The rest of the week passed in a glorious, magical blur. The initial, wide-eyed excitement of the first day settled into a comfortable, thrilling rhythm.
History of Magic was, as predicted, deadly dull. Professor Binns, the ghost who barely seemed to notice he was teaching, droned on about goblin rebellions in a monotone that had even the most diligent students—excluding Hermione Granger—fighting to keep their eyes open. Shya, who had no patience for things that didn't actively engage her mind, spent the class secretly sketching intricate patterns in the margins of her parchment, her artist's soul rebelling against the tedium. Talora, ever the pragmatist, took neat, bullet-pointed notes, deeming it a necessary evil for the exams, but even her focus wavered more than once.
Herbology with Professor Sprout was a welcome, hands-on contrast. In the warm, humid greenhouses, they spent a double period learning to properly pot Fanged Geraniums.
Talora was a natural. Her movements were gentle yet firm as she navigated the snapping, toothy blooms with her dragon-hide gloves. "There you go," she cooed to the irate plant, her touch seeming to calm it as she tucked soil expertly around its stem. "See? Not so bad." A nearby Geranium that had been trying to bite Mandy Brocklehurst actually stilled as Talora reached over to adjust its pot, as if soothed by her presence.
Shya, on the other hand, was struggling. She approached the task with the same analytical intensity she applied to everything, but it backfired spectacularly. Her Fanged Geranium seemed to sense her clinical detachment and rebelled with extra vigor, snapping furiously every time her trowel came near. A bit of soil landed on its leaf, and it let out an offended shriek, chomping down on the edge of her glove.
"Jesus Christ," Shya muttered, shaking her hand free with a scowl. "It's just dirt."
Professor Sprout bustled over. "Ah, Miss Gill! Some plants require a… softe touch. Think of it less like a procedure and more like making a friend." She demonstrated with a gentle pat that made Shya's plant stop thrashing. Shya watched, her brow furrowed in frustration. She could transfigure a match partway to metal and cast a perfect Lumos, but she couldn't pot a stupid flower. Talora, catching her eye, gave her a sympathetic grin and a thumbs-up.
But it was Astronomy that provided Shya's first true, quiet passion. The midnight lesson on Thursday found them at the top of the Astronomy Tower, the Scottish night air crisp and clear. The enchanted telescopes were fascinating, but for Shya, the real magic was in the sky itself.
As Professor Sinistra lectured on the movements of Jupiter's moons, Talora leaned over. "You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?" she whispered, seeing the rare, unforced focus on her friend's face.
"Arya and I used to have a telescope on our balcony in London," Shya murmured back, her eyes never leaving the celestial map she was charting. "The light pollution was terrible, but we'd try to find the constellations. It's… different here. It feels closer." This was her secret, the thing she shared with her little brother, and being here, under this perfect, enchanted sky, felt like a connection to home. She was already planning the long, detailed letter she would write to him this weekend, filled with star charts and descriptions of the magical lenses.
Throughout it all, their dynamic as a duo solidified. In their free time in the common room or a quiet courtyard, Talora would lay out a plan. "Right, we need to tackle the Transfiguration essay, then review the Herbology diagrams, and if we have time, we can start pre-reading for next week's Charms."
Shya would listen, occasionally offering a tweak. "Switch Herbology and Charms. The diagrams will take longer and we'll be tired later." Once the plan was set, Talora was the architect, and Shya was the one who made it happen, her quiet intensity ensuring every task was completed with a ruthless efficiency that impressed even their studious Ravenclaw peers. Padma, Mandy, and Lisa naturally fell in line with their leadership, drawn to Talora's infectious drive and Shya's formidable competence.
Their study sessions with Cassian and Roman became a regular, if unspoken, occurrence. The library nook was their territory. The boys would arrive first, saving seats. The work was always the focus—a shared, serious pursuit of knowledge. But in the spaces between, connections grew. A shared, exasperated look between Shya and Cassian over a particularly dense passage in their textbook. A soft, shared laugh between Talora and Roman when Lisa accidentally charmed her own quill to write in invisible ink.
---
And then it was Friday morning. Flying Lessons.
The entire first year was abuzz. They gathered on the lawn, a mix of nervous and eager faces. Madam Hooch stood before a line of broomsticks.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," she barked, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
To Shya's immense frustration, her broom merely twitched on the grass. Talora's, meanwhile, smacked neatly into her palm on the first try. Next to them, they saw Hermione's broom simply roll over.
From the Slytherin line, both Cassian and Roman's brooms leapt into their hands instantly. Cassian's grip was sure and calm; Roman's was easy and confident.
"Now, mount your brooms, and on my whistle, you will kick off gently, hover for a moment, then lean forward slightly and touch back down," Madam Hooch instructed.
Shya mounted hers, her jaw set. She kicked off. The broom wobbled violently, and she clung on, her knuckles white. She was hovering, but it was a shaky, precarious affair. Talora was beside her, hovering more steadily, but looking unsure.
"You're leaning back," a quiet, flat voice said. Cassian had drifted closer on his own rock-steady broom. "You're fighting it. Lean forward slightly. It wants to go; you just have to tell it where."
Shya, startled, glanced at him. She forced herself to relax her death grip and lean forward a fraction. Instantly, the wobbling ceased, and she hovered smoothly, a foot off the ground. She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and gave him a curt, grateful nod.
A few feet away, Roman was beside Talora. "You've got it," he encouraged with a smile. "You're a natural. Just trust your balance. Look ahead, not down."
Talora, emboldened, did as he said, and her hover became perfectly still. "Wow," she breathed, a thrilled grin spreading across her face.
But before the lesson could progress, Neville Longbottom, nervous and over-eager, pushed off too hard. A collective gasp went up as he shot into the air, wobbling dangerously before crashing to the ground with a sickening crunch.
As Madam Hooch rushed him to the hospital wing, the tension broke. And Draco Malfoy pounced, snatching Neville's Rememberall.
What happened next was a blur. Harry Potter shot after Malfoy, executed a hair-raising dive, and caught the Rememberall, landing smoothly to wild cheers from the Gryffindors and stunned silence from the Slytherins.
Professor McGonagall arrived, her face like thunder, and dragged a pale-faced Harry away.
As the crowd dispersed, the group of Ravenclaw girls and the two Slytherin boys found themselves standing together.
"Well," Roman said, breaking the silence. "That was… unexpected."
"Potter's got nerve," Cassian conceded, his tone analytical.
Talora, her heart still pounding, looked from Roman to Cassian. "Thanks. For the help. I don't think I would have stayed on without it."
Shya, still feeling the newfound stability of her broom, gave a small, genuine smile. "Yes. Thank you."
Roman's smile was easy. "Anytime." Cassian simply nodded, his grey eyes meeting Shya's for a moment before looking away.
The two groups parted ways, and the five Ravenclaw girls headed back towards the castle, the adrenaline from the flying lesson slowly fading into the exhaustion of a long week.
"Did you see Professor McGonagall's face?" Lisa Turpin whispered, her eyes wide. "She looked furious!"
"She dragged him straight to Professor Dumbledore, I bet," Mandy Brocklehurst added.
Dinner in the Great Hall that evening was abuzz with only one topic: Harry Potter, the first-year Seeker. The news had spread through the school like fiendfyre.
"A first-year?" Lisa Turpin exclaimed, stabbing a piece of chicken with more force than necessary. "That's completely unfair! There are rules! How can he just get a spot like that?"
"It's because he's Harry Potter," Padma Patil said from across the table, her tone pragmatic but with a slight frown. "That's the only explanation. It's blatant favoritism."
Talora and Shya exchanged a look over their plates. It was unfair, but they also couldn't deny the sheer, breathtaking skill of that dive.
As the chatter continued around them, Shya let out a long sigh, pushing a piece of roast potato around her plate.
"Merlin, I'm getting so tired of this food," she groaned. "It's all… brown. And beige. I'd kill for something with actual spice. My mum's Chole Bhature… just thinking about it hurts." As she shifted on the bench, the soft, familiar chime of her gold anklet echoed faintly.
Talora immediately perked up. "Oh, don't even start, Bob! Your mum's Chole Bhature is a religious experience. The fluffy bhatura, the tangy, spicy chickpeas…" She closed her eyes in blissful memory,. "My dad would trade a bottle of his best single malt for a single bowl."
Padma, who had been listening, looked up from her meal, her brow furrowed in confusion. Her eyes went from the plain, thick gold bangle on Shya's wrist to the delicate anklet.
"Wait," Padma interrupted, holding up a hand. "Shya. I noticed your anklet. And your bangle." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "We call them payal and kada where I'm from. I just thought it was a… a very chic style choice. And Chole Bhature? Your mum makes Chole Bhature?"
Shya blinked, then a slow, understanding smile spread across her face. "It's a panjeb," she corrected gently, using the Punjabi word for the anklet. She then tapped the bangle on her wrist. "And this is a kara. And yes, of course she does. She's Punjabi. Our family is from Moga."
Padma's jaw dropped. "You're Punjabi? From Moga? I just thought you were… I don't know, really stylish and possibly from some European wizarding dynasty!" She gestured vaguely at Talora. "And you're… Scottish?"
"Aye, through and through," Talora said with a grin, puffing out her chest. "From a little village near Glencoe. But I spent half my childhood at her house in London, so my spice tolerance is higher than my dad's".
Padma put her fork down, shaking her head in utter disbelief, a laugh bubbling up. "I'm Gujarati. Hindu. My family's from a village near Rajkot—there are a lot of Patils there. This is wild. My sister Parvati and I were trying to figure you two out all week. We thought you were some kind of international witch royalty, and the jewellery was part of the… aesthetic."
"I mean, we are," Talora said with a mock-snooty tilt of her nose, making everyone at their end of the table laugh. "But also, just two girls who really miss good food and proper flavour."
The moment was light and full of camaraderie. It was the kind of bonding that happened when you found unexpected common ground in a new place, the subtle differences between a payal and a panjeb, suddenly feeling both significant and wonderfully trivial.
Lisa and Mandy watched the exchange, fascinated. "So, is this a big deal?" Lisa asked.
"It's like finding out the queen of a foreign country secretly makes a mean lasagna," Talora explained grandly. "It's just not what you expect, and it's brilliant."
"It's nice," Shya said, her voice softer now, the homesickness momentarily soothed by the laughter and the recognition. She touched her kara. "It's… familiar. A piece of home."
As they finally headed up to their dormitory later that night, the first week felt truly, completely over. They had survived classes, made friends, faced drama on broomsticks, and discovered new, deeper layers to each other. Curled up in their beds, the castle silent around them, Shya and Talora knew that no matter how much the British food bored them or how unfair Quidditch rules seemed, they were building a home here, piece by piece, with every shared secret, every corrected word, and every laugh in the comforting blue glow of the Ravenclaw tower.