Tom was quite frazzled with the whole exchange. They sat in rows, not two-person desks, so it was easier to make seating arrangements. 

She sat in the back, with Margot and Filus on her right, and Tom (who looked two seconds away from a shouting match and/or a nervous breakdown) on her left. 

“Don’t do that,” Tom scrawled on the edge of his parchment once the professor began his lecture. Again, it was syllabus stuff and Castanea wished the man would stop talking about what he was going to teach and instead just start teaching. 

She looked at him blankly, and grabbed her quill. Before she could write “What?” Tom had written “you know what,”

Castanea shrugged and slightly shook her head. 

Tom sighed. “Don’t fight with them,” 

“It was a civil debate.” 

“Liar.” 

Castanea frowned. She had gotten the impression that no one was particularly upset, but perhaps even debate puts Tom in an odd spot. 

“Sorry then.” She then doodled, to the best of her ability, a cartoon face with heaping tears and an exaggerated frown. She drew an arrow to it and labeled it “Cassie”. 

Tom simply added a checkmark next to it, as if to say “good.” 

From her right, Filius slid her a note. 

“Stop passing notes,” It said in neat, textbook-perfect cursive. Castanea was delighted by this, and she folded it up and swore to keep it until the end of her days. 

Astrology was a lot about Greek myths, and luckily, Castanea was well acquainted with such. Wizarding families tend to name things (children, spells, beasts) after Latin and Greek mythos, or even just stars, so she’d been immersed into this at a young age. Add into the fact that her father would read the Odyssey as a bedtime story, and Castanea figured she was set. Until she had to connect the dots to make constellations (a real assignment, according to the upperclassmen) she figured she’d be fine. 

The class let out for lunch, then reconvened for another hour. Castanea watched as the class filled out and began their march into the dining hall- part not wanting to be stuck in the crowd, and part wanting to see who was in this class. She didn’t get a good look earlier. 

“I’m eating with Droope.” Filius nodded at Castanea. “We’ll be in the library afterwards, we wanted to get some of the desirable books before they were all checked out. Or, at least, join the waiting list somewhat early. Do you have any books you wanted me to keep an eye out for?.” 

“I’m good,” She smiled. Really, it was sweet of them to ask, but she was privileged to have a borderline personal library at home and access to it via owl. “Have fun, though,” 

Filius nodded and headed out with her roommate. Castanea got up and headed easily to the door, looking back at who was still in the classroom. Tom was there, being not too far behind her, but the gaggle of Slytherin boys were there as well. Some Ravenclaws were chatting with the professor, and a couple of stragglers were packing up, despite coming back to the room after. She had left her stuff at the desk, as there wasn’t much of value to steal or mess with. 

“Well, I’m headed to lunch…” She looked at them strangely. Then to Tom: “I heard you could take a plate with you and eat in the courtyards if it’s nice enough, though. Also, you can eat with other houses during lunch, so.”

“Sounds good,” Tom nodded, grabbing the parchment they’d use as notes. As they were headed out, one of the Slytherin boys called out for them. 

“Hey!” Tom froze slightly but fought to keep a relaxed posture. 

“Yes?” Castanea turned to them. It was Malfoy who called out, and his friends were snickering behind him. 

“Do you know which courtyards?” 

“Ah, not specifically. I was going to look for upperclassmen and follow their lead.” She admitted. 

“We’ll go with you.” Malfoy decided. 

“The hell we will!” Mulciber scoffed. 

“If it's alright with you, I'd like to join,” Added someone, who she thought was probably Avery. “You can eat lunch alone, Carius.” 

And with that, the Ravenclaw girl and five-ish Slytherin boys shuffled down to the dining hall, grabbed a plate and a drink each, and found themselves picnicking by a fountain in rather nice weather, considering it was September. 

Castanea had fixed a plate of fruits and puddings, as well as a ham sandwich. There was a gaggle of Ravenclaw upperclassmen who she’d recognized from this morning when they were having a lively conversation about quidditch, but with animaguses. She recalled only snippets of that discussion, but figured they were alright enough to eat by. 

“So,” Said Malfoy between bites of his lunch. “Ollivander.” 

“Yes,” She agreed. That was her name. 

Avery snorted rather loudly, causing the blond to elbow him. 

“Earlier you said there is no way to measure magic,” He resumed their earlier conversation. “Not that pure-bloods are better or worse than mudbloods, but that there’s no way to prove it.” 

Tom sighed. “You do know that the very fact that I am in Slytherin, means I’m not a mudblood.” 

"Right," Malfoy said dismissively. 

Castanea figured that this was not a new conversation for them, and redirected it to maintain a somewhat neutral ground while still defending her friend. “I’m sorry, but if we’re going to have a scientific discussion about this, I’m going to have to insist you use ‘muggleborn’, as it’s more transparent in its meaning,” She figured this was the best way to reason with them, they likely didn’t care about the moral implications of the word.

Tom kept a neutral face, but Castanea wondered if he even knew the word he was using was particularly bad. She’d have to talk to him later. 

“I think mudblood is fairly straightforward.” 

“It’s inconsistent to use elements as classification unless you started to go by goldblood. Which is both gaudy and stupid,”

Malfoy chuckled at this. “Okay, okay. Goldblood, silverblood, and mudblood,” 

“Bronzeblood makes the most chronological sense,” Tom shrugged. Ah, the poor thing had probably earned himself a new nickname. She didn’t like that they were ranking blood types but this was further than she thought she’d get in terms of ‘challenging their beliefs’ on the first day.

“Brozeblood, shut up,” Malfoy snapped at Tom, following Castanea’s prediction. 

“Watch your tongue, goldblood.” She countered. 

“You all sound stupid.” Mulciber groaned into his drink, sincerely wishing it was something other than pumpkin juice so he wouldn’t have to deal with this stupidity. 

“Okay, back to Malfoy’s question-” She waved her fork in the air as if to prove a point.  

Tom sat beside her on the fountain's ledge and Malfoy sat on the floor but leaned against the stone edge. Mulciber sat on the ledge as well, though the one angled out, and leaned angst one of the statues to face her. Avery sat on the cobblestone, next to one of the other Slytherin boys. They were both facing her but against the opposite edge of Mulciber and lounging with their plates in their laps. 

It occurred to her, then, that she had amassed a following of Slytherin pure-blood youths that were hanging on her every word. 

“-there’s no concrete way to measure magic, aside from, maybe , blood purity and even then you can’t really measure that. I mean, say, purebloods are superior-” 

“They are,” Pitched in Mulciber. 

“Well, are they all equal or are some families better? Or, by how much better are they? You can’t really gauge that sort of thing, now can you?” 

Avery hummed. “Perhaps, but we can guess.”

“But wouldn’t you want to know, for sure, that you were right?”

“But I am,” Mulciber pointed out. Castanea didn’t like how sure he was with this. 

“Okay, how?”

“What?” 

“How do you know you’re right? Aside from being right. Let’s assume you are right. Explain to me like I was your child-”

“-Gross,” Added Tom. Malfoy nodded sagely. 

“-and you’re telling me, for the first time, why I’m so much better. Convince me. I have no prior beliefs up until now, and you have to both explain it and prove it.”

“Well, if two magical people have a magical kid, then they’re more magical than one magical person and a nonmagical person kid. And a nonmagical person with a nonmagical person with a magic kid means their kid is the weakest.”

“How do you know that?” 

“It makes sense, though, doesn’t it?” 

“Well, hereditarily, no. Magic could be a recessive trait that appears more when there’s no other recessive trait. Maybe it doesn't stack like that, it’s just the probability of having a magical kid, not having a more magical kid.”

“Yeah, maybe , but it’s not,”

“How do you know that?” 

“Well, purebloods are better at magic.”

“How do you know?” 

“Because they’re better at performing spells as their intended purpose.” 

“Well, if they receive prior, and superior education, then, of course, they’d be better. There’s no way to measure the natural, flat magic of someone, though.”

“What about casting or conductive magic?” Asked Tom. 

“Well, I guess, having someone see how long they could hold a spell, or produce a spell with a lasting effect- like a ward, or even a stream of water. You could time how long it’s going- but even then, it has too many variables to count to be a standard measurement. 

“What do you mean, 'conducted magic'?” Asked Avery. 

“The casted magic. Also, what if someone’s less proficient at casting, or their wand ‘leaks’?” 

“Wands can do that?” Asked the boy who’d largely been quiet up until now. She didn’t know his name, but figured she’d get by for now. 

“Well, it’s mostly due to the user’s incompetency in slotting the right amount of magic- it can overflow, or even, miss the funnel entirely.”

“What in Merlin’s name are you going on about?” Mulciber said incredulously.

“Wand theory.”

“So, a theory. Why state it as fact?” Malfoy pointed out.

“You state blood purity as a fact.” Castanea countered. 

“It is!” Groaned Mulciber with alarming volume. 

“Prove it!” Castanea matched his intensity. 

“How?” He shouted back. 

“Exactly!” 

Tom chuckled quietly, and Malfoy and Avery joined in. 

“You’re alright, Ollivander,” Avery chuckled. 

“No, just ‘right’,” She corrected. 

“You’re downright insufferable, is what you are,” Mulciber said sourly, but with some humor in his tone. 

“So, if there’s no way to tell, what’s the next best thing?” Malfoy questioned.“Because it seems to me, we have a pretty good way of figuring it out.”

“Well, how do you know that? You could just be predicting the probability of magic showing up.” 

“Yes, and that would make purebloods superior.” 

“Ah, why?” 

“Because we are more likely to have magic kids,”

“Why does that matter?” 

“Well, I don’t want some squib running around with my last name.” 

Castanea soured immediately. She’d heard that word many times in passing conversations and did not like it very much. It was insensitive and rude. 

“Wizardborn,” She corrected. 

“Ah, right, your brother’s a squib!” Mulciber cackled. “I guess that's what you get for marrying a mudblood!” 

The Slytherin boys laughed at this, and she was reminded suddenly that these were not her friends. Forget about the banter and jokes, mock her mother and brother until, possibly beyond, their death because he dared to exist.  

“Didn’t Lestrange say he was sent off to some muggle school?” Avery adjusted his seat and looked around at the group. 

“Something or other, but you almost got to feel sorry for the poor bloke. I wonder how many wands he went through before he realized he was the problem!” Mulciber was getting quite loud again, and the passersby turned to look at him. 

Castanea took a slow, deep breath and centered herself as her mother instructed her to do when she felt she was getting irrational. 

“Aw, are you getting mad, Princess?” Laughed Mulciber. The boys around him were still amused, but Tom looked strangely passive, then spoke. 

“I don’t know why you wanted to eat lunch with us if you were just going to pick fights. If you want to do that, just say it, you don’t have to spoil my lunch,”

Castanea looked at Tom, and she hated how surprised she was that he had said something. 

“I don’t recall ever wanting to eat lunch with the likes of you, ” Scoffed the boy. 

“Then leave,” Tom said simply. 

Mulciber stood up abruptly and grew red in the face. 

“There you go,” Said Tom distractedly, “You’re getting the hang of it. Now, in case you’ve forgotten, the astronomy tower’s-”

Mulciber pulled out his wand sharply and pointed it at Tom. 

“Shut your trap, filthy mudblood, and mind your tongue,” He grinned wickedly. “Or I’ll mind it for you.”

Castanea thought that what he said sounded unintentionally suggestive and reached for her own wand.

“Langlock!” He barked. 

“Finite!” Castanea countered, nixing the spell before it could take effect.

 He turned to her, scowling. 

“You’re ignorant and wrong. Clearly, you aren’t looking for an intellectual discussion about it. If you want to pick fights, I’d appreciate being briefed on that beforehand so I don’t have to waste my breath.” 

“So don’t!” He pointed his wand, clearly to attempt to cast the same spell again. 

“Accio Mulciber’s Wand!” She reached out her hand blindly. She only knew, maybe, three or four spells, and that list did not include Expelliarmus, so she was hoping for the best. 

Luckily, his wand flew to her unoccupied hand, but the rest of the Slytherin boys were now up on their feet and eyeing her warily. 

“Your one-liners are bad and dumb,” She told Mulciber. "But, your wand… Hawthorn, ten-and-three-eighths inches, and core of a dragon heartstring?” She guessed.

Mulciber nodded tensely. Castanea smiled- if there was one thing she knew, it was wands, and briefly considered (again) the opportunities that having two wands would give her, before thinking it too cruel as Mulciber obviously relied on this stick and it would be impolite to take it for her own this early on. It would provide her leverage, later, perhaps.

“I’d even go so far as to say that the dragon was Hebridean Black, which is native to Great Britain, by the way.”

“What do you want?” He hissed. 

“What do you want for me not to walk this over to the nearest perfect and report a lost wand?” 

“That’s a bit far-” Avery suggested. 

“I disagree.” Castanea pointed the wand at Mulciber and noted it felt strange. It was ‘awakened’ or ‘bonded’ unlike the many wands she’d held at the shop, and she felt odd and wondered what it’d be like casting out of it. 

“Put that down before you do something you regret,” Mulciber warned. 

“Okay,” She shrugged simply. Castanea set it down on the floor in front of her feet. “Here you go.” 

“...What?” He sounded dumbfounded. 

“Here it is, go ahead.” She insisted. Castanea didn’t plan to do anything, but they didn’t have to know that. They probably thought she’d step on the wand or Mulciber. “Come get it.” 

“No.” Mulciber refused stubbornly. 

“Well, you can come get it now or from a prefect later after I turn it in and report a missing wand. 

“Where do you get off holding wands hostage?” Mulciber demanded. “Give it back!” 

“It’s right here,” She pointed out simply. 

“What, and do I have to crawl over to you, or something?” 

Castanea didn’t know why she would ever want that, but it seemed funny that he thought she’d do that. 

“No. Why, did you want to crawl over to me?” 

“That's a bit twisted, but I wouldn't put it past him,” Avery chuckled. "He's quite the degenerate-"

“Just get your wand, Carius,” Malfoy sighed. “Don’t drag it out. I feel as though these are natural consequences.” 

“Sod off. Okay, I’m getting it,” He declared, not moving forward. 

“Doing great,” Tom quipped dryly. 

Instead of responding, Mulciber took a tentative step towards her, paused, then took another one. 

“You look foolish.” Said the boy who’d been mostly quiet. “Just apologize, get your wand, and be done with it.” 

“Shut it, Nott!” He snapped. 

 “Look,” spoke Nott. “You didn’t need to ruin lunch for the rest of us with your antics. Even if she’s wrong, she’s being polite about it.”

“What about this is polite?” Mulciber barked. 

“What, did you want her to chuck the wand at you?” Tom scoffed. 

“Throw the wand!” Avery cheered. “His head’s so big, you can’t possibly miss it!”

Mulicber walked to Castanea with intent, stopped, and then used his foot to roll his want back to him. Castanea flinched, just to mess with him, and Mulciber flinched back and let out a startled yelp. 

Avery, at this point, was beside himself with laughter. Tom and Malfoy were quietly amused, and Nott was just quiet. 

“Awful woman!” Mulciber scolded. 

The group chuckled, including herself and Tom. But Castanea couldn’t fool herself into thinking that Malfoy, Avery, Nott, and Mulciber were her friends. She got the distinct impression that they tolerate her for her family name, but would drop her or Tom like yesterday’s garbage as soon as it inconvenienced them. They seemed alright, at first, but Castanea knew there was only so much small talk they could make before she ended up hexed or cursed. 

Tom seemed pleased with their interaction, if not skittish. She figured that this was enough conflict to satisfy what the Slytherins needed to justify their company, but that would only last for so long. They were not friends, they were hardly companions- they were a placeholder that found Castanea and Tom amusing, but if they ceased to be such, they’d be stunned by the group. 

She didn’t particularly care about that, but Tom would. Tom, above all else, desperately wanted to fit in with this group. She didn’t understand it, nor particularly wanted to support him in this, but he was her friend and she’d have his back. 

They’d been at Hogwarts for nearly a fortnight and Tom was already doing remarkably well for himself. He’d been, without fail, the cornerstone of Slytherin's wit and had racked up an impressive amount of points for the house cup. Filius wasn’t doing poorly in that regard either, and Castanea seemed to be taking one step forward and two steps back. 

She’d figured out a fairly simple experiment, and although students didn’t know they were participating, they couldn’t not.

Castanea set it up so in charms class after the teacher introduced a new spell, she’d start a timer (an hourglass) and time how long each student took to perform the spell. Now, there were variables that she could control and more of them than she’d like (wand type, background, classroom distractions, to name a few) but it was a good start. 

His professor mostly left her alone after she had finished her work, and apparently, that was common practice in dealing with Ravenclaws. Though she didn’t know their blood type, she wrote down their name and house. She had made a seating chart- a copy of her professor's seating chart, which unfortunately locked her in next to Malfoy- to use for reference. She then, through various sources, discerned their blood type and narrowed down the group to seven Ravenclaw- (two muggleborn, two halfbloods, two purebloods, and Filius just for kicks) and five Slytherin- (Two Halfbloods, Two purebloods, and Tom). She made sure each person participating in the experiment did not sit next to another participant so they wouldn’t influence each other's results, which is why she kept Tom and Filius as outliers throughout the cataloging. 

She would have liked to have them all in the same row so distance-to-teacher was not a variable, but luckily the teacher paced around the class so that wasn’t as big of an issue. 

Castanea created a table for each new spell and logged the results- initially, the purebloods were pulling ahead in terms of learning, but as the spells grew more obscure and less likely to be used casually, halfbloods and muggleborns tended to grasp it quicker. This was probably because the purebloods had a background with these sorts of spells, and maybe already knew them. Also, as time went on in the class, the overall learning time went down, which proved that casting overall could be improved upon, not just casting a single spell. It served as legwork, perhaps getting used to the act of casting a spell made it easier to cast others. She wondered if she’d ever reached a ‘cap’ of experience, when there’d be a minimum time to learn across the board. 

Castanea knew that in reality, this was not a way to measure being ‘good’ at magic, but succeeding in the environment Hogwarts created. She didn’t like that this was just limited to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, and wondered if she could wiggle her way into an observational-teaching assistant in this class next year, so she could record the then first year’s results. 

She would have liked to expand this practice to other classes- potions, transfigurations, defense against the dark arts, but she didn’t start at the same time so she’d have to cut the initial charms data if she wanted to compare it. 

So, Castanea settled for just Potions, because something odd was going on there. She recorded the time to complete, which unfortunately added in factors like reading comprehension and distance to the back of the room where the ingredients were stored. However, despite her shaky numbers, the purebloods and Slytherins seemed to pull ahead by an alarming amount. 

This didn’t sit right with Castanea, as natural potions talent seemed like a redundant concept, especially as a first year. All they were doing was following instructions, which is why she’d scoffed at collecting data here in the first place. 

There was no way purebloods had background information on potions. Because they all had come from wealthy families, they would just purchase their potions if they needed them. Also, potion brewing could be messy, and she didn’t see the head of Malfoy elbow deep in dragon ovaries even if she tried. 

And she did. She really did.

Tom had been her partner for most of this, and at first, been reluctant to help at all. He defaulted to just telling her when someone had achieved the set goal in case she missed it, but also served as a verifying source. He had also been her partner for potions- Filius took a liking to Droope, and they had been tablemates for transfigurations as well. 

Tom, in fact, had been the driving force for her potions investigation, as he’d overheard Avery bragging that potions was very easy for him, and Avery was not someone who often followed directions. So, naturally, the two didn’t add up. 

Castanea wondered how you could cheat at potions. Each student had their own cauldron they purchased (which sat in the back) so she’d at first thought it was the cauldron. But she had the same brand as most of the purebloods, and even then all of them were standard iron. Rumor had it that one of the Blacks a few years ahead of her had brought in a pure-gold cauldron one year, but had melted it three weeks in, so now only iron cauldrons were permitted. 

Perhaps it was the quality of the iron? Maybe even the source, or portions previously brewed? Then, by a stroke of luck, one of the Slytherins set his textbook on fire and had to share with the muggleborn the table next to him and his time suffered dramatically. 

Not even on the day of- he had to check out a standard book from the library for 

four days until his parents could mail him a new one, and in that four days he lagged behind nearly ten minutes and his success rate (which she’d also started measuring, but only in potions as a botched brew was easier to spot than a failed charm in most cases) dropped by half. 

So naturally, Castanea went and checked out a spare textbook from the library for a control. “A Beginner's Complete Guide to Potions” or, ABC Potions- Second Edition. 

Her textbook, which she had purchased right off the book list sent out, was the same as the library. 

Malfoy’s potion book was ABC Potions, Edition 2.

Not, ‘Second Edition’, but Edition 2. 

(She’d bumped into his desk and knocked it off, with the intent to make a swap between her book and his, but the potions teacher was quickly there and helped them clean up. So, under Slughorn’s watchful gaze, she set it back and resumed her task. He was too ‘helpful’ to not be in on it, she thought.)

Castanea was more upset that this screwed up her results than that she was getting a second-rate education, which said something about her character. So, that night, she wrote a letter to her father, than in short, detailed that she accidentally cooked her textbook in a potions accident, and could he please replace it with an ABC Potions Edition 2, and that he might have to ask someone for that specific title and drop his name for a good one. She wrote that they jack up the prices after school starts and that it might be a good idea to flaunt the Ollivander name to make sure he’s not getting a bad deal. 

Her father wrote back, and sent the letter with Earl and the book with Achilles, because he feared Earl would destroy the textbook. He said that they tried to tell him a knock-off Second Edition, and that was strange, but he got the right one and her mother says hello. 

Castanea now had three copies of (supposedly) the same book, and now had to go through it and find out what the difference was between the two books, why someone had done this, how they had gotten away with it, and how long this had been happening.

Chapter Text

Castanea’s first step was to comb through the book and find the inconsistencies, meanwhile logging which of her classmates had the second edition, and which ones had edition 2. 

Edition 2 has a lot of shortcuts, clearer and safer ways to make potions. Second Edition, while still having technically correct information, took the longer and more complex route. Of course, Castanea never brought her Edition 2 to class, nor did she use it. Instead, she kept using her old one to avoid suspicion. 

Weekends, Castanea realized, were a glorious thing in which she took full advantage of. Unfortunately, she was unable to make use of Hogsmeade (yet) and so instead she monopolized the space outside the vegetable garden, which was largely inhabited by Hufflepuffs in aprons that fawned over the plants. They seemed to be growing a particularly difficult batch of dragon-snap-peas, and had no problem with her curling up under the many nonviolent trees with her journal and a few textbooks. 

“A gargoyle,” One of the upperclassmen had described her. “She just sits there and minds her own business.” 

It was on one of those Saturdays where she had walked Tom out beyond the garden, past the whomping willow trail, and they sat under the trees that were not violent with a bag of books. 

“So, why are we here?” Tom sighed for what must have been the hundredth time. Castanea, finally ready to answer him, pulled out her journal and two potion books. Tom looked between the two and quickly spotted the difference. 

“Edition 2.” He commented. 

“If you drop your name, you might get a good book, apparently,” She sighed. 

“How long have you had this?” He said accusingly. Castanea didn’t like how quickly he had turned against her. 

“Not long,” She defended. 

“Quantitatively. How long, Cassie.” 

He’d taken to calling her by that, which she thought was quite charming. When she responded by calling him “Tommy” he flushed red and didn’t talk to her for the rest of the day, which was impressive considering that this was during their first class and they had the rest of the day to get through. 

“A month.” 

“You’re joking.” 

Tom grabbed the Edition 2 and began flipping through it. “Why would you keep this from me for so long?” 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” 

“Well,” Tom said sheepishly. “Among other things.” He righted himself and looked at her properly, watching as she thumbed through the pages of her journal looking for something. 

“You’re doing better than them, though,” Castanea admitted, settling on the right table. 

“Well, I know that,” 

“Though I haven't discounted house bias entirely,” She eyed him, before passing the notebook over. 

“This is chicken scratch, at best,” Tom looked at her dryly. “Do you have a decoder?” 

Castanea snatched the book back from him. “Well if you were illiterate you could have just said so.” 

“Cassie, this would make an English professor grow cross-eyed. These are runes at best.” 

“Well, do you want me to read it aloud or can Tommy read it himself?” She sniffed. Tom gently pried the journal out of her hands and began scanning it. 

“And, are these accurate?” He asked in a quiet voice. 

“You helped me,” Castanea pointed out. 

“Yes, but I suppose it’s different seeing it written down, isn’t it?” Tom sighed. 

“Should we take this to anyone?” She was curious for Tom’s response. Castanea herself did not know what to do with this. 

“Whom? The headmaster?” Tom scoffed. “I bet you most people know what’s going on, more than we’d like and more than we think. He’s probably aware.” 

“That’s pessimistic.” Castanea realized he was probably right, and Tom knew that she had reached the same conclusion as he did. “But still, if he knows we know-” 

“He will deny it, gaslight us until he can’t, obliviate us, and do who knows what. I will be alienated from my peers, as will you, and if Slughorn already has no integrity as a professor then who knows what he’ll do.” 

“You think Slughorn’s in on it?” She was shocked by Tom’s view of his head of house, given Slytherin pride and all that. Then again, they hadn’t been proud of him, and he wasn’t given much to be prideful of. 

“If not the establishing force.” Tom nodded. “He’s, soft, if that’s the right word-”

“Lenient, biased, forgiving,” Castanea offered. 

“He’s biased towards purebloods. Especially those with reputable families.” 

“Ah, there’s a lot of heirs in our year,” 

“You're one of them,” Tom confirmed. “It’s a shame you aren’t in Slytherin.”

“I disagree.” Castanea wasn’t one for house pride, in fact, Ravenclaw as a whole wasn’t, but she didn’t think she’d do well in Slytherin.

“You would,” He dismissed it. “But, I had noticed this as a stand-alone issue, not a part of a bigger problem.” 

“There’s most likely an even larger problem that we haven't even noticed yet,” Castanea hummed. 

“Now who’s pessimistic?” 

Castanea sighed dramatically and collapsed against the tree. 

“Do we have to act on this? It’s incredibly troublesome.” 

“Ignorance is bliss,” Tom shrugged. “While I do agree that the responsibility, by all means, shouldn’t fall to us, we should do something. ”

“Perhaps, telling an adult,” 

“No, perhaps confronting an adult,” 

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one for confrontation,” Castanea eyed him strangely. 

“Well, with every situation there are benefits and drawbacks to confrontation,” Tom admitted. “I don’t know how I feel with just doing nothing.” 

“Why is it even our problem?” She brought it up again. 

“If we know what’s going on, and we know it’s wrong,” Tom handed her back her journal. “If we just sit by and watch, we’re just as bad.” 

“It’s not going to do anything.” 

“Well, then what do you suggest?” Tom was growing increasingly frustrated with the girl’s blase attitude. 

“We switch out the books?” 

“Do you even know that the students know?” 

Castanea paused. She didn’t, she had just assumed they did. Then, of course, the lot of them tended to be less than observant. She wouldn’t put it past them to just automatically assume they’re better than everyone at potions. 

Taking her silence as confirmation, Tom asked, “How do we go about finding this out?” 

“Swapping them and seeing if they notice?” She proposed.

“What if they notice, but don’t know what they’ve noticed?” 

“Well, Avery had to borrow the Library's second edition.” 

“Do you think he noticed, then?” 

“I think we should find out.” 

Castanea sought out Avery the next day, armed with doe eyes and her journal. The plan

was simple: she was going to ask him for help with potions. According to Tom, she could be hilariously dense when she wanted to be, and Avery often saw women and girls as helpless dainty creatures. Most of Slytherin did, in fact, think that way. Besides, Tom had informed her that the group of heirs had a soft spot for her, which she planned to exploit. 

Of course, she could have gone to any number of more component people, but Avery wouldn’t admit that and she could play dumb all she wanted. 

“Ah, Avery?” She called as potions class let out. He turned around and looked at her, with a smirk that was undeserved and stupid. 

“Yes, Ollivander?” He cocked his eyebrow, trying to look suave. Tom was still in the classroom, watching as this unfolded. 

“I noticed that you, ah, had a brief lull in your potions, but seemed to fix it.” She said, shuffling her bag. “I think I’m going through a similar thing, and was wondering how you got out of it?” 

Avery looked perplexed. Castanea knew that this was just because he got a new book, but she didn’t know if he knew. 

Tom was talking to Slughorn, hamming it up with the man so that the teacher wouldn’t interfere. 

“Studying.” Avery shrugged simply. 

“Could you help me with my studying, then? I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong,” She smiled weakly. Avery glanced at his friends, then turned back to her. 

“I could help you, Ollivander. I have a better grade than this dunce anyhow,” Malfoy piped up. 

“Oy, she asked me!” Avery snapped. Now spurred on by competition, he added, “I’d be happy to help you, Ollivander,” 

“You can call me Castanea,” She smiled genuinely, as the boy took the bait. 

“Alright, then Castanea. You can call me Brent,” 

“Shall we meet in the library after lunch?” 

“That sounds good to me,” He agreed quickly. “I suppose I'll be seeing you then,” 

Castanea nodded and watched as he and his group walked off. Nott grinned wildly at him and slapped him on the back, probably thinking ‘studying’ meant something else, despite the oldest of all of them being a mere 12. 

Tom walked out of the classroom then and looked at her. She nodded at him, and he set off to the library to get a good view of what would go down, and she ate lunch with Filus who was quick to start a dialogue on the latest charms assignment. 

She scurried over to the library and quickly realized her mistake. Nott, Malfoy, and Mulciber were hunched over in the corner of the library and clearly watching them. She made a point to look at the lot of them and then back at Avery. 

“They wouldn’t leave me alone.” He huffed. 

“That’s alright,” She said quietly, setting the tone. She took a seat next to him and took out her book. 

“I just,” She sighed. “Well, it just seems overly complicated.” 

Avery looked at her textbook for a moment. “Potions can be difficult,” He agreed. “I was wondering, by the way. Did you not ask Riddle? You both seemed close.” 

This seemed like a question that he wouldn’t have asked on his own, and she suspected his friends put him up to it. This level of suspicion seemed odd to Castanea, and perhaps they did know what they were hiding. Luckily, she had already planned her answer to this question. 

“Tom has no qualms about going by the book, step by step. He does it perfectly each time. He says if I read the instructions I shouldn’t have a problem, but I feel like some of the steps are a bit muddy and hard to follow.” 

This was, in fact, what Tom had said, almost verbatim when she suggested they copy down the next day’s potion and go off of it from there. But he didn’t want to get caught, and she understood that. The only reason she hadn’t ‘cheated’ sooner was that Tom would have quickly noticed his tablemate going off her journal instead of the textbook, or even that she wasn’t following the same instructions as him. 

“I see,” Avery nodded. He looked at the book and then at her. “You take notes in class, right?” 

She supposed it did make sense for him to notice her constantly with her notebook in hand, but she did convince a second-year Ravenclaw to fork over their actual notes from last year, and ended up rebinding it in a similar cover as the one she owned. 

It had cost her a few gallons and one of her hard copies of a muggle novel that the upperclassmen had been fond of, but apparently, extortion was a common theme in their house.

She was shocked to find out the number of experiments that her housemates did as well, as curiosity was not as unique as she thought. 

(Rumor has it that the Quidditch team doesn’t actually care about the sport, but are testing the rulebook line by line.)

“Yes,” Castanea nodded, grabbing her notes that were not her notes. The 

handwriting was messy enough that she could make the argument that this was her penmanship when she was writing fast, so she made a point to make her essays neat and pretty and made a big show of writing slowly in class. 

She doubted anyone noticed her effort, but it was there. She was slowly picking up the lettering and could soon copy the writing if all went well. 

Avery took her notebook and squinted, hard. He then looked at her. “Can I see your textbook?” 

Castanea pulled out her Second Edition. Avery looked at that for a long time as well.

“Would you want to borrow my book?” He finally asked. 

“Why? Did you annotate it, or something?” She should have just taken the victory, as he clearly knew something. 

“It’s my father’s,” Avery said. “An older book that I found is easier to follow.” 

“Ah, didn’t you burn that one?” She pressed. 

“No.” He answered quickly. “That was my uncle’s.” 

“Why did you have your uncle’s book?” Why didn’t Avery start out saying that he burned his father’s book, and his uncle mailed them the replacement? That made more sense. Of course, it was all lies, but he was very bad at lying. 

“I live with my uncle.” Well, that was also probably a lie but it was a better one. She knew she couldn’t press the issue without seeming insensitive or suspicious, so she dropped it. 

“What book will you follow if you give me yours?” 

“I’m not going to give it to you, just let you borrow it.” 

“Alright. Thank you, Brent,” She smiled at him. “But still, how will you participate in class if you have no book?” 

“I’m sure I'll manage,” He said kindly. She almost felt bad for using him like this, but then she remembered the kind of person he was and felt just fine about it. 

The following day, Castanea and Tom debated on whether or not they should use the potions book in class. Tom pointed out that Avery had explicitly given it to her, under witness of his friends and fellow Slytherins, so it would be strange if they didn’t use it. Castanea was worried that Slughorn would catch on and ruin whatever scientific integrity they had left- perhaps confiscate it, or even directly screw their test scores or potion results. They then concluded that in order to proceed, they needed to test the limits of Slughorn’s authority and ability to meddle- how much could he get away with? 

The invitation of the Slug Club’s Halloween Party was an awful, amazing, and upsettingly perfect opportunity to do such. 

Slughorn invited “potentials” which was strange considering the year had not gone on long enough for him to find this out. However, underclassmen were only invited upon special occasions and not on a regular basis, so this was a very important screening process for them. 

Tom was not invited, and neither was Filius, which was strange considering the two were the top house-point earners and by far more academic than Castanea. She had a scientific mind and often pursued what she found to be interesting which often did not align with the Hogwarts curriculum. 

Tom and Filius were both eager and bright-eyed, which is why she was immediately suspicious that she and several other less scholarly young heirs and heiresses received an invitation, instead of her friends. 

She asked around her common room, which she quickly learned was a valuable source of information, and found that while it wasn’t blood-purity exclusive, muggleborns and other ‘nameless’ students had a harder time gaining acceptance and often did not feel welcome. 

She eventually bugged one of the upperclassmen enough that they agreed to indulge her, but not before she was blindfolded and subjected to a taste test, in which she had to correctly guess the flavor of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans, and nearly got all of them wrong. 

(“Again, please stop the underclassman extortion!” The Prefect called out from across the room. 

“It’s alright, she’s a willing participant!” The sixth year waved them off. 

“Owl droppings?” Castanea guessed.

“Charcoal.”)

She learned some very useful things, like how Slughorn used this as borderline extortion to create and maintain ties with influential families. And that she was supposed to wear something outside her Hogwarts uniform which indirectly served as a measurement of her family’s wealth. You can’t bring dates, Slughorn will try and play matchmaker and it’s best to go along. You can suddenly be kicked out, there are no set rules, it’s cutthroat high society.

Isabelle, the upperclassmen, had informed her that Slughorn (among many of the Hogwarts staff) was slightly misogynistic, and that Castanea was almost certainly invited because of her name and not her brains. Young Slub Club members rarely have any merit to themselves, especially the female ones. Isabelle told Castanea that as long as she looked pretty and had a meaningful last name, she could do anything she wanted, though it was probably best she didn’t talk much. 

Isabelle was very gracious and lent Castanea a book on wizarding dinner party etiquette, and advised her to read up, and when in doubt, do nothing. Apparently, witches did not need to eat or talk, so if she was wondering about which fork she should use or what she should say, she could just become a statue and this was also socially acceptable. 

Castanea was very dismayed by this, but took her housemate’s advice and owled her mother with the request of a nice party dress and a gift for Slughorn. Because you were supposed to bring your teacher a gift. Luckily, only one per year when you first attend his gathering.

Her mother sent back a gray gown with a navy ribbon. For a gift, the Ollianders sent a bottle of wine. It upset Castanea greatly that her parents and Hogwarts trusted her with alcohol. They were right, she wasn’t going to drink it, but they were so sure of that that it was insulting. 

The wine was in an engraved wooden bottle, and Castanea quite liked the bottle so maybe she wouldn’t drink it, but she might pour it out and keep the bottle. But why would she keep the evidence? Alas, she had no option than to gift it as intended. 

She and Tom, meanwhile, continued as if reading from their Second Edition but put forth the recipe of Edition 2 that they now had ‘official’ access to. She thinks that Avery didn’t quite think this through, as his grades were suffering once more, and Tom’s completion time was alarmingly quick. There was a point where she had to pull him aside and get him to slow down, as the cheery grins on Slughorn's face grew more and more strained. 

Perhaps it was a good thing Tom didn’t slow down, because he earned himself an invitation as well. 

Castanea was coasting by, but only because Tom was her tablemate and looked out for her. She was sure that if left on her own, she would brew a sort of new poison gas that would kill them all. 

They had written out a list of questions that Slughorn or the Slytherins (which sounded like a band to Castanea, so she started calling them that) might ask, and were practicing quietly in the courtyard behind the stones so they’d be out of sight and earshot of the passerby’s. 

“Tom, my boy,” She said in her best Slughorn impression. “I noticed that you are quite the upstart with potions, and recently even more so. It’s very impressive, mind sharing your secret to success?” 

“Well, I have such a great teacher. It’s hard to not be good at potions when you're learning from the best,” Tom smiled sweetly. Castanea nodded, impressed with his combination of deflection and brown-nosing. 

“But still, you seem to be doing remarkably well as of late, even more so than usual.” She persisted. 

“Really, I hadn’t noticed.” Tom laughed politely. “I suppose I’m just starting to get the hang of it, then.” 

He then turned to her with his prepared set of questions. 

“You’re always taking notes in class, even when I haven’t asked you to. Quite impressive, the amount of pages you’ve filled up. But I have to wonder, what are you writing down, Miss Ollivander?” 

“Ah, just tips you give in class for me to remember later.” She gave her best blank-eyed smile.

“Still, that’s an awful lot of writing,” Tom noted.

“Well, you do an awful lot of talking,” She countered. 

“Cassie, no.” Tom sighed. “Do not say that, especially to his face.”

She nodded sagely. 

“Try again,” Tom instructed. 

“You say so many things, that-”

“No.”

“You say so many interesting things,” She looked at Tom, and he nodded. “That I’d hate to miss them.” 

“That’s okay, at best,” He sighed. “Just try not to imply that he’s talking too much,” 

“He is.” 

“Yes, but that’s what we want.” 

She shrugged, not quite agreeing with that statement. 

“Try not to directly lie, if you can help it. Have some form of truth,” Tom advised. “If it can be easily proved, you'll become more reliable. Additionally, if you’re bad at lying, this makes it easier.” 

“Am I bad at lying?” 

“No, just socially inept. You need to learn when to lie.” 

“So, I’d say, ‘I like keeping track of what’s going on in class so I can look at it later. I’d hate to miss anything.” 

“Add some flattery.” 

“Your class is so interesting, I’d hate to miss anything.”

Tom grinned earnestly at this. “Perfect.”

She conned her mother into sending one of Robur’s old suits for Tom to wear. They were able to resize it to fit him properly, and though Tom was initially reluctant to take any handouts from her, she could tell he liked the way he looked in it. 

They unraveled the stitching of her brother’s name in the lining of the jacket and replaced it with Tom’s own. 

They met in Slughorn’s office. 

It was decorated aptly for the event, with a large dining table in the center of the room. Castanea did a quick survey of those in attendance and clocked only five students her year. 

Malfoy, Nott, Avery, Lestrange, and of course, Tom.

In all, there were about 2-7 students per year, ranging on the lower end, especially with the upperclassmen. She got a distinct feeling that the numbers would dwindle as time went on.

There was a small table where people had placed small gifts, and she settled the wine next to a particularly gaudy crystal peacock. Tom hovered by the table, even though she and everyone else in the room knew he didn’t have anything to give.

Phase one was to mingle. She was more fortunate in this regard than Tom, boasting a family name and (relative) blood purity. She had not worn her Ravenclaw colors, though she and her family were well known for their house, so there was a limit on how dumb she could be. 

Isabelle had told her, though, that Ravenclaws have a few ways to get by in ignorance aside from being dumb. 

The first, and the one Castanea planned to use, was ignorance. She would play the part of a sheltered child, woefully naive.

Secondly, Ravenclaws were given the grace of being insane, more so than any other house. Crazy genius that was out of touch with reality; she could babble on about her wand theory for hours and still be on the sane side of the spectrum. 

And lastly, being a girl, Castanea was graced with wonderfully low expectations and misogyny. She could simply fall back on being the ‘fairer’ sex and whatever that implied.

She and Tom separated to not look as conspiring as they really were, and she settled into small talk with a third-year Slytherin. He did most of the talking, and she nodded politely when he gave her the pleasure to add something. 

When the house elves brought out the supper, everyone sat at the large table where their name was displayed on small cards in front of their plates.

 She was seated next to a seventh-year, Dorea Black and Marcel Lestrange, who was her year. Neither regarded her kindly, but the name Dorea rang in her head, and she couldn’t quite place why or where she’d heard that name.

Tom was put between Malfoy and Avery, and he was hiding his discomfort well. 

“Well, friends, new and old,” Slughorn spread his arms out. “And let me welcome you to the Slug Club’s own Hallowe’en!” 

Everyone clapped politely and began serving themselves. She watched as Dorea Black filled her plait with small portions and mostly neat foods, and did the same. Tom also mirrored what Malfoy seemed to plate, having correctly assessed that the way Avery ate was abnormal, and that Tom probably couldn’t get away with such a large portion and sloppy eating.

The resumed chattering, Slughorn, continually being at the center of it. The man then took it upon himself to introduce everyone to everyone, going clockwise around the table and laying on the flattery thick. 

Castanea listened while taking small bites of her food and sips of her bubbling water. She was growing dreadfully hungry and the food looked very good, but as a rule, all of the girls seemed to eat very little and like birds, pecking occasionally and mostly chittering mindlessly. 

She caught Dorea’s eyes, though, and saw an edge in them that shook her to her core. As far as Castanea was concerned, there were two types of people in Slytherin: The ones in because of their legacy, and the ones in because of their house traits. You didn’t have to be particularly cunning if you had a family name, but Dorea may fit the bill in both regards. Dorea was certainly mean, not that that was Slytherin exclusive. 

Castanea saw the way the girl held herself- graceful and quiet. She seemed rather well-liked, which was odd as the girl had done nothing but glare at her. Castanea had no doubt in her mind that this was because Dorea was a Black, and if she was nameless she'd be shunned.

There was something dangerous and boiling in the girl’s gaze, and though Castanea foolishly hoped to find a friend in it, she was appropriately wary.

“And this is the lovely Dorea Black, gifted in potions as well as a talented alchemist.” Slughorn blathered on about the girl sitting next to her for a while longer, and Castanea took this as her cue to liven up. She took a sip of her water and smiled politely as the professor turned to her.

“Then, we have young Miss Castanea Ollivander, who is quite quick with her wand and her quill. She’s always taking notes in class, even when I haven’t asked her to. Quite impressive, the amount of pages she’s filled up. But I have to wonder, what are you writing down, Miss Ollivander?”

Tom had called his question, nearly word for word. She let out a little laugh, which was timed well enough for the professor, and company, to think it was directed at him. 

“I like keeping track of what’s going on in class so I can look at it later. Your class is so interesting, that I’d hate to miss anything.” She said as practiced. Slughorn beamed at her. 

“Ah, ever the scholar! Just like your father. You’ll do well for yourself, Ollivander. I’ll have to come visit you when you take over his shop!” 

She smiled again, despite being frustrated at the continuous assumption that she would inherit and run her father’s business.

“Kind words, professor, though my father has made it clear he does not intend to hand over the shop to me that easily, nor anytime soon.” 

“Keep faith, young lady! After all, there’s no one else it can go to!” 

“Especially not your squib brother,” Laughed Dorea Black. Dorea Black, squib brother. Dorea Black, squib brother. 

“Don’t you have a squib brother as well?” Castanea connected the dots.

Dorea stiffened considerably. Really, Dorea shouldn’t have brought that up if it could be so easily turned onto her. Perhaps the sharpness in her eyes was just cruelty, not wit. 

“I do not,” She bit out, clearly lying or not telling the whole truth. 

“I’ll have to insist that you do. Now, I can’t quite remember his name, but I do recall the conversation around him when he came through the shop.” Castanea hummed. “What was it, Miriam, Mars, something like that?” 

“Alright, now-” Slughorn tried to interject.

Dorea stood up sharply. “I implore you to watch your tongue, Ollivander.” 

“You seem upset by this,” Castanea noted. Dorea pointed her wand at the girl next to her, flushed with anger. 

“Miss Black, I must ask for you to not do something you’d regret later,” Slughorn said firmly. 

“I doubt I’ll ever regret this,” She sneered. Slughorn turned beet red at the outright dismissal from one of his first-ever students. 

“Miss Black, I’m going to have to ask you to leave-”

Dorea waved her wand and chanted a harsh word, and Castanea’s scalp tingled. Chunks of hair began to slough off onto her plate, and she belatedly realized that this was the Hairloss Curse, which was unkind and humiliating, but not as bad as Dorea could have gone. 

Dorea probably thought it was bad, though, as it had lasting effects, unlike other curses that wore off. Also, it was dreadfully embarrassing for a girl, or anyone, to be bald, but Castanea was less embarrassed and more shocked. 

“You can curse away my hair but you can’t curse away your brother’s existence,” She finally said. Well, Dorea could, but to Obliviate everyone's memory of her brother would be quite the feat. 

Dorea shrieked angrily, and began to cast another curse before Slughorn confiscated her wand and cast a binding hex so she couldn’t move. Then, he unceremoniously dismissed the party much earlier than intended. 

“Show’s over, friends, I’m afraid it’s time to head back to your dorms.” He grinned, though still noticeably shaken. Dorea screamed though it was muffled.

“It’s quite alright, professor,” Castanea assured him. “Please continue. I’ll head to the hospital wing for a Manegro potion. Please enjoy your night,” 

“There’s no need for that, my dear. I have a supply of my own in the backrooms of the Potions Classroom, among a few other potions. I’ll walk you there.” He insisted. 

“I’d hate to bother you, Professor. I’ll just grab it tomorrow after class.”

Slughorn looked at her quizzically. “Will you be alright being bald until then?” 

“Fortunately, it is not physically harming me.” Castanea shrugged. “But I would like my hair back before it gets too cold out.” 

“Ah, of course,” Slughorn seemed a tad unnerved at how blase she was being. 

“Well, have a good night,” She waved at the party and began to leave. 

“I’ll walk you,” Tom quickly offered before anyone else could. She smiled appreciatively at her friend. They left the party, or what was left of it, together and began their climb to the Ravenclaw dorm. 

“Avery said my jacket was out of season,” Tom said abruptly. Castanea turned to him- it was a navy blue suit and gray tie, she didn’t see how that could ever be out of season. It wasn’t like Tom was wearing purple robes and a checkered scarf. 

“I see,” She said noncommittally. 

“I know it’s not as bad as losing a whole head of hair,” He looked at her, trying his hardest to stare at her bald head. Ah, she realized. He was trying to relate to the awful experience she had just gone through. 

“Your hair was nice, too. Long and wavy.” He offered awkwardly. “It’s a shame.” 

It really wasn’t, especially because it was replaceable. It was nice that Tom seemed to think so, though.

“Slughorn pitties me now, though.” She shrugged. “Trade-offs, I suppose.” 

“Why would pity ever be a good thing to have?” Tom asked incredulously. 

“It’s not good to have,” Castanea countered. “Nothing’s good to have unless you put it to use. Pity’s good to exploit, not garner.” 

“So, you’re advising me to not be pitiful, but if someone pities me, use that to get what I want.” 

“Well, I’d say it’s the user’s discretion. Sometimes it’s nice to have an ace behind your back,” 

“Up your sleeve,” Tom corrected. “But that’s still not using it.”

“I’d disagree. A backup plan is always just as, if not more, important as a primary plan.” 

Tom sighed. “You’re talking in circles.” 

“My logic doesn’t have to make sense to you for it to be logical.” 

“Didn’t you say reality is perception?” 

“Well, for you, then yes, my logic can’t be logic if you don’t see it as such. But for me, Tom, it’s logic regardless of what you think.” 

“That’s absurd.” He stared blankly at her. “ You’re absurd.” 

“And bald,” She added. 

Tom took one last look at her and took a deep breath. They had reached the Ravenclaw common room, now. 

“Good night, Cassie.” 

“Night, Tommy.” 

She watched as Tom started his walk back to his common room and turned to the brass knocker for her nightly riddle. 

“I have a spine but no bones, a jacket but-” 

“Book.” 

The eagle slumped and the door opened. Castanea walked into the common room, then turned back around.

“Hey, Eagle?” 

“Yes?” 

“Do you ever repeat riddles?” 

“No.” 

“Never?” 

It shut the door on her. 

Chapter Text

Castanea had known that the wizarding world was cruel, and this was coming from a fortunate standing in society. 

Potions was her last class, and she was quickly realizing how sexist and cruel everyone was. She hadn’t even made it into potions when Headmaster Dippet called her into his office after class, which was the cherry on top of all the snickering going on behind her back.

Peeves had also taken an interest in her, calling her Egg-head Olly, among other things. He had made up a song that had, in short, called her a sad old man in various degrees of offense. The poltergeist followed her up until she reached the Headmaster’s office, before bussing himself with some hotheaded Gryffindor who took the bait. 

“Ah, Good morning Miss Ollivander,” Dippet said kindly. Gold-rimmed spectacles looked up from whatever paperwork he was doing to seem to look busy and he gave her a sad smile. He was small and unassuming and seemed feeble. 

“Won’t you please take a seat?” He motioned at the chair opposing him. “I have some licorice wands and a Manegro potion, help yourself.” 

Castanea wanted nothing from the man. But he’d exploited her love for licorice, and also had functioning eyes and could see she was bald, so she indulged him. He smiled thinly, and she returned his grin with a half-grimace of her own.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” She took the potion. Her scalp grew itchy, and suddenly deep brown waves sprouted out and hair grew until it reached her back. She shook her head, getting used to the weight. It was far longer than she’d had before. When he said nothing, she also took a licorice wand to down the taste. Dippet nodded in satisfaction and turned his full attention to her. 

“I heard of what went down yesterday, my dear, and wanted to make sure you’re alright,” She supposed it was reasonable for Dippet to be concerned, but was wary. She was about to get a Manegro potion in her next class, and he probably knew it. This served as a way for him to gain favor with her, and by extension, the Ollivanders. 

“It was only hair,” She tried to reassure. 

“You were very brave, Castanea. Both last night and this morning. I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” 

She wondered if he was talking about just her hair, not the fact that she was cursed at a dinner party.

“Slughorn offered me a Manegro potion that night,” Castanea told him, wondering what conversation the two had that led to this one. 

“I know, dear, and I understand why you didn’t feel safe in that environment for much longer. I approve of your decision to separate yourself, even if it was hard.” 

“I appreciate that,” She accepted that they were just going to talk in circles for a while and resigned herself to snippets of pleasantries. 

“The company you’ve been keeping,” Dippet remarked. “I have to worry for you, young Ollivander, and wonder if it’s what may have led to this,” 

“Could you please clarify?” Castanea hoped he didn’t mean Tom, or even a generalization of the Slytherins. That would be in poor taste. 

“Have you considered actions you could have taken in place of the ones you did, and what those might have led to?” 

She blinked, not quite knowing what to say. Was he asking her what she could have done differently to avoid getting cursed? 

“Sir,” She started hesitantly. “I believe I was cursed with hair loss after outlining a commonality I have with Dorea Black. And with all respect, headmaster, she was the one who introduced the topic,” 

“I see,” Dippet reclined in his seat and peered at her over his glasses. “Yes, I suppose it was an unfortunate situation to begin with,” He sighed. 

Castanea didn’t like how he quickly dismissed it as unavoidable.

“You’re a bright young lady, Miss Ollivander. I encourage you to make good decisions in the company you keep.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be welcome in the Slug Club anymore, Headmaster,” She said dryly. 

“Yes, but people exist outside gatherings. You’d do well to know who your allies are.” 

This was good enough advice, but Castanea wondered who exactly he was talking about. It seemed rather pointed.

“You’re dismissed.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Castanea stood up, tucked in her chair, and left the office. 

She met up with Tom at lunch, and Tom looked unwell. When she approached him, he did not respond unkindly, but certainly not in good spirits.

Castanea said nothing, and neither did Tom. They grabbed their lunch in silence, and walked to the garden where they’d so frequently met, and Castanea felt unnerved by Tom’s unusual quiet disposition. They settled down in the shade, and she noted that they’d have to find a new spot in the near future, as the days were growing shorter and colder and winter was approaching. 

“Are you alright?” She finally asked as Tom slumped against the tree trunk with a loud sigh. Castanea sat beside him, staring at him until he relented. He looked tired and sounded exhausted. 

“Avery, Nott, and Malfoy,” Tom’s hair was still neatly combed and his tie knotted properly, but she could see the weariness in his eyes and the way he carried himself. 

“What happened?” Castanea asked finally. Tom paused for a moment, and organized his thoughts before responding. 

“Well, they were waiting for me,” Tom took an extended sip of his pumpkin juice. “And, I, well.” 

“They attacked you, didn’t they?” She guessed. 

“I held my own,” He reassured. Castanea looked at him once more, this time in greater detail. Aside from his fatigue and possible trauma, he seemed unhurt. 

“That’s good, at least.” She wasn’t overly happy with this, and Tom seemed to not want to say much more on the matter, so she changed the subject. 

“Dippet thinks I’m traumatized because I was bald,” She offered. 

“Not because of the curse?” 

“Remarkably, no.” 

Tom huffed out a sad laugh.“Would you say this is out of character for wizarding schools?” 

“Well, I’ve never been to one before.” 

“Then, society. Wizarding society.” 

“I think schools are reflective of society in every aspect, in every case. They foster the next generation and set forth an example.” 

“So, yes.” 

“Unfortunately.” She agreed. Castanea looked at Tom, and he seemed very tired and not like the young boy she’d met in the shop a month or two ago. 

“How bothersome. Do you think we can change it?” 

Castanea didn’t know what to say to this.

She wanted to say yes. Yes, they could tutor underclassmen in the arts of equality and whatnot. They could talk to their peers and slowly turn the tide. They’d convince the most elitist families to accept muggleborns through debate and reason, and when they wouldn’t budge, turn to their children with education, exposing them to history and facts that they’d never seen before. And, once they graduated from Hogwarts, they’d become teachers or work at the ministry, and the news would write essays about how wonderful Castanea and Tom were. 

But, she knew that if they did change things, the change wouldn’t be well received, nor would it be easy. It probably wouldn’t even be legal, with barriers of text and magic stopping them before they tried. 

“What happened to the Potions textbook plan?” She changed the topic. 

“You tell me.” Tom scoffed. 

“Slughorn is more or less socially indebted to me,” 

“Ask him to go over the Second Edition textbook with you over his office hours. Ask why as much as you possibly can,” He suggested. 

“You do it.” She countered. “He has reason to believe I have Edition 2, if you tell him you’re looking for a deeper understanding of potions he can’t say no ,”

“You’re asking me to play teacher's pet,” Tom looked at the very least disgusted by this. 

“Well, you have to hold the favor of someone,” 

Tom looked hurt at this, but Castanea barreled on. 

“Tom, I say this as your friend. Slytherin is often considered the ‘bad’ house, and that’s coming from the elitist study-snob house. It has cunning and ambition but also is polluted with dark magic, racism, and big names with wealth and no common sense. Because of house prejudice, you’re stuck in your house, and if you can’t make allies in your house, these next six years will not be easy.” 

“Well, it’s not like I can change houses,” Tom huffed. 

“No, I’d encourage you to stay where you are; it suits you well enough. Hufflepuff, though well-meaning, can often be incompetent and emotional. Gryffindor has a superiority complex and hates everyone else because they see them as cowards. Ravenclaws are smart, but elitists lack the house unity a lot of other houses have. They use and extort each other openly, do not care about the house cup or quidditch, and are greedy for knowledge at any cost.” 

“They use each other that openly?” Tom asked. 

“It’s a better alternative to stubble manipulation, as you get what you want faster. We’re about efficiency, cutting down and ignoring what we think is busy work or wastes our time. Now, there are exceptions of grand scholars and teacher’s pets, but they all have one thing in common: pride in intellect and weeding out redundancies.”

“The riddles, then-”

“Passwords are guessed and shared, and anyone can be book smart if they're good at memorization. It’s cruel, not efficient in getting in, but instead keeping out. Now, anyone can solve the riddle, but Ravenclaw is loose in terms of their house. Again, I’m sure it shifts from generation to generation, but as of the moment, we’re an odd batch of loons with theories and experiments, hate for redundancies, and tend to be rather cutthroat and snobby.” 

“Cut-throat seems more Slytherin.” 

“Cut-throat is Filius going to the Library and claiming relevant textbooks in advance so he remains the top student in charms.” 

“What?” Tom balked, having been trying to one-up his classmate for quite some time.

“He’s nearly six chapters ahead by now, and has nearly all of the relevant books. He’ll give them to you, but you’ll have to ask. Most don’t, though, because they think it’s dehumanizing.” 

“Is this common? Textbook monopolies?” Tom picked at his food, looking rather queasy.

“Well, I’m starting to think so.” She admitted, finishing off her tart. 

“If I ask Slughorn for help,” He finally said. “What’s step two?” 

“Getting him to admit everything?” She guessed. 

“No, that’s nonsensical. He wouldn’t.” 

“Well, black market edition two’s. We sell them.” 

“We can’t- Cassie, that’s awful,” He looked at her strangely. “We shouldn't turn a profit off of students. Besides, if we wanted to make a profit we should sell them the relevant recipes per week, instead of outright at a flat rate.”

“We should mark them up for tests and finals.” 

Tom groaned. “This is ridiculous. I’m not going to partake in back-alley potions recipe dealing.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” She asked. 

“We come out, lay all of our cards on the table. We say ‘we know about edition two, what will you do to keep us quiet?'” 

“And he Obliviates us.” Castanea echoed his words from before. “Well, suppose we leave Edition 2 and Second edition in a common area, for others to discover. We proceed based on what they do. We’re the catalyst only, so anything that happens after that is not our fault. Indirect action.” 

Tom perked up at this, righting himself and turning to her. “What’s with that poltergeist that causes problems? The one that called you the ‘Hairless Heiress’?” 

“Peeves,” She said, and it dawned on her what Tom was implying. “Oh. Oh, no. This,” 

Tom simply smiled back. “Tom, We can’t get caught.” 

“We won’t.” 

That day, after potions, Slughorn had approached her almost abashedly. The man was clearly ashamed of what went down the night before and had her stay after class to talk. 

“I sincerely apologize,” He said as soon as Castanea sat down. “The Slug Club is not a place intended for that sort of behavior, and going forward Miss black will no longer be in attendance. I recognize her actions were despicable, and as your Professor and establisher of the Slug Club, I am eager to make amends with you.”

Slughorn was ashamed of what went down, and perhaps he was a more honorable man than she had given him credit for. Still, this apology almost elevated her to his level- most students spend their time trying to curry their professor's favor, and now here he was ‘eager to make amends’. Castanea wondered what this would entail, but realized the man was stalling for her input. She wanted to end the conversation with him owing her a favor, but leaving it too vague may set off red flags. 

“I accept your apology, even if you didn’t have to give it, Professor.” She smiled. 

“You are very gracious, Miss Olivander. Please, let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” Slughorn said earnestly. 

Castanea grinned, as she was being handed the favor of the century. With Slughorn all but indebted, that crossed her off the suspect list, as no sane person would enact revenge on someone who was willing to do their bidding. Well, revenge in the sense that Slughorn was the primary establisher and distributor of the Edition 2’s, and therefore faced consequences after the conspiracy became more well known. 

Slughorn also approached Tom about his, ah, social hardships in his house, and practically gushed over the boy’s academic achievements. Slughorn then gave Tom written permission to access some of the forbidden sections of the library as an olive branch. Tom wouldn’t give Castanea the details, but it involved the man encouraging tom to look into his heritage, because, after all, they had to be wizardly in his blood if he was sorted into Slytherin. Castanea did not like that Slughorn's plan to help Tom 'fit in' was to prove that he wasn't muggleborn, not condemn those who targeted him because he was a muggleborn. 

Practically, it would make sense to work on one person rather than generations of hate, but in the long run, everyone could continue to suffer. Essentially, Slughorn's solution to Tom being bullied because of his status was to change Tom's status, never mind that eleven-year-olds and pure-bloods tend to be fixed in their mindset and resistant to change. 

"He said I was good at potions, and then alluded to that I had to be at least a halfblood because no muggleborn is that skilled that quickly. Slughorn called it 'inborn'," Tom had explained, showing her his additional-access library card. 

They both knew that success at potions was not inborn, but the right to a better textbook was. 

She returned the textbook to Avery, proudly showing him how she’d (neatly) copied down the rest of the year’s potion recipes. This way she’d have plausible deniability, as no one but Tom knew she had her own Edition 2. She and Avery had what should have been a very touching moment if he had not jumped her friend on Halloween. 

She worried about the letter she’d sent to her father, wondering if there was a backlog of every letter sent, and if it would trace back to her. Luckily her wording was vague enough, and she had not specified the details of her ruining her potions textbook. She wondered if she should keep his letter back, on how he was only able to obtain it through name-dropping. This way, if they did get caught, she had additional proof of the injustice of it all.

Castanea eventually decided to seal it back into the envelope and then packed the envelope between a book cover and book jacket, and stuck the layers together so that it would not come out unless magically removed. 

Tom and Castanea debated on how intentional the incident should be. Should Peeves accidentally stumble on the two books, he might not even notice. They had to catch Peeve’s eye, convince him that it was worthwhile, and make the poltergeist believe that it was entirely his idea and discovery. 

Additionally, an abandoned bag seemed more innocuous than setting two near-identical textbooks on a table with a card for him. This way the ‘culprit’ was not to blame except for carelessness. And, on the off chance that Peeves had not taken the bait, the bag was more likely to be avoided, as most lost items were, allowing one of them the ability to reclaim it so they could try again. 

They had picked a satchel that Hogsmeades sold, and made it as nondescript and blank as they could, even acquiring it by going through the little-known lost and found. 

Castanea cast Tergeo until she’d nearly cleaned the ink off the textbooks and stitching off the bag, and Tom had floated the two into it among with some nondescript quills and a cheeky love note addressed to Malfoy tucked poking out of the pages of Edition Two, to grab Peeves’ attention. Castanea broke the buckle so that it never properly closed, (thus making it an easy mark) and also put in some deodorizing perfume spray that someone had left in the girl's restroom, toad-breath mint chews, and best of all, a crumpled, poor rendition of Malfoy that was stashed in the front pocket of the bag and slight peeking out. Overall, every embarrassing yet harmless item a teenage girl could possess. They debated on putting sanitary products in but decided that was going a bit far, and neither of them knew how to go about getting those sorts of things. 

The letter, which was in a bright red envelope decorated in hearts, contained loopy, girly handwriting that detailed the utter love the student had for Malfoy, in enough detail to ensure that no one would claim the bag even if it was theirs. And, the Second edition came from the library, so that Peeves had even more reason to damage school property. 

Tom wrote it after seeing Castanea’s horrible handwriting and attempts at calligraphy. Besides, Tom’s natural handwriting could not be further from heart-dotted I’s and dramatic curly flourishes, so he could not be suspected. They decided the package would be overly feminine due to the blatant sexism, and that women were so forgetful and lovestruck and shameful that it would make much more sense for a witch to be behind this. 

The duo spent nearly a week setting the bag up and wiping all traces of any magic or any person so it could not be tracked back to them.

It took a while for them to decide which table they would leave it under. Ravenclaw was a no-go, as Castanea was the obvious suspect and could reasonably have both books. Hufflepuff was their next pick, but there weren't many purebloods in Hufflepuff. Also, if any Hufflepuff did have this book, they’d probably share it. Gryffindor was too prideful to both confess their love to Malfoy and have an elitist book, and even though Peeves was scared of the Baron, Slytherins were a cagey bunch that wouldn’t admit to anything, and Malfoy was quite popular with the ladies in his house. 

The one flaw they had is that Tom had reason to mess with Malfoy, as apparently, he was the driving force for the ambush. Tom had not shared many details beyond what he had originally told her, but there was a reason for their targeted humiliation. 

The morning went smoothly. Castanea managed to cast an invisibility spell on top of a shrinking spell, which she’d learned from Filius’s many charms books that he had no business in having. She stored the small, invisible bag inside her own bag. An added bonus to the shrinking was that they didn’t have to worry about someone tripping, kicking, or stepping on the bag while it was under the tables. 

She then sat her bag under her, ‘accidentally’ kicked it open, and managed to pack everything back up (save for the bag) just in time for the mail rush.

Tom was able to Accio the invisible bag and levitate it to rest underneath the Slytherin table during the delivery. Everyone was seated, so the bag sailed smoothly between the two tables. Plus, the waving and madness of packages and owls hid his actions well, even though no one was looking. 

Tom tapped his foot right behind the package so she knew where it was. Then, Castanea cast a delayed remove magic spell- so the bag would reappear and resize itself in an hour, with no trace of either spell. 

They then continued eating as if nothing had happened. 

Breakfast wrapped up and everyone departed to their classes per usual. While they were clearing the table, the House Elves happened upon their package. As protocol, they set the bag on the Slytherin table for it to be rediscovered, and because the Bloody Baron had slunk off to the Slytherin house for the day-

Peeves struck, happily going through the mystery girl’s bag. 

And fortunately, Peeves was smart enough to realize that some first-year’s love note may cause a ripple, but a cheater’s edition potion book would cause a typhoon.

Castanea could only picture what was happening, stuck in the longest Defense Against

the Dark arts class of her life. Tom was unusually anxious to get to lunch, and kept eyeing the clock. Castanea elbowed him sharply while they were taking notes, and though he looked displeased with her, he got the message. 

After what seemed like an eternity, their class let out, and everyone ambled towards the great hall where Peeves was waiting for them. He politely waited for the food to be served and everyone to be seated, but then cheerfully zoomed over to the professor who had just dug into his lunch.

“Sluggy!” Peeves waved the two books cheerfully, tossing them back and forth in a pseudo juggle. “Spot the difference between these two books!” 

“Well, I-” 

Peeves flew backward and cackled, before the man could respond. He levitated just out of reach and then re-sat himself on the ledge above the teachers. Clearing his throat dramatically and grabbing everyone’s attention, he turned to the students. “If Sluggy can’t help me, maybe you can!” 

This provoked murmuring in the great hall, as peeves clearly had something planned, and the poltergeist had only been known to be impulsive.

“I have two first-year potion’s textbooks, tell me if you spot the difference!” Slytherin seemed particularly nervous, while everyone else was both annoyed and intrigued. 

 Peeves looked at the first textbook and began loudly reading the back side of it. “A Beginner's Complete Guide to Potions, Edition 2, is an abridged guide meant for statused students with societal prospects .” 

He cackled, before tossing the book down to land in the Gryffindor mashed potatoes. It was quickly snatched up, and the table began to flip through them curiously. 

“A Beginner's Complete Guide to Potions, Second Edition, is an overview of everyday potions for the average student’s scholarly needs!” 

This one landed on the chicken and also was quickly grabbed. A few people began scanning the books and mumbling, and many of their peers hovered over them eagerly.

Some of Ravenclaw had gotten up and crossed over to look at the books as well. Slytherin was tense and Hufflepuff remained focused on peeves. 

“And that’s not all! For the low, low price of blood purity and daddy’s money, you too, can receive a cheater’s guide to potions!”

Slughorn was flushed and looked both angry and embarrassed. 

“Peeves!” Dippet said, rather loudly for how meek the man normally was. The poltergeist cackled and zoomed around the staff table. 

“Sluggy’s class has two books, 

One for losers, one for crooks!”

Everyone seemed to be talking now, which is when Peeves pulled out the bright red envelope and swooned against the fireplace, dramatically reciting the love note. 

“My dearest Malfoy, I yearn for your tender embrace and ache for the day in which you receive my love and accept it wholly. With your silvery locks and golden heart, you are the prideful and beautiful peacock in which your family so adores. You may not know my name but I say yours fondly-” 

Malfoy stood up and slammed his fist down at the table. Some Gryffendor called out something incomprehensive at him, which spurred a few Slytherins to yell back. 

Then, everything was chaos. 

Gryffindor was torn between outrage and laughter. Weasley, who had grabbed the book, had abandoned it and was shouting obscene things at the Slytherin prefects. Gryffindors were cheering for Peeves and losing their minds over the injustice of it all. The prefects of Gryffindor were now openly jeering at their rival house, and the rest of Gryffindor joined in on the chant Peeves had started. 

Ravenclaw had stormed the Gryffindor table and had launched an investigation. They quickly began going over the books, verifying what Peeves had said. Already the prefects were jotting down inconsistencies and getting out their own books. Filius and Margot who seemed to be acting as year-one representatives gladly shared their textbook for third-party confirmation, and all first years were being urged to give their own accounts of what happened in class. 

Hufflepuff was shaken, a good lot of them crying for various reasons. A seventh year was openly sobbing into their mashed potatoes, and the rest of the house seemed to follow in variations of misery. About half of them seemed to have wilted in despair, a few banging their heads on the tables in regret for all the hours spent studying a dupe textbook. Some of Hufflepuff was on Comfort Duty, which insisted on a lot of back painting and hugging. Some of the Comfort Duty went over to Gryffindor to soothe some of the more outraged members. Some of Ravenclaw went over to not-quite-confront but not-quite-forgive Slytherin in a demand to see their textbooks. 

Slytherin was in various shades of disarray. 

They were screaming back at Gryffindor, guarding their textbooks from Ravenclaw. Malfoy, utterly humiliated, stormed out of the dining hall. Slughorn looked like he would spontaneously combust at any given moment. Avery was laughing but also terrified of what this meant. The upperclassmen shifted between shock, flippance, fear, and anger. If they reacted minimally, it could be a one-off experience and not a conspiracy, a universal thing.

The underclassmen were losing it. They hadn’t gone one year without blowing their cover. Someone was in love with Malfoy, which was horrifying, and also that someone had cut off their access to easy O’s, which was also horrifying. 

Blue and red overtook a sea of green with different motives, yellow trying its best to dissuade everyone from turning it into an outright brawl. 

They were not succeeding. 

Dippet was calling for students to stop, though he was undermined by the rallying cries of everyone. Dumbledore had gone to separate his house away from Slytherin, but Babbling, Ravenclaw’s head of house, was pressing Slughorn for details. Berry, the Hufflepuff head, was soothing his students the best he could with cute charms and candies. 

“Everyone!” Dippet called again, but no one heeded him. Peeves was cackling madly and upturned a plate of peas on Slytherin, who thought it was Gryffindor. Gryffindor was then pelted with rolls and roasted brussel sprouts, which then prompted Gryffindor to splash piping hot gravy over their heads. 

Food went flying. And thanks to the replenishing magic of the plates, everyone had seemingly unlimited ammo. 

Ravenclaw had quickly retreated and the older students were casting warding charms over everyone, blocking things that were tossed at them. Many younger students grabbed serving plates as shields and cowered behind their upperclassmen. Castanea stuck herself behind Isabelle who looked irate. Ravenclaw made themselves into a mini-dome of protection spells and dinner dishes, with an inner ring of anyone with a decent grasp of levitating spells flinging food at Slytherin. 

The prefects would call out when and where to strike. The center of the dome consisted of underclassmen who still had the books, comparing the two and writing down everything they could. Filius was writing with both of his hands in two separate notebooks. 

Castanea was a mix of terrified and pleased. Everything had gone to plan, if not in extremes. She and Tom had not planned much past the initial discovery of the satchel, as Peeves was unpredictable and there was a large chance he’d do something else entirely. 

She didn’t know where Tom was, and was blocked from most of the outside world in a circle of angry Ravenclaws who moved as a unit. 

She could faintly hear the cries of Dippet to cease fire, as well as the Hogwarts staff trying to break things up. 

It grew louder and louder and now spells were flying, some simple charms and some full-on hexes. She could faintly hear the vomiting of slugs on her right, where one of her upperclassmen had been hit. 

There was screaming and wailing and cursing, cackling from peeves, and cries from professors who were trying their best to de-escalate things and failing miserably. Castanea wondered how long this would go on, and if she and Tom had accidentally ruined Hogwarts. 

A loud boom shook the floors and rattled the tables and everything quieted.

 “Stop this at once!” Dippet demanded, louder than Castanea had ever heard anyone speak. No one said a thing, and slowly the Ravenclaw dome unfurled and everyone was lined up and led to their dorms to clean up and take the rest of the day off. 

Castanea caught Tom’s eye as they were retreating and she could see the same realization there- the wizarding world was in shambles, even more so than they’d thought. 

With two books and a loud poltergeist, there was irreparable damage. This sent Castanea spinning- what would happen if the books went beyond the two? What would happen if the foundation of Hogwarts's “equal education for all” fractured further? How lazy was the school to allow this to happen and have no precautions in place when everything went up in flames, and what would the blowback be? 

How ruined was Hogwarts, how easy was it to ruin Hogwarts? 

Castanea doesn’t think she wants to see the world burn, but she wants to show the world how scorched it already was. She wants to help pick up the pieces and form a new haven that works much better than before.

The staff lead their students away and to their dorms. Several cleansing charms were cast and some of the worse-off students were filed into the baths. The rest of the day was promptly canceled, with all personnel called into a meeting that lasted well into dinner, which was catered by house elves so that everyone remained separated, and that the great hall could be cleaned.

“Disastrous,” Tom told her as they were sacking outside the garden, their go-to meeting point. “Everyone was in shambles,” 

Castanea hummed in agreement. “Ravenclaw stayed up and dissected both books more thoroughly than I could have dreamed. I hear they’re launching a raid of Slytherin textbooks soon.” 

“I wish them luck, Slytherin has been destroying all evidence since they found out they were ‘under attack’.” 

“Now, what does that look like?” 

Tom shrugged. “Book burning, tossing them into the lake, various dark arts spells.” 

Castanea winced. “Well, any news about Slughorn?” 

“I hear he and Babbling got into it. Dumbledore, too.”

“Interesting. I’ve also been told that Babbling had some words with him, apparently about scholarly integrity. Dumbledore seems more upset with the outbursts his house had.”

“Hufflepuff seems to be taking it well, though.” Tom remarked, watching as the Hufflepuff upperclassmen harvested squash happily. 

Indeed, Hufflepuff had been handling everything remarkably well, aside from the initial breakdown. They had stayed out of most of the fight, and calmed down those particularly upset by it all. Something to note was the house cup scores, with Slytherin, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor losing any and all points they had earned that year. Hufflepuff was in the rare lead, even racking up extra points by their mediation in the fight. 

“I’m honestly not surprised that Hufflepuff is the most unshakeable house, but that doesn’t mean I expected everyone to fall apart so easily,” She shrugged.

“What do you think their secret is?” 

Castanea looked over the garden wall, where two Hufflepuffs shared a snack of pastries while playing gobstones.

“I wish I knew,” 

“What do you suppose those two first years are up to? Are they having a secret romance, perhaps? They always seem to be hiding out under that tree.” 

“I don’t care. Now, pass me the pipe.”