The Ravenclaw common room was everything Eliot had imagined and more.
Circular walls lined with bookshelves that stretched to the domed ceiling. Star charts that moved and shifted with real constellations. Comfortable blue and bronze armchairs arranged around a crackling fireplace. And everywhere, the quiet hum of intellectual curiosity.
Eliot had barely slept. Not from nerves—from excitement.
He'd spent the night sketching runic patterns in his notebook, cross-referencing them with the magical theory books he'd brought from home. His roommates—Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner—had given him odd looks when they saw him working by wandlight at 2 AM.
"You know classes don't start until tomorrow, right?" Terry had whispered.
"I know," Eliot had replied. "I'm just... preparing."
---
The Great Hall buzzed with first-day energy. Owls swooped overhead delivering mail. Upper-year students compared timetables and groaned about their course loads. The ceiling showed a crisp autumn morning, complete with drifting clouds.
Eliot sat at the Ravenclaw table, methodically eating porridge while studying his schedule:
**Monday:**- 9:00 AM - Herbology (with Hufflepuff)- 11:00 AM - Break- 11:30 AM - Transfiguration- 1:00 PM - Lunch- 2:00 PM - Charms- 3:00 PM - History of Magic
"Nervous?" asked Padma Patil, sliding into the seat across from him.
"Excited," Eliot corrected. "You?"
"Terrified," she admitted. "My sister Parvati's in Gryffindor. She says Snape eats first-years for breakfast."
Eliot grinned. "Only if they're unprepared."
---
Greenhouse One was warm and humid, filled with the earthy scent of magical soil and growing things. Professor Sprout, a squat witch with flyaway gray hair and dirt under her fingernails, welcomed the first-years with genuine enthusiasm.
"Welcome to Herbology!" she beamed. "Here you'll learn about the wonderful world of magical plants—how to care for them, how to use them, and most importantly, how not to get eaten by them."
She gestured to tables lined with small pots containing what looked like ordinary seedlings.
"These are baby Mandrakes," Professor Sprout explained. "Perfectly harmless at this age, but they'll grow into something quite dangerous. Today, we'll learn proper repotting techniques."
Eliot examined the seedling in his pot. It looked innocent enough, but he could see tiny root systems that seemed to pulse with their own rhythm.
"Now then," Professor Sprout continued, "carefully lift your Mandrake by the leaves—never the stem—and place it in the larger pot. Add dragon dung fertilizer around the roots, but not too much!"
Eliot followed the instructions precisely, noting how the plant seemed to respond to gentle handling. The roots practically guided themselves into the new soil.
"Excellent technique, Mr. Clarke," Professor Sprout observed. "You have a natural touch with plants. Five points to Ravenclaw."
Around him, other students struggled. Marcus Flint's Mandrake was wilting from rough handling. Justin Finch-Fletchley had spilled fertilizer everywhere. Timothy Whitby's plant seemed to be trying to climb out of its pot.
Eliot made a note: *Magical plants respond to emotional state and intent, not just technique.*
---
After the break, Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was a completely different experience from the gentle Herbology class.
Professor McGonagall's classroom was austere and precise. Rows of desks faced a raised platform where a tabby cat sat perfectly still, watching the students file in.
Eliot took a seat in the second row, notebook open, quill ready.
The cat leaped onto the desk and transformed mid-air into Professor McGonagall—tall, stern, wearing emerald robes and a pointed hat.
Several students gasped. Eliot just smiled and made a note: *Animagus transformation - seamless transition, no visible energy discharge.*
"Transfiguration," McGonagall began, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing about in my class will leave and not come back."
She gestured to a match on each desk. "Today, you will attempt to turn these matches into needles. The incantation is simple: *Vera Verto*. The execution is not."
Eliot picked up his match, examining its structure. Wood fibers, sulfur tip, chemical composition. To transform it into metal would require complete molecular restructuring.
He raised his wand—ash wood humming with familiar warmth—and focused.
*Vera Verto.*
The match shimmered. Its wooden surface took on a metallic sheen, the tip sharpened to a point. Not perfect—it was still slightly brown and rough around the edges—but recognizably needle-like.
"Excellent work, Mr. Clarke," McGonagall said, pausing at his desk. "Five points to Ravenclaw."
---
After lunch, Charms with Professor Flitwick was a completely different experience.
The tiny professor stood on a stack of books behind his desk, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. His classroom was bright and airy, filled with floating feathers, dancing teacups, and other enchanted objects demonstrating various charms.
"Welcome, welcome!" Flitwick squeaked. "Charms is the art of adding properties to objects. We make things fly, glow, shrink, multiply—the possibilities are endless!"
Today's lesson was the Levitation Charm: *Wingardium Leviosa*.
"Swish and flick!" Flitwick demonstrated. "And remember, it's Wing-GAR-dium Levi-O-sa, not Levio-SAR."
Eliot partnered with Su Li, a quiet Ravenclaw girl who seemed as methodical as he was. They were given a feather to levitate.
"The theory is about overcoming gravitational force," Eliot murmured, studying the feather. "We're essentially creating a localized anti-gravity field."
Su nodded. "Like magical physics."
Eliot raised his wand. *Wingardium Leviosa.*
The feather rose smoothly, hovering three feet above the desk. Su's followed a moment later.
"Wonderful!" Flitwick clapped. "Ten points to Ravenclaw! You two have natural talent."
Across the room, Anthony Goldstein was struggling with his pronunciation, while Susan Bones's feather soared to the ceiling with perfect control.
Eliot watched Susan with interest. She was clearly brilliant—but also clearly trying very hard to prove it. He made a mental note to introduce himself later.
---
Potions was held in the dungeons, and the atmosphere was immediately different.
Cold stone walls. Dim lighting. Pickled specimens floating in jars. And Professor Snape—tall, pale, with black hair that hung like curtains around his face—surveying the students with obvious disdain.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," Snape began, his voice barely above a whisper but somehow carrying to every corner of the room. "I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."
Eliot found himself genuinely interested. Potions was essentially magical chemistry—combining ingredients with specific properties to create new effects. It was systematic, logical, predictable.
"Clarke," Snape said suddenly, his black eyes fixing on Eliot. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Eliot thought quickly. He'd read about this in *Magical Drafts and Potions*. "The Draught of Living Death, sir. A powerful sleeping potion."
Snape's eyebrow twitched—whether in surprise or annoyance, Eliot couldn't tell. "Correct. And where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat, sir. It's a stone that acts as an antidote to most poisons."
"And the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"They're the same plant, sir. Also called aconite."
A long pause. The dungeon was completely silent.
"Five points to Ravenclaw," Snape said finally. "For adequate preparation."
Eliot sensed this was high praise from Snape.
---
History of Magic with Professor Binns was exactly as boring as advertised.
The ghostly professor droned on about goblin rebellions in a monotone that could put an insomniac to sleep. Half the class was already nodding off.
Eliot tried to take notes, but found himself doodling runic patterns instead. He sketched a theoretical circuit that could store and replay audio—essentially a magical recording device.
*Could be useful for studying,* he thought. *Or for documenting spells and their effects.*
When the bell finally rang, students practically stampeded for the door.
---
That evening in the common room, Eliot sat by the fire with his notebook, reviewing the day's lessons.
"You're very focused," observed Penelope Clearwater, settling into the chair beside him. "Most first-years spend their first day being overwhelmed."
"I find it helps to organize information immediately," Eliot replied. "What did you think of the classes?"
"Fascinating," Penelope said thoughtfully. "Though I think Professor Binns might actually be stuck in a time loop. He's been teaching the same lesson for decades."
Eliot laughed. "That would explain a lot."
Terry Boot joined them, looking exhausted. "How are you not tired? We've been going since dawn."
"I'm used to long hours," Eliot said. "In my... previous experience."
He caught himself before saying 'previous life.'
"Well, I'm impressed," Terry said. "You made it look easy today."
"It's just preparation," Eliot replied. "And curiosity. Magic follows rules—we just need to learn what they are."
As his housemates headed to bed, Eliot remained by the fire, sketching and planning.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to learn and grow.
He was exactly where he belonged.