Cassandra excelled in silence. While other Ravenclaws shot their hands up or waved them frantically in class, she raised her hand only once per lesson and otherwise only spoke when called upon. Professor Vale found her potions expertly brewed, no additional instruction needed. Professor Brightwell saw her feather floating serenely five seconds after he'd finished explaining the levitation charm. She didn't allow herself to pleasure in being first – it was what was expected of her.

  "Your match-to-needle transformation is quite advanced, Miss Hightower," Professor Winterborn noted during Transfiguration, "Five points to Ravenclaw."

  “Thank you Professor,” Cassandra nodded, already focused on her next attempt.

  She heard whispers behind her: "Show-off." "Teacher's pet." “Rich witch.” "Toff.”

  She kept her face blank, the way Mother had taught her. A lady never shows distress in public. No matter how much her eyes burned, her heart clenched, and her skin prickled.

  The club fair in the Great Hall should have been fun and exciting. Dozens of tables lined the walls, older students calling out to first-years to join everything from the Astronomy Society to the Wizard's Chess Club. Cassandra had privately imagined herself joining the Ancient Runes Study Group, her grandmother on her father’s side had been one of the founding members, or perhaps the Magical Theory Society...

  But the noise. The chaos. Students shouting and laughing, magical demonstrations blasting off in every direction, a group of older Gryffindor boys enchanting paper airplanes to bomb and strafe passersby with confetti. She lasted two terrible minutes before retreating to the library, hands shaking as she pulled out her Potions textbook. The quiet was balm to her nerves. She didn’t need a club. Not right now at least.

  Maybe she would join one next month, once everyone and everything had quieted down a little bit.

  Her first encounter with the Gryffindors happened between Charms and History of Magic. She was walking alone - as usual - when raucous laughter echoed down the corridor. Three first-year boys rounded the corner, ties askew and robes unbuttoned in defiance of the school uniform regulations that Cassandra had memorized before arriving. They looked like an angled gradient in motion, from short and solid to medium to tall and skinny.

  She recognized the shabbily-dressed boy in the middle immediately – Henry, son of Lord Hamish Ravenhurst – Mother had pointed his family out at King's Cross, whispering about how far the mighty had fallen. "To think, the Earl of Ravenhurst used to own half of Yorkshire. Now he grows corn like a common Muggle. Though I suppose even that's too much work for young Henry – look at him, wild as a March hare."

  Cassandra pushed the thought away. It wasn't fair to judge him by his circumstances. Instead she clutched her books tighter as they approached. Gryffindor boys were always so loud.

  Henry was laughing boisterously at something the taller boy – Marshwiggle? From Leicester, or was it Lincolnshire? – had said. Henry’s sandy hair was tousled, his shirt untucked. He had a candy cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Everything about him radiated an easygoing disregard for propriety that made Cassandra's nose wrinkle.

  "Look who it is," Marshwiggle called out. His accent, definitely a fenman. Lincolnshire. He had a sticking plaster on his chin and looked (and sounded) like a delinquent. He reminded her unnervingly of the rough boys who loitered outside the shops near Knockturn Alley. "Her Royal Highness of Ravenclaw."

  "I…beg your pardon?" Cassandra's voice came out stiffer than intended. She'd meant to be polite – Grandmama always said courtesy cost nothing – but her nervousness made the words stilted and frozen.

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  "Oh, do beg our pardon, Your Grace," Marshwiggle swept into an exaggerated bow. "We're nowt but humble peasants and peat thieves in your most honored presence."

  Henry's cocky smile faded as he studied her with round hazel eyes. She ignored his footmen and met his gaze steadily, chin lifted. One noble to another.

  "Come off it, Ted," the third boy – the short one, Brackenby – said. "We'll be late fer History."

  "Aye, wouldn't want to keep Her Majesty waiting," Marshwiggle smirked in her periphery. "She's off to read the whole year's curriculum for the second time."

  "I believe in being prepared," Cassandra said with her head high, wishing she knew how to make it sound less prissy.

  Henry's eyes narrowed, clearly hearing condescension where she'd meant simple explanation. "Better t'be unprepared than unpleasant," he said. "Come on, lads."

  They brushed past her, Marshwiggle deliberately bumping her shoulder. Cassandra stayed still until they'd gone halfway down the hall, then carefully smoothed her robes. The gesture helped calm her racing heart.

  She was seven minutes early to History of Magic. When the Gryffindor boys clattered in just before the bell, she kept her eyes fixed on Professor Binns' desk. She didn't need their approval. She had to prove herself to her professors and her parents. She had her books, her studies, and her grades.

  That evening in the common room, she overheard Maggie Clearwater describing the Charms Club meeting – they'd learned to make bubbles that played musical jingles when popped. Cassandra stayed at her window seat, knees tucked up to her chin, textbook propped on her lap, trying to tune out the laughter from the group by the fireplace. It sounded fun.

  A Hightower didn't need fun. She reproached herself. A Hightower needs excellence.

  "Cassandra! There you are!"

  She suppressed a wince at Caeso Montfort's shrill voice. He was standing in the middle of the common room, surrounded by a cluster of admirers that he had made no time in assembling from his fellow first-year boys. Caeso and she had met before at various society functions – most recently at the Malfoys' New Year's celebration, where their mothers had exchanged meaningful glances while they'd stood next to each other during the children's toast.

  "Good evening, Caeso," she replied politely, looking up from her book for exactly three seconds to make brief eye contact before returning them to Faeriefire and Fractals: Arithmancy in Nature.

  "Come, come, we're all friends here!" He flopped into the end of the window seat opposite her, earning a few titters from his audience. "You can't spend all your time studying. Tell everyone about that brilliant thing you said at the Malfoys' party – you know, about the proper organization of the Ministry?"

  Cassandra felt her cheeks warm. She hadn't said anything brilliant – she'd repeated something she'd overheard Papa saying about departmental restructuring in the Foreign Office. And she'd only said it because Mother had prompted her to "share her thoughts" with Caeso and the hovering Mrs. Montfort.

  "I'm afraid I don't recall," she said with an apologetic smile at the boys staring at her.

  "Always so modest!" Caeso grinned, turning to attract the most possible attention. "You see? This is precisely why Hightower and I get on so well. Our families, you know, we’ve got long histories together. We understand each other!”

  I don't think we understand each other at all, Cassandra thought. She gave him the polite smile her governess had drilled into her for exactly these situations.

  "Did you hear?" one of Caeso's followers piped up. "Montfort's father is getting him a new racing broom for Christmas!"

  "The Meteorite ‘42," Caeso preened, not even trying to fake modesty. "Not even released to the public yet. Father knows the designer. You'll come watch me fly it for the first time, won't you, Cassandra?"

  “O-of course,” She suppressed a shudder at the thought of getting anywhere near a racing broom. She hated heights. Even seeing people flying at heights made her head turn queer. "I'm sure you'll be very impressive."

  "See?" Caeso turned to his audience triumphantly. "Hightower knows quality when she sees it. Not like some people in this school, like those silly fools down in Slytherin."

  He launched into a story about his family's second summer home on Capri and how dreadfully difficult it was to get there now with the Grindlewalders in the way, having gotten what he wanted from the interaction – the endorsement of the other noble pure-blood in their year. Cassandra feigned interest for ninety seconds and - when she was not called upon again – returned to her book, letting his voice fade into the background.

  She noticed Maggie Clearwater watching the exchange from the fireplace with wide eyes. The other girl quickly looked away when Cassandra caught her.

  Merlin. Please, stop watching me.

  She was just doing what was expected of her. Being polite to the right people. Ensuring no bridges were burnt. Exactly what Mother had told her.