The days turned into almost a full week, and things slowly settled into a routine. Mornings began with breakfast in the Great Hall, which was always lively—the long tables buzzing with chatter as students talked about Quidditch, classes, homework, and everything in between.
Cain usually sat at the Slytherin table with Draco, but over the week he had come to know many of his Housemates beyond Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle—whom Cain had started calling Vin and Greg. There was Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, and Sophie Roper.
Slytherins functioned almost like a single body. They stuck close to one another, and others tended to avoid them—a fact Cain noticed almost immediately. Even in class, when he helped students from other Houses, their reactions were wary, as if they expected him to do something unpleasant.
I guess the prejudice runs deep, Cain thought.
By the first day, Cain had met almost all their professors. That morning at breakfast, Draco was enthusiastically talking about Quidditch with Blaise and Theo. Glancing at his timetable, Cain said, "Charms first."
Draco nodded, stuffing the last bite of toast into his mouth as they stood and made their way toward class.
"Professor Flitwick," Draco said. "Supposedly he's a half-goblin, but I heard he's a former dueling champion."
As they headed toward the Charms classroom, the corridors grew crowded. Students lingered, craning their necks and whispering—everyone eager to catch a glimpse of Harry Potter.
"Bunch of fools," Draco muttered as he stepped into the Charms classroom.
---
Inside, Professor Flitwick stood atop a tall stack of books at the front of the room, his small stature contrasted by the surprising authority in his voice.
"Wands ready, everyone! Today we'll begin with a simple illumination charm. The incantation is Lumos. Focus your intent on producing light and channel it through your wand."
Students murmured nervously, fumbling with their wands. Cain raised his own and followed Flitwick's instructions carefully.
"Lumos," he said clearly.
At once, the tip of his wand flared with a bright, steady glow. The light spilled outward, illuminating the space around him.
Flitwick clapped his hands together in delight. "Marvelous, Mr. Riven! On your very first attempt, too. Excellent focus! Five points to Slytherin."
Draco stared at him, clearly impressed.
"Impressive. You actually did it on your first try. I was almost getting the impression you didn't actually know any spells."
Cain lowered his wand as the glow faded and rolled his eyes at the jab.
Around them, other students struggled—some managing faint sparks, others producing nothing at all.
Later that day, they gathered in Professor McGonagall's classroom, where the same familiar sight greeted them: crowds of students lingering outside, eager for a glimpse of Harry Potter.
Professor McGonagall began the lesson without delay.
"Transfiguration is one of the most complex branches of magic you will study," she started. "It requires precision, discipline, and above all, intent. Today, we will attempt to transform a matchstick into a needle."
She demonstrated the spell. With a flick of her wand, the matchstick on her desk shimmered and elongated, becoming a slender silver needle.
"Now," she said, "you try."
Cain focused, raising his wand and recalling McGonagall's movements and instructions.
"Transfigure," he whispered, channeling his magic.
The matchstick trembled. Its shape warped slightly, edges curving—but it stopped halfway, neither matchstick nor needle.
McGonagall approached and examined the half-transformed object. Then she looked at Cain.
"You have grasped the spell, Mr. Riven," she said thoughtfully. "But Transfiguration requires more than mechanics. You must hold a clear image of the final object in your mind, and your intent must be unwavering. Without both, the magic falters."
Cain nodded, absorbing the lesson.
Beside him, Draco smirked and leaned closer.
"Looks like your Lumos was just beginner's luck," he teased, though his tone was friendly rather than cruel.
Cain smiled faintly.
"I'll get it right next time."
---
Only after lunch, during Potions, did they find no crowd waiting for Harry Potter.
The afternoon sun slanