Ice Blue and Blinding Gold

Anne sat frozen in her seat, her lavender eyes wide as she processed the unexpected transformation of Professor McGonagall. The students around her murmured in awe, though some seemed unfazed, as if they'd been expecting such theatrics. Anne's thoughts, however, were racing in a different direction.

"She's an Animagus... right, of course. I should've remembered that," she thought, her mind grappling with the fragments of knowledge slipping away. The realization was more jarring than it should have been. McGonagall's Animagus form was one of the most iconic details of the series-how could she forget something so fundamental?

Her heart sank as she replayed yesterday's moment with Hermione Granger in her mind. The brown, bushy hair, the piercing intelligence in her eyes... it had taken Anne a full ten seconds to recognize the future heroine of the wizarding world. That delay was unacceptable.

"I'm losing it," she thought grimly. Her reincarnated memories, the knowledge that had once been her lifeline, were slipping away like grains of sand through her fingers. And now she couldn't even remember the name she had in her past life. It felt as though pieces of her identity were being chipped away.

McGonagall's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," the professor announced, her sharp eyes scanning the room. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Anne forced herself to focus on the lecture, though her mind was still clouded with unease. She needed to do something about this memory loss, and fast.

-----

Anne glanced around the Transfiguration classroom, her lavender eyes taking in the details-the rows of desks, the chalkboard with neat, crisp writing, and the ever-watchful tabby cat perched on the desk. The second class of the day had just begun, and the combined Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff First Years were seated together, chatting softly as they waited.

Anne's thoughts drifted briefly to her first class, Herbology, which had been exactly what she expected-except for one surprising detail. The lesson hadn't been held in the greenhouses, as she had assumed, but in a cozy classroom nearby. Professor Sprout, the cheerful head of Hufflepuff, had greeted them all with a warm smile, calling each student by name and giving an enthusiastic overview of the year's syllabus. Anne had appreciated the warmth of the professor's presence, even though she found the introductory lesson a bit uneventful.

In contrast, Transfiguration already had a sharper edge. As Anne observed the tabby cat leaping off the desk and transforming seamlessly into Professor McGonagall, she couldn't help but marvel at the skill involved. Despite her slipping memories of the Harry Potter universe, the transformation struck her as both impressive and intimidating.

Professor McGonagall wasted no time diving into her introduction, her stern demeanor commanding immediate respect. She began with a detailed rundown of the annual syllabus, explaining the importance of discipline and focus in mastering Transfiguration.

"This is a precise and delicate branch of magic," McGonagall emphasized, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. "Mistakes can be disastrous. You will learn the theory first-practical applications will follow only when I am certain you understand the principles."

Anne jotted down notes diligently, her quill scratching softly against the parchment. There would be no practical lesson today, only an overview of the curriculum and an introduction to the theory of transfiguration.

By the end of the class, McGonagall assigned homework: an essay on the principles of Transfiguration, due by the next session. The collective groan from the class was almost palpable, but Anne didn't mind. She found the subject fascinating, though her enthusiasm wasn't shared by everyone.

As they left the classroom, Karlos Hector Fawley, walking a few steps behind Anne, let out a dramatic sigh. "Homework on the first day? Really setting the tone, isn't she?" he said with mock despair, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Anne glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It's McGonagall. Did you expect anything less?"

Karlos gave a half-shrug, his grey eyes glinting with amusement. "Fair point. But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Anne chuckled softly but said nothing, her mind already moving to the next task.

---

Earlier that day, Anne's morning had begun with the sound of frantic footsteps echoing through her dormitory. Cindy Moon, one of her new dorm mates, was rushing around the room in a flurry, muttering anxiously about being late on the very first day. Anne, ever her pleasant self even in the early hours, propped herself up on her elbows and remarked, "It's only 7 a.m. Breakfast starts at 8, and the first class won't begin until 9. You've got nothing to worry about."

Cindy paused mid-stride, her face flushing slightly as she realized the truth in Anne's words. "Oh. Right. I knew that," she mumbled, though her hands were still fidgeting with her tie.

The commotion had, by then, stirred the other two girls in the dormitory. Mandy Brocklehurst and Padma Patil, her fellow Ravenclaws, blinked awake and sat up groggily in their beds. Having been too tired from the Sorting and the excitement of the previous night, they had barely exchanged pleasantries before crashing into bed. This morning, however, enthusiasm filled the room as they began chatting while getting ready.

True to their Ravenclaw nature, the conversation quickly turned to academics, with Mandy boasting about her knack for Charms and Padma claiming a deep interest in Arithmancy. Anne listened politely, offering a few comments here and there while methodically tying her own robes. She had never been one for boasting, but she admired the girls' confidence nonetheless.

By the time they made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, Anne found herself craving a quiet moment amidst the buzz of excitement from the other first years. Breakfast was uneventful, marked by the hum of chatter and the occasional giggle as older students openly displayed affections.

Anne's musings were interrupted when Professor Flitwick, their diminutive and cheerful Head of House, handed out their schedules for the term. She scanned hers quickly, noting her first class was Herbology, and her second was Transfiguration.

Lunch, however, was a far livelier affair. By the time the students returned to the Great Hall, hunger had turned even the quietest of first years into chatterboxes. The air was filled with the sound of clinking cutlery and growling stomachs. Anne's own appetite was growing by the second, especially as the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted through the hall.

Sitting beside her, Karlos Hector Fawley was grinning like a Cheshire cat, his grey eyes alight with mischief. He leaned closer and began to share snippets of gossip he'd overheard that morning, clearly relishing the reactions he was getting.

Anne tried to focus on her plate, but Karlos's infectious smirk made it difficult. "You're enjoying this way too much," she said, giving him a pointed look.

"Of course I am," Karlos replied breezily. "What's the point of being at Hogwarts if you don't know everyone's business?"

Anne shook her head but couldn't help the small smile tugging at her lips.

Anne glanced at Karlos with a raised brow, her lavender eyes glinting with faint amusement. "Perhaps you should focus on your lunch. Okay?" she quipped before leaning in slightly. "Now, come on, what was the gossip you were sharing about that Hufflepuff third year?"

Karlos grinned, clearly pleased by her curiosity. "Oh, him? He's nothing but a joke for the student body now," he began, leaning closer for dramatic effect. "Turns out he was trying to court an older fourth-year girl. Slytherin, she is. Pureblood too. She turned him down rather rudely this morning. Right in the Transfiguration courtyard."

Anne frowned slightly, trying to recall. "You were there, but you weren't focusing," Karlos added with a knowing smirk.

"Well," Anne replied, stabbing a piece of roasted potato on her plate, "I couldn't hear the conversation as well as you, apparently."

Karlos chuckled, his smirk widening. "I heard as much as you, but it sparked a curiosity in me, you know. Caught some older years to open up."

Anne tilted her head, feigning skepticism. "That must be difficult. Having older years telling you? About their business?"

"It's difficult," Karlos agreed, his tone light and teasing. He leaned back, folding his arms confidently. "But that's part of my charm. Don't you think so?"

Anne rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at her lips. "I think you should work on finishing your lunch before you charm yourself out of dessert."

Anne reached into her bag, pulling out her schedule to check what their next class would be. Before she could unfold it, Karlos leaned over with a knowing smile.

"No need to bother with that," he said casually. "It's History of Magic next."

Anne raised an eyebrow, surprised. "And how, exactly, do you remember that?"

Karlos gave her a mischievous grin, tapping his temple lightly. "I have a knack for remembering everything I see. Quite the useful little talent, wouldn't you agree?"

Anne couldn't help but smirk, folding her schedule back into her bag. "Handy, yes. Though I suppose that depends on how much of it you actually put to good use."

Karlos laughed softly, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, you'd be surprised. My talents are far more useful than they seem."

Anne shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "I'll keep that in mind," she said, picking up her fork again.

---

The next class was History of Magic, as uninspiring as its reputation promised. The room itself was dim, with rows of wooden desks and a sense of dustiness that seemed to cling to every corner. Professor Binns, true to the whispers circulating around the school, was a pearly ghost who floated into the room without preamble. Without even a greeting, he launched straight into a droning lecture about the goblin rebellions, his monotonous voice reverberating through the classroom like a lullaby for the unwilling.

Anne, despite her genuine interest in the topic-her family history being intricately tied to the rebellions-found herself struggling to keep focused. There was something almost hypnotic about Binns' tone that seemed to sap the energy from the room.

She glanced sideways at her seatmate, Karlos, who had already succumbed to sleep. His arms were awkwardly sprawled across the desk, his head resting at an uncomfortable angle, and his soft, steady breaths were a testament to just how effective Binns' voice was.

Anne couldn't help but take a moment to study him. Karlos had stuck by her side ever since they'd left the Ravenclaw common room that morning, sitting near her in classes and whispering goofy, sarcastic remarks in her ear. He seemed to thrive on teasing her, though Anne had noticed something more beneath the playful banter-a flicker of insecurity or perhaps relief, as if he needed her approval more than he let on.

When she'd finally asked why he was clinging to her, he'd smirked and declared, "I've decided you're my new follower. It's a high honor, you know, considering we shared a train compartment. It's only right."

His voice had been playful, but Anne had caught the slightest hint of tension in his expression, as though he feared she might push him away. She'd half-heartedly agreed to his self-proclaimed status, rolling her eyes but not rejecting him outright. The way his shoulders had relaxed at her reluctant acceptance hadn't escaped her notice.

Now, as Anne turned her attention back to Professor Binns' ethereal form, she shook her head faintly. Karlos might be an enigma wrapped in theatrics, but at least he kept things interesting-something this class sorely lacked.

Anne's lavender eyes roamed across the classroom, taking in the faces of her classmates. Her gaze landed on the messy mop of black hair sitting right across from her-Harry Potter himself. He appeared to be making an earnest effort to stay awake, his green eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to absorb Professor Binns' droning lecture. Beside him, however, Ron Weasley was less subtle in his defeat, his head lolling to the side as he snored loudly enough to draw disapproving glances from a Ravenclaw girl seated behind him.

This was Anne's first class with the Gryffindors and her first chance to observe Harry Potter in a classroom setting. She couldn't help but be amused by the scene. Harry, with his awkward attempts at diligence, contrasted sharply with his friend's complete surrender to sleep.

Her attention then shifted to the front of the room, where Hermione Granger sat, her quill darting across the parchment as she took meticulous notes. Hermione was utterly unfazed by Binns' monotonous tone, nodding every now and then as if to confirm her understanding of the material.

Anne found herself impressed despite herself. Even she, with her inherent interest in the goblin rebellions, struggled to maintain focus on the ghost's lecture. Yet here was Hermione Granger, defying the odds and treating the class as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

The dynamic of the Gryffindors was as interesting as it was amusing. Harry's determination, Ron's carefree attitude, and Hermione's unrelenting studiousness painted a vivid picture of their group. It was no wonder they were said to be inseparable-they complemented each other in the most peculiar of ways.

Anne leaned back in her chair, her gaze lingering on the trio for a moment longer before returning to her own notes. The Gryffindors might be entertaining, but she still had a class to get through, and Professor Binns' lecture, however tedious, wasn't going to write itself down.

The presence of Harry Potter across the room reminded Anne, quite unexpectedly, of his twin-Rosaline. She was a Slytherin, and Anne had yet to share a class with any Slytherins that day. In fact, she hadn't even noticed Rosaline at breakfast or lunch, which only made Anne wonder more. Was the girl exceptionally quiet, or was she stirring up so much chaos that Anne simply hadn't been able to keep up with it?

It was a strange thought, considering Anne's own awareness of everything going on around her. The idea that she might have missed something-or worse, someone-was unsettling. After all, Rosaline and her band of Slytherin boys could easily be causing some kind of ruckus, and knowing them, Anne could only imagine the havoc they were wreaking. The combination of Rosaline's bold personality and her friends' mischievous tendencies could lead to quite the spectacle, and Anne couldn't help but wonder if she'd have to face it sooner or later.

She quickly shook the thought from her mind, deciding it was better not to dwell on it during class. But the curiosity lingered, and she couldn't help but wonder what Rosaline and her companions were up to. It was only a matter of time before their paths crossed, and Anne was starting to feel as though she might be in for quite a ride once she did.

---

The third period of the day, Monday, was a free period for the Slytherins-an opportunity they had already seized. In the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere was lazily relaxed, the cool green light from the Black Lake streaming through the large windows, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Reinhard Lestrange was sprawled out across one of the green velvet couches, his legs hanging off the edge as he lazily flipped through a book. His friend, Danton Dolohov, sat across from him, absorbed in a different book, the occasional flick of his fingers turning the pages.

Nearby, Theodore Nott was casually leaning against one of the stone columns, observing the Black Lake with an intensity that suggested he might be waiting for something-perhaps merpeople, as they had been discussed in a particularly amusing first-year lesson. At least that was what Draco Malfoy, who stood beside him, seemed to think. Draco's eyes were narrowed, his attention fixed on the water, but he made no comment, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

It was then that Rosaline Potter, the object of much fascination in the room, glided through the door. Her presence was enough to catch the attention of every boy in the room. As she entered, the atmosphere shifted subtly-there was a momentary pause, an unspoken acknowledgment of her entrance. Reinhard straightened ever so slightly, his eyes flickering briefly toward her, while Danton lowered his book just enough to study her, curiosity piqued. Theodore's gaze softened for a moment before he quickly returned to the water outside, his posture betraying none of the curiosity that swirled beneath the surface.

Rosaline moved with an ease that made her seem untouchable, her steps light, almost ethereal, as she made her way deeper into the common room. She didn't speak, but the way the boys looked at her-the way they couldn't quite keep their eyes off her-spoke volumes. She had that effect, after all.

Reinhard, ever the observant one, gave a subtle nudge to Danton. "What do you think she's up to?" he murmured, his voice low enough not to attract attention.

Danton smirked slightly, flipping his book closed with a soft snap. "Whatever it is, it'll be interesting," he replied, his tone full of knowing amusement.

Rosaline wasn't the kind to hide her intentions, but for now, she walked past them with an air of quiet confidence, completely unaware-or perhaps perfectly aware-of the intrigue she stirred in the room.

Rosaline, as if guided by an unspoken curiosity, glided through the Slytherin common room. She came to a halt in front of the grand portrait of Salazar Slytherin, which was mounted prominently before the roaring fireplace. His stern, calculating gaze followed every movement in the room, and beside him was another portrait-his pet basilisk, coiled with menacing grace, watching with its cold, yellow eyes. The atmosphere in the room seemed to thicken with the presence of the legendary founder of Slytherin House.

As Rosaline stood before the portrait, her eyes drifted over the details with a strange sort of reverence, and in that moment, she whispered something under her breath. The words were barely audible but carried a weight-"Pure blood. Pure magic." They were spoken in a language that was not quite English. It was Parseltongue. The words curled through the air like a soft hiss, but their effect was immediate.

The basilisk in the adjacent portrait seemed to stir at the sound, its enormous body shifting, its glowing eyes locking onto Rosaline with unnatural focus. Slowly, it began to slither closer to the edge of the frame, its massive head creeping toward her, as if it had been summoned by the strange, ancient language.

The room fell into an eerie silence. The few first years who had been lounging and chatting froze, their gazes flicking nervously between Rosaline and the basilisk. Even some of the older students, scattered around the common room, couldn't help but notice the shift in the air. The basilisk's movement was enough to stir a collective sense of unease.

Then, a scandalous gasp broke the silence. A seventh-year girl, wide-eyed with shock, let out a sharp breath. "What-what was that?" Her voice was loud enough to send a ripple through the room, and before long, whispers spread like wildfire. Some of the first years exchanged uncertain glances, while others stood frozen, staring at Rosaline in awe and fear.

Rosaline, for her part, seemed unbothered by the spectacle she had caused. Her eyes never left the basilisk, which was now mere inches from the edge of the frame, its eyes still fixed on her. A flicker of something-perhaps recognition, perhaps power-passed through Rosaline's gaze as she held its stare. She didn't move, as if daring the creature to make the next move.

With a start, as if realizing something, a seventh-year girl exclaimed in surprise, "Oh my goodness! No way! Is she a Parseltongue? But how couldnshe be a Parseltongue? How can a Potter be a Parseltongue?" Her voice rose in disbelief, and the murmurs quickly spread throughout the common room, confusion and intrigue bubbling in the air. The room buzzed with whispers, as students turned to look at Rosaline with wide eyes, trying to make sense of the extraordinary scene they had just witnessed.

Before the murmurs could grow too chaotic, a fifth-year boy stood up from a nearby armchair. He had crooked teeth , a bulky build and a blotched nose as if a it had been broken a dozen times . However he held an unmistakable air of authority, his dark green Slytherin robes rippling slightly as he moved. His eyes fixed on Rosaline with a mixture of curiosity and assessment, as though he had just been waiting for the right moment to intervene. He strode confidently over to her and, with a small but respectful nod, introduced himself.

"I'm Marcus Flint," he said, his voice carrying across the room, "captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team." His eyes never left Rosaline's face, studying her intently. "I'm also the high reeve of the Slytherin king, though he's not here at the moment." He paused, glancing around the room to gauge the students' reactions. "But I'll be informing him of this incident."

A heavy silence fell over the common room as Rosaline took in his words. Marcus continued, his tone shifting slightly, his words now serious and full of weight. "Your display of ability will be seen as a challenge to the Slytherin court." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, the implications clear. "If you best King Argon Sewlyn in a duel or a display of power, you will be rightfully crowned Queen of Slytherin. You'll establish your own court and hold authority over all of Slytherin House."

The weight of his words seemed to land on the room all at once. The murmurs had died down, replaced by an eerie tension. Marcus Flint, typically known for his commanding presence, was now speaking of something far greater than Quidditch. The idea of challenging the king of Slytherin-a position of immense power and prestige-was not something to be taken lightly.

Rosaline stood still, her expression unreadable, as the full meaning of his statement sank in. She knew the consequences of what had just transpired. The basilisk's reaction to her Parseltongue was no accident; it had been a show of power. Now, she was faced with a choice: whether to accept the challenge that Marcus had presented or ignore it and navigate the complexities of Slytherin's court in a different way.

The tension in the room only grew as the other students waited for Rosaline's response, their eyes fixed on her. Some of the older students looked on with eager anticipation, wondering if a new chapter in Slytherin House would begin today.

--------

Anne sat in the dimly lit Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, twirling her quill between her fingers, her lavender eyes narrowing in growing disdain. Professor Quirrell stood at the front of the room, nervously fidgeting with his turban while attempting to explain the theoretical dangers of hinkypunks. His voice was a hesitant stammer that did more to lull students into a daze than instill any sense of urgency or intrigue.

Anne's seat was near the back-a deliberate choice to remain out of Quirrell's garlic-scented range. Even now, with her enhanced magical senses, she could feel the dark magic faintly emanating from him, a sickly aura clinging to his very being. This man has Voldemort attached to the back of his head, and he's lecturing about hinkypunks as though they're the most dangerous creatures imaginable. She sighed audibly, drawing a few amused glances from her peers.

Reinhard Lestrange, sitting beside her, leaned in with a smirk. "Another riveting lecture, wouldn't you agree?" His deep blue eyes sparkled mischievously as he whispered.

Anne smirked back, her voice dry as parchment. "Absolutely. I feel so much safer knowing he's equipped us to survive an encounter with a malevolent candlelight."

From the row ahead, Danton Dolohov turned slightly, his honey-brown eyes filled with barely concealed laughter. "You'd think he was teaching first-years to dodge garden gnomes, not preparing us for real threats."

Quirrell cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes darting around the classroom as though expecting a hinkypunk to appear at any moment. "N-now, class," he stuttered, "it's v-very important to r-remember that hinkypunks w-will mislead you... i-i-if you're not c-c-careful."

Anne couldn't take it anymore. She raised her hand lazily, drawing every eye in the room. Quirrell blinked, clearly startled. "Y-yes, Miss S-Sallow?"

"Professor," she began with an air of mock innocence, "could you perhaps demonstrate how one might counter a hinkypunk in a real situation? A practical example might be more enlightening than... well, theory."

Quirrell paled further-if such a thing was even possible-and began to tug nervously at his robes. "W-well, Miss S-Sallow, t-that's... um... p-perhaps a bit advanced f-for..."

"First-years?" she finished for him, her tone laced with polite sarcasm. "Of course. My mistake." She leaned back in her chair, exchanging amused looks with her friends.

From the opposite corner of the room, Hector Fawley watched the exchange with quiet interest, his grey eyes flickering with a hint of approval. It was rare to see anyone challenge a professor so openly, even one as feeble as Quirrell.

As the class finally dragged to an end, Quirrell dismissed them with a stammered, "D-don't forget to read c-chapter s-seven for n-next class."

The students filed out, the air buzzing with shared relief. Anne walked beside Reinhard, Danton, and Hector, her voice carrying the same dry humor that had sustained her through the lecture.

'Who would've thought,'she mused, 'that a man with a dark lord sharing headspace would be this... uninspiring? Voldemort should demand better representation.'

Anne smirked. 'Maybe that's the real defense: bore the Dark Arts to death.'

Anne's scowl softened into a smirk as she caught the knowing look in Karlos' eyes. That glint of curiosity was unmistakable-he was on the hunt for gossip, and judging by the direction of his gaze, he'd just found something irresistible.

Following Karlos' line of sight, Anne spotted Rosaline Potter standing near the stone wall of the corridor. The black-haired girl looked serene, her green eyes focused elsewhere, seemingly oblivious to the group of fidgeting Slytherin first-years around her. Anne noted how the boys hovered awkwardly, trying to mask their nervousness. Danton Dolohov's honey-brown eyes darted toward Rosaline every few seconds, while Theodore Nott seemed to be debating whether to speak or stay silent.

The sight made Anne chuckle inwardly. The Slytherins were far from subtle. If anything, their fascination with Rosaline was embarrassingly obvious. She'd heard the whispers: Rosaline was a Parselmouth. It was a well-kept secret within Slytherin House, but it was enough to make the boys idolize her in equal parts awe and fear.

And then there was Karlos, the ever-curious anomaly. Anne could already see him gearing up to dive into the fray, his sharp mind undoubtedly piecing together every detail of their fidgety behavior. He lived for moments like this-gossip and secrets were his currency.

Anne shook her head in quiet amusement as Karlos gave her a sly wink and strode toward the group. His effortless confidence drew attention immediately, the Slytherin boys glancing at him with varying degrees of confusion and suspicion. Anne could only imagine the kind of chaos he'd create, prying for information while looking like he'd just stumbled into the scene by chance.

Typical Fawley, she thought, her lavender eyes narrowing in amusement. He can't resist sticking his nose into anything remotely dramatic.

She turned her gaze back to Rosaline, who remained as composed as ever, either unaware of-or completely unbothered by-the attention. Anne found herself marveling at how someone so young could maintain such a serene façade, especially in the midst of the Slytherins' barely contained nervous energy.

Do they even realize how obvious they are? Anne mused, glancing at the boys' fidgeting forms. They're like bowtruckles trying to decide whether to approach or scatter.

Anne stole one last glance before continuing down the corridor. She didn't need to stay to know how this would play out. Karlos would glean as much information as he could, and by the end of the day, he'd be all too eager to share his findings.

Ten minutes, she thought with a smirk. That's all it'll take before he comes running to spill everything.

The thought made her grin as she disappeared around the corner, leaving the brewing drama behind.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was her last class of the day, and Anne felt a growing excitement as the final bell rang. Hogwarts beckoned with its endless mysteries, and every fiber of her being urged her to explore. But Anne was nothing if not disciplined. Exploring the castle was a task she would approach methodically-there would be time for everything. First, she needed to establish her personal space.

