Navigating the winding corridors of Hogwarts proved to be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated. Each turn led into what seemed like an endless series of staircases, passages, and rooms, many of which moved or changed as if the castle itself had a mind of its own. Along the way, we encountered Peeves, the infamous poltergeist whose mischief was well-known even among the ghosts. Unlike ghosts, though, Peeves had a tangible form, one born from bottled-up emotions and magical energy rather than a soul. He could touch objects, throw things, cause a fair amount of chaos—and even the ghosts detested him.

  As I observed Peeves darting around, I noted the difference between him and other spirits: he was bound to this place, protective of it in his own bizarre way. Unlike most magical beings, he had no awareness of my true nature. His lack of mortality shielded him from seeing me as a threat, which was useful enough for now. Hogwarts was fortunate it had never needed to call on Peeves for real protection—though if ever tested, I wondered what he might truly be capable of.

  My thoughts were interrupted by a blond boy’s voice. “Hey! You’re Ben Diggory, right? I heard you’re the youngest wizard at Hogwarts.” Draco Malfoy, I realized, turning to see his sneering face.

  “So?” I asked, not bothering to mask my indifference.

  Draco smirked, clearly unused to anyone being unimpressed with him. “Well, it’s just… you should have been in Slytherin. I think the Sorting Hat made a mistake. Now you’re hanging out with the wrong sort,” he added, casting a disdainful look at Ron and Hermione.

  I knew enough about the Malfoys to understand their stance on blood purity, as well as their animosity toward the Weasleys. The Malfoys despised anything that challenged their idea of superiority—whether that meant wizards from Muggle families or pure-blood families who refused to flaunt their status. And yet, picking an open fight with Draco would be shortsighted. Why make an enemy when I didn’t have to? I could pretend neutrality, keep him close enough to observe, and maybe gather some useful information in the process. Children, after all, often had loose lips, and Draco seemed to be no exception.

  “I don’t care much about the house I’m in,” I replied. “Distinctions like that are meaningless in the long run.”

  Draco’s mouth dropped open slightly. “That’s not true—it’s tradition!”

  I shrugged. “Traditions are, by definition, old habits. They’re not always worth keeping.”

  Draco just stared at me, visibly taken aback by my response, neither quite for nor against him.

  I extended a hand, meeting his gaze with polite indifference. “Nice to meet you… Draco, was it? As for my friends here, we’re already close, but that doesn’t mean we can’t look past our differences and be friends, too. I don’t care about heritage.”

  Draco looked scandalized, as though I’d declared some great heresy. “But you should,” he insisted. “Heritage is everything.”

  “How?” I asked, a slight smile playing on my lips. “How does a wizard or witch from a different background, minding their own life, affect me in any way?”

  “They’ll dilute the bloodlines until there’s no magic left!” Draco spluttered as if reciting a mantra learned by heart.

  “Will they?” I replied calmly. “There’s no proof of that. Recent history alone gave us Albus Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Voldemort—three of the most powerful wizards alive today. ‘Live and let live’ doesn’t mean everyone will intermarry, and those who feel strongly about pure-blood heritage can choose to marry within it. It’s not as complicated as you make it sound.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Draco recoiled slightly at my willingness to say Voldemort’s name aloud. “Well, I… I hadn’t thought of it that way. But what if, in enough generations, no one knows who’s pure-blood or not?”

  “Then does it matter?” I replied. “If magic has been in a family long enough that their descendants are all wizards, how does it weaken the line? Even among pure-blood families, there’s no guarantee magic has been consistent for centuries. It just means they’ve been magical so long that Muggle-borns are rare in their line.”

  Draco scowled but seemed at a loss for words. “I… I’ll look into it myself. Then I’ll be able to prove you wrong.”

  I nodded. “I look forward to it.” Engaging in debates like these held a strange appeal. Wizarding society was filled with contradictions and inherited biases, and I enjoyed the chance to examine them.

  With the conversation diffused, Draco seemed to lose interest and walked off with a huff. Now, however, we had to hurry to Herbology. Ron and Hermione, after a quick glance to confirm Draco was out of earshot, wasted no time in asking why I hadn’t just punched him.

  “Children tend to solve problems head-on,” I said, “but adults know that staying neutral can be more effective. Draco doesn’t have the emotional intelligence to play nice with others yet, but that makes him an open book. If I play it right, he could be a valuable source of information—or even change his mind one day.”

  Hermione looked skeptical. “You think he could really change?”

  I nodded. “It’s rare, but I’ve seen it happen. Wars have divided fathers and sons, and changed hearts when no one expected. I don’t expect it from him, but it doesn’t hurt to leave that option open.”

  Hermione seemed to accept this, though her frown suggested she wasn’t quite convinced. Ron, on the other hand, looked impressed. “I don’t think I’d ever have the patience for that,” he admitted.

  The conversation dropped as we arrived at our Herbology class, where Professor Sprout greeted us cheerfully. Her energy filled the greenhouse as she introduced us to an array of magical plants. Hermione and I already knew the names and basic properties of each one, though I sensed she was holding back to avoid appearing too keen. I decided to do the same, feeling that any additional attention might interfere with my goals here. For all my knowledge, it would be unwise to reveal it fully.

  Transfiguration, however, was harder to navigate without notice. We had Professor McGonagall’s attention almost immediately, as Hermione and I both managed to transfigure our matchsticks into needles on the first try. Had I known failure was the expectation, I might have held back. My impatience betrayed me, and I succeeded a bit too quickly.

  One little trick most wizards didn’t understand about Transfiguration was that familiarity with the object made it easier. The stronger the image in your mind, the smoother the transformation. The problem was, that I didn’t know sewing needles well. But since the Professor hadn’t specified a type of needle, I chose one I did know well—a Chinese assassin’s needle, nine inches long, thin, and deadly. Traditionally used to deliver poison, it was a weapon perfected over centuries. Of course, lacking the power for gold, I transfigured it from the matchstick into brass instead.

  Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow as she examined the length, shape, and material, commenting that it was “not quite what we’re looking for.” Nevertheless, she was pleased enough with the transfiguration itself to suggest that Hermione and I attend advanced classes. It would mean more attention and more scrutiny—a disadvantage, perhaps, but also a chance to gain a deeper understanding of this branch of magic. So much for my hopes of a low profile…

  Despite the drawbacks, Transfiguration intrigued me. Its applications were endless. With enough mastery, I could change my height, adjust my appearance, slip through small spaces, or even transform myself into an animal. It was almost limitless, and it appealed to me because it would likely be one of the magics I could channel without a wand. Wizards believed Metamorphmagus abilities were inherited, but in truth, they instinctively formed magical patterns within themselves, reshaping their appearance at will.

  In a way, it was similar to my method of forming spells through my fingers, a technique created from observing house elves that was lost to time. If given enough time, even I could master this ability. The process would be grueling and painful, but it was worth it. Death comes in all forms, I mused. It changes shape, it’s wielded in ways both known and unknown. With each lesson, and each experiment, I was growing stronger—one step closer to becoming whatever Hogwarts, or fate, required me to be.

  I do so enjoy conversing on the complexities of wizard society and pointing out the non-sensical things people sometimes believe in.

  So much for maintaining a low profile...