The Room of Requirement might have been the obvious choice, but Anne dismissed it almost immediately. In her previous life, she'd known it to be a hidden gem, only discovered by Harry in his fifth year. But in this altered timeline, with Rosaline Potter's influence already muddying the waters, Anne couldn't be sure of its sanctity. She needed a place that was unquestionably hers, something secure and untouched by others.

Thankfully, Anne always had a backup plan-or in this case, a backup room. The Undercroft.

The secret sanctuary, hidden behind the Grand Lock in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower, was opened through a mechanism known only to the Gaunt family. At least, that had been the case until Ominous Gaunt, her great-grandparents' best friend, had shared the secret with the Sallows. Anne doubted anyone alive, save herself, even knew of the Undercroft's existence. It was a room so well-concealed that she'd bet her entire Quidditch merch collection-not that she valued it too highly-that not even the Marauder's Map had it listed.

"No better place to lay my lair," she murmured, her lavender eyes gleaming with determination.

Following the instructions from her grandmother's journal, Anne found herself standing before the ancient clock that towered an impressive 1.8 meters in height. Its brass casing gleamed faintly under the dim light, a testament to the ingenuity of those who had crafted it centuries ago. She could almost hear the echoes of time itself reverberating from within the mechanism. With a deft flick of her fingers, Anne clicked open the hidden latch, the clock's mechanism unlocking with a soft, satisfying click.

Without hesitation, Anne descended into the room below, the faint glow of her Lumos spell barely cutting through the thick dust that had accumulated over decades. It felt like stepping into another world entirely-one that had been left untouched for far too long. The air was musty, tinged with the scent of old parchment and the remnants of forgotten memories.

The room was in disarray, the clutter making it seem as though it had been abandoned in haste. Anne's lavender eyes narrowed slightly as she surveyed the scene, and it didn't take long to piece together that the last person to occupy this space had to be her uncle Lloyd. According to her grandmother's tales, he had been the messiest person Anne had ever heard of, a fact that became painfully clear as she took in the state of the room. Books and magical trinkets lay scattered about, some of them teetering precariously on dusty shelves. Ancient scrolls, once neatly rolled, now lay crumpled in the corners.

Anne's lips curled into a wry smile. "If grandma's stories are true, then Uncle Lloyd must have been a nightmare to clean up after," she muttered under her breath.

Despite the mess, Anne could sense the potential of the space. It was still rich with magical energy-faint, but undeniably present. This could be the perfect place to hone her powers in secret. She just needed to make it her own.

Anne waved her wand and muttered a series of cleaning charms under her breath, each one more effective than the last. Scourgify and its variations seemed to answer her every need as she worked tirelessly, erasing decades of neglect. The rust on the chandelier shimmered and vanished, moss on the walls withered away into nothing, and dust clouds drifted away as if they'd never existed. She even managed to buff the old wood of the floor, restoring some semblance of its former shine.

But when the dust settled and she looked around the now pristine space, a sense of dissatisfaction swept over her. The room, though clean, was still dismal. Broken furniture lay in heaps, and the walls, even without the moss, were bare and uninspiring. Anne clicked her tongue in annoyance, running a hand through her golden blonde hair. "This place needs to be renovated," she muttered under her breath, her lavender eyes scanning the space critically.

She sighed, knowing that some things weren't fixed with just cleaning spells. But she wasn't worried. She was, after all, rich, farsighted, and always prepared for such situations. With a swift motion, her hand slid into her pocket and retrieved the shrunken trunk she always carried with her. The trunk expanded with a satisfying pop, revealing a well-stocked interior: piles of new furniture, paint buckets, brushes, and more magical decor than she could ever use at once.

---------

Magic made even the most labor-intensive tasks feel easier, but it was never truly effortless. After hours of work, Anne stood, sweat-soaked and tired to the bone, gazing around her newly renovated Undercroft. The room had been completely transformed. Soft cream walls now graced the space, and an abundance of potted plants lined the windowsills, adding a touch of nature to the atmosphere. The high arched ceiling was fitted with beautifully transfigured murals, each telling a silent story, giving the room a sense of both elegance and grandeur.

The numerous bookshelves, stacked with old and new texts, lined the walls, while plush couches and soft rugs scattered across the floor invited relaxation. The corner of the room was dedicated to a potions workstation, neatly organized and gleaming with potential. The desk stood proudly beside it, waiting for Anne's touch.

Anne took a deep breath, the satisfaction in her chest overwhelming. Everything was exactly how she wanted it. She could feel a sense of peace settle within her. This was her space, a place where she could think, study, and grow into the power she knew she was destined to wield. The Undercroft had finally become her lair, a reflection of who she was and who she was becoming.

Many would wonder why Anne would go to such lengths when the Room of Requirement could easily provide a better space with far less effort. But to Anne, the Room of Requirement was never truly hers. It was claimed by countless reincarnators and protagonists in realities far beyond her own, and, she suspected, it would belong to Rosaline in the future, if it wasn't already. The Undercroft, however, was different. It was hers, a secret sanctuary passed down through her family. The effort she put into it was a personal investment in her own possession, and to her, that made it all the more worthwhile.

As for why she didn't simply transfigure the room, Anne had her reasons. Transfiguration was not her forte-not yet, at least. Mastery over the art was still far beyond her grasp. And even when one did master it, Anne knew the truth of Sir Arthur Ruthford's famous quote: no transfiguration could last forever. The work of a master could be undone by time itself. It was a theory she had yet to test, but Anne felt its weight in her bones. Transfiguration might be powerful, but it wasn't as permanent as physical labor. Perhaps, in time, she would be skilled enough to prove him wrong, but for now, it was the hard work, the sweat, and the magic she knew best. And that felt like enough.

--------

Later that evening after a scrumptious dinner, she sat in her dormitory, surrounded by her books and notes. The common room buzzed with the chatter of first-years, but Anne tuned it all out.

"If I'm forgetting things, then I need to document everything I still remember before it's gone," she decided, grabbing a blank journal. She titled the first page, "What I Know", and began listing everything she could recall about the Harry Potter universe: key events, people, and magical concepts.

However, the exercise proved more difficult than she anticipated. As she wrote, gaps in her knowledge became glaringly apparent. Details that had once been clear as day now felt murky, like faded ink on an old parchment.

Frustrated, she slammed the quill down.

"This is bad," she thought. "I've relied so much on this knowledge, but it's not infinite. I can't depend on it anymore. I need to start thinking for myself and preparing for what's ahead without relying on the past."

But even as she resolved to adapt, a lingering fear gnawed at her. If she couldn't remember who she once was, could she truly hold on to who she was becoming?

-----------------

Professor Snape swept into the dungeon classroom like a looming shadow, his black robes billowing as he reached the front. The moment he turned, his piercing gaze swept over the assembled students with an air of supreme disinterest.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began in a silken voice, his dark eyes glittering with something akin to amusement as they lingered on the Hufflepuffs. "I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses… if you aren't as hopelessly incompetent as I expect."

Anne had to suppress a snort. How predictable. The Ravenclaws were barely spared a glance, but the Hufflepuffs—oh, he was already marking them for failure before they had even uncorked a single vial.

Snape's first order of business was a demonstration, a perfectly brewed Draught of Peace bubbling in his cauldron with an almost hypnotic shimmer. His wand moved with practiced precision, and Anne could admit—begrudgingly—that his skill was masterful. But then came the first victim.

"Ten points from Hufflepuff," Snape said smoothly, his expression barely shifting as a nervous-looking boy in yellow fumbled with his stirring rod. "If you cannot manage even the most basic wrist movement, perhaps you'd be better suited tending to mandrakes in Herbology."

Anne sneered, unimpressed. Karlos, sitting beside her, let out a quiet scoff, his irritation evident in the way his quill dug into his parchment.

"This is absurd," he muttered under his breath, his elegant script momentarily disrupted by a harsh stroke.

"Expected," Anne replied coolly, watching as Snape deducted another five points for some minor mistake in ingredient handling.

By the time they were finally allowed to begin brewing their own potions—a simple Cure for Boils—Snape had stripped Hufflepuff of twenty points within the first half-hour. The Hufflepuffs, though clearly demoralized, kept their heads down, unwilling to provoke him further.

Anne, however, refused to be rattled. As she carefully measured her ingredients, she allowed herself a small smirk. If Snape thought he could intimidate everyone, he was sorely mistaken.

Anne placed her corked vial neatly on the tray at the front of the room, her movements deliberate as she clenched her jaw against the rising irritation bubbling beneath the surface. The sight of Salley Anne's trembling shoulders and Snape's cold, impassive gaze made her fingers itch for her wand.

If this had been any other professor, the poor girl might have gotten a sharp reprimand or a suggestion to review her textbook more thoroughly. But this was Snape—his words cut deeper than any spell, laced with a venom that could reduce even the most resilient students to shambles.

"Pathetic," Snape drawled, swirling the contents of Salley Anne's cauldron with his wand. The neon pink sludge barely rippled, its unnatural glow almost garish under the dim dungeon lighting. "Tell me, Miss Perks, did you intend to brew a Weasley-brand joke concoction, or are you simply this incompetent?"

Salley Anne's sobs hitched, and she bit down on her lip hard enough to turn it white. Anne could practically feel the entire Hufflepuff side of the room stiffen, their indignation held back only by sheer terror.

Beside her, Karlos let out a low scoff, flipping his quill between his fingers in agitation. "He's enjoying this," he muttered, just loud enough for Anne to hear.

Anne exhaled sharply through her nose, flexing her fingers against the wooden surface of her desk. Her lavender eyes flickered between Snape and the sobbing girl, her mind racing. Would it be worth it to say something?

Her logical side knew better. Snape had the authority to strip Ravenclaw of precious points, and she had no interest in suffering that consequence so early in the term. But her pride, that burning sense of injustice, demanded retaliation.

Her gaze darted to Salley Anne's potion. Bright pink. Overheated, too much Horklump juice, possibly mismeasured Snake Fang powder. She could fix that in her sleep.

A slow, almost mischievous smirk tugged at the corner of her lips as an idea took root.

"Karlos," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "How much do you wager I could get away with?"

Karlos flicked his grey eyes toward her, studying the glint of mischief in her expression. A smirk ghosted across his lips. "If it's subtle enough, I'd say just enough to make it entertaining."

"You know what , let me do this instead."

Anne barely suppressed a grin as she watched Karlos execute his little act with annoying ease. The moment he winked at her, she knew—this was going to be good.

The bell rang, a shrill sound that signaled the end of their double period, and Snape's cold voice cut through the air.

"Class dismissed."

Students hurried to gather their belongings, eager to escape the dungeon's oppressive atmosphere. Vials clinked against one another as they were carefully placed on Snape's desk, some shimmering perfectly, others looking questionably hazardous.

Anne lingered, pretending to adjust the strap of her satchel as she covertly observed Karlos in action.

The boy bounced up to Snape's desk with an expression of well-practiced innocence, his perfect brew of Boil Cure clutched in one hand.

"Sir, I don't think my potion is right." His voice was the perfect mix of concern and sincerity, just enough to bait Snape's curiosity. "The smell seems off."

Anne pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh as Karlos held out his vial.

From anyone else, the claim would have been dismissed outright. But this was Karlos Hector Fawley, an heir of the Fawley bloodline, and more importantly—an undeniable prodigy in potion-making. Snape, despite his favoritism, was still a man of intellectual arrogance. If a Fawley suggested something was off, he would check it just to prove them wrong.

And so, with a thinly veiled sneer, Snape snatched the vial from Karlos's grip and uncorked it.

Anne swore she could see the exact moment the potent combination of dried Druid Weed powder and Knotgrass essence hit Snape's sinuses.

His expression froze.

Then—a twitch of the nose.

Then—a full-body shudder.

And then—a most undignified, completely involuntary, head-whipping sneeze.

The force of it sent his sleek black hair flying out of place, strands sticking up at odd angles as he barely caught himself against his desk. A second sneeze followed immediately, his wand clattering against the tabletop.

Karlos, the absolute menace, had the audacity to step back with wide, horrified eyes, as if he had nothing to do with this disaster.

"Oh, dear," he said, voice soaked in false remorse, even as his eyes twinkled mischievously. "I think I may have contaminated my vial."

Anne, biting her knuckle to keep from bursting out laughing, immediately grabbed Karlos's sleeve and yanked him toward the door before Snape could murder him on the spot.

Anne kept her smirk carefully tucked away, though her lips twitched with amusement as she spared one last glance at Snape, who was corking the vial once more, his face still contorted in the aftermath of that most undignified sneeze.

She strode out of the dungeon with Karlos beside her, her steps light, her mood significantly brighter despite the lingering chill of the corridor.

The recently declared best person in the world, in her humble opinion, walked beside her with an air of pleased nonchalance, hands casually tucked into his robes as if he hadn't just sneezed on Snape's entire reputation.

Anne tilted her head towards him, her voice low but teasing.

"Are you sure he won't detect it?"

Karlos cast her a sideways glance, his lips curling into that lazy, self-assured smirk that made it very clear he had already thought ten steps ahead.

"Nah," he drawled, shrugging lightly. "The smell of the potion will cover up the Knotgrass, and Druid Weed isn't exactly the most suspicious ingredient, is it?"

Anne huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. Arrogant, insufferable, absolutely brilliant.

This was definitely the start of something dangerous.

Anne barely stopped herself from colliding with Rosaline Potter, who stood at the center of what was now an even larger entourage than usual.

Her usual companions—Danton Dolohov, Reinhard Lestrange, and Theodore Nott—were, of course, right by her side, but what caught Anne off guard was the presence of several older Slytherins, some of whom she vaguely recognized as fourth and fifth years.

Anne narrowed her eyes. Since when did Rosaline command the attention of upper years?

She didn't know why, but her first instinct was to glance at Karlos.

And sure enough, when she turned her head, he was already looking at her.

For a split second, his grey eyes flickered with something like realization, as if he'd just remembered something critically important.

Then, with a barely contained wince, he mouthed a single word.

"Shit!"

Anne raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Karlos ran a hand through his hair, the picture of a boy who had just been caught in a lapse of judgment.

"I forgot to tell you!" he whispered hurriedly, the faintest hint of guilt creeping into his voice.

Anne crossed her arms, keeping her tone level. "Tell me what, exactly?"

Karlos shot her a quick, almost nervous grin before shaking his head.

"I'll tell you later. Let's go."

Before Anne could protest, he smoothly snatched her bag from her shoulder, hoisting it over his own as if it weighed nothing. Then, with that infuriatingly confident stride, he led her away from the Slytherin cluster, steering her towards the stairs leading up to Ravenclaw Tower.

Anne let herself be guided, though her curiosity burned hotter with every step.

She didn't miss the way Rosaline's gaze lingered on them, nor the faintest smirk that tugged at the corner of Reinhard Lestrange's lips.

Something was up.

It took barely a second for Anne and Karlos to settle onto their recently claimed couch in front of the crackling fireplace in the Ravenclaw common room. The moment they sat down, Anne pounced—leaning forward, eyes sharp, voice demanding.

"What happened?" she asked, her words spilling out in rapid succession. "Why is Rosaline suddenly surrounded by so many upper years? And why were they guarding her like she's some kind of queen?"

Karlos sighed dramatically, as if bracing himself. He sank deeper into the couch, throwing an arm over the backrest and looking at her with the patience of a man facing an interrogation.

"I was going to ease you into it," he said, rubbing his temple, "but apparently, subtlety is wasted on you."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "Karlos."

He held up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright," he said, grinning despite himself. "It's a bit of a messy situation, but long story short—Rosaline's status just skyrocketed."

Anne stared at Karlos, her mind momentarily blank as she processed his words.

Rosaline—the Rosaline Euphemia Potter—had just stolen the Slytherin throne from a seventh-year?

Her shock must have been clear because Karlos let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yes, Anne," he said, amusement dancing in his grey eyes. "She didn't just take the throne—she now owns the entire Slytherin court."

Anne's lips parted slightly as she struggled to wrap her head around it.

"The court—" she started, then paused, frowning. "So, she's arranged her own court?"

Karlos nodded. "Obviously. She picked her people, and surprise, surprise—Lestrange, Dolohov, and Nott are all in it."

Anne exhaled slowly, her fingers tapping against her knee.

Then, her lavender eyes darkened.

"Then why the hell," she said, voice laced with irritation, "was Reinhard Lestrange smirking at me? Why was he looking at me as if he won something?"

Karlos blinked.

Then, to her increasing annoyance, he grinned.

"Oh," he said, stretching out the word in a way that immediately put her on edge. "So you noticed?"

Anne blinked, her irritation momentarily giving way to confusion.

"What?" she asked, her voice a touch incredulous.

Karlos leaned back, casually draping an arm over the couch, his smirk widening.

"Well, dear Annie," he drawled, eyes practically glinting with mischief, "don't you know that we are a bit of a celebrity in Ravenclaw?"

Anne's brows furrowed further. "What do you mean by that?"

Karlos tilted his head, his expression just a little too entertained. "Oh… um… you don't know?"

Anne folded her arms, her patience wearing thin.

"What do you mean by that, Karlos?" she repeated, a warning edge creeping into her voice.

Karlos gave a carefully neutral shrug, though his grin remained firmly in place.

"Well," he said, drawing out the word, "on Tuesday—the second day of school, mind you—at lunch, you…" he paused for dramatic effect, "ignored Rosaline."

Anne's jaw nearly dropped. "What? I did not ignore Rosaline!"

Karlos hummed thoughtfully. "Well, you didn't, but…" He lifted a hand, making a so-so gesture. "The whole school seems to think so."

Anne stared at him.

Then, finally, she let out a disbelieving scoff.

"Are you actually telling me that the entirety of Hogwarts thinks I snubbed Rosaline Potter—on the second day of school—and now that's some kind of political statement?"

Karlos snapped his fingers, pointing at her as if she'd just solved a riddle.

"Exactly."

Anne threw her hands up, exasperated.

"But I was too absorbed in my book!" she argued. "You know—light reading and stuff."

Karlos nodded sagely, as if he had expected this response.

"Of course I know that," he said, grinning in that infuriating way of his. "I mean, I'd be disappointed if you weren't. But…" He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief.

"That's a detail only I would notice about you—not others."

Anne narrowed her eyes. "So you're telling me that because I was reading, the entire school now thinks I made some grand political move by ignoring Rosaline?"

Karlos tilted his head, as if considering it. "Mmm… Pretty much."

Anne groaned, burying her face in her hands.

Hogwarts was ridiculous.

Anne lifted her head, giving Karlos a deadpan stare.

"Um, but why?" she asked, her voice exasperated. "You still haven't explained why we're supposedly celebrities."

Karlos gave her a look, one that practically screamed, Are you seriously asking me that?

"Huh." He tapped his chin thoughtfully before grinning. "Do we really need to ask, Anne?"

Anne rolled her eyes. "Yes, we do, Karlos, because last I checked, we're just two first-years who have done nothing remotely interesting."

Karlos let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over his chest. "Anne Sallow, the most oblivious genius of our generation."

Anne gave him a flat stare. "Karlos."

Karlos chuckled, then finally leaned in, his expression shifting into something half-amused, half-serious.

"Well, let's see," he said. "You're Anne Sallow—heiress of Sallow Incorporation, a household name in the wizarding world. You walk into Hogwarts and—oh, surprise!—you have ancient magic. That's not exactly subtle, you know."

Anne frowned. "No one should know about that."

Karlos arched an eyebrow. "Oh, Anne. You're underestimating how much people love gossip."

Anne sighed. "Fine. But that doesn't explain you."

Karlos smirked. "Ah, well, I am—how do I put this?—a prodigy. A published author at ten, heir to the Marquesal House of Fawley, and, well…" He winked. "I'm devastatingly charming."

Anne groaned. "I regret asking."

Anne sighed, deeply.

It was only the first week of school, and somehow she had gotten herself tangled in a powerplay.

What was wrong with these people?

She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to stave off the headache she could feel forming.

"Okay," she said, voice slow, measured. "So let me get this straight. Because I was reading and—I guess—failed to acknowledge Rosaline, the entire school has decided I made some kind of power move?"

Karlos grinned, looking far too entertained. "Mhm."

"And because of that, people are watching us?"

"Yup."

Anne exhaled through her nose, forcing herself not to strangle him for how much he was enjoying this.

"I hate this school."

Karlos chuckled. "It's not that bad."

She shot him a look of pure skepticism. "Oh? And how, exactly, does this end for me?"

Karlos tilted his head, considering it. "That depends. You could try correcting them."

Anne snorted. "Oh, yes, because Hogwarts students are known for being reasonable and logical."

Karlos chuckled again, clearly having way too much fun with this. "Fair point. So, you could embrace it instead."

Anne gawked at him. "Embrace it?"

"Well, why not?" He shrugged, completely unbothered. "You're already a mystery to them. If you play it right, you can control the narrative. Let them think what they want."

Anne opened her mouth to argue, but then stopped.

Because—damn it—he had a point.

She tapped her fingers against her knee, thinking.

Let them think what they want.

She hadn't intended to get involved in the school's ridiculous social games, but if they were going to assign her a role anyway, then maybe… just maybe… she could use it.

Instead of being passive, she could shape how she was perceived.

Anne's lips curled into a slow, thoughtful smile.

"You're insufferable," she said.

Karlos grinned, unrepentant. "And yet, you keep me around."

Anne shook her head, amusement creeping into her tone. "I really do regret asking."

Karlos stretched out lazily on the couch, looking as though he had all the time in the world.

"So, what's next, oh wise one?" he teased.

Anne glanced at the fire, its warm glow casting flickering shadows across the common room.

"Well," she said, voice light but firm, "I think it's time I start paying attention to how the game is played."

Karlos' smile widened. "Now that," he said, "sounds fun."

And as the fire crackled beside them, Anne Sallow knew that—whether she wanted to or not—she had just stepped onto the board.

------

Anne existed and did not exist.

The air was too thick to breathe, too thin to suffocate. There was no ground beneath her feet, but she was standing. Or maybe she was floating. Or sinking. Or something worse.

The world—or the idea of a world—twisted, folded, and broke.

Everything was too much. Too loud. Too silent. Too real. Too unreal.

Shapes moved where there should have been nothing. Colors bled into each other, forming impossible hues that slithered through her mind, coiling around her thoughts like sentient things. They whispered. They screamed. They sang songs in languages that should never be spoken aloud.

She tried to move.

Or maybe she didn't. Did she have a body? Did she ever?

Then the sky cracked.

No. Not the sky. There was no sky. There was only an absence, something that should not be seen and yet was looking back at her.

Something was wrong.

She was supposed to be asleep. She was supposed to be in her dormitory.

But instead, she was here, in the places between places, staring at the creeping, shifting non-things that devoured reality itself.

They weren't alive.

They weren't dead.

They weren't.

And yet, they moved, unfolding from nowhere, stepping into existence as if they had always been there. Too many limbs. Not enough. Maws in places where there were no mouths. Eyes blinking open across their forms, watching her, watching everything, watching nothing.

**A laugh—**no, **a sob—**no, a sound that wasn't either, rippled through the void.

Anne felt her skull crack without breaking.

Something crawled beneath her skin. Behind her eyes.

She turned.

There was a figure, standing untouched in the middle of it all.

Anne knew her before she even saw her face.

She had always known her.

Rosaline.

Rosaline stood there, back straight, utterly unbothered by the chaos, the horror, the end of everything.

Her black hair flowed unnaturally, like it was unaffected by time itself. Her robes weren't fabric, but shadows and fire and meaning.

Anne's mind fractured, then stitched itself back together, over and over again.

And then Rosaline turned.

Her face was—

Anne's thoughts skidded, slammed against something too vast to comprehend.

Her eyes were—

The world tilted.

The monsters behind her bowed.

Reality itself seemed to bend around her, like she was the center of everything. Like she was the thing that held the universe together.

Rosaline smiled.

Anne collapsed.

She fell.

Fell.

Fell.

And then she woke up, screaming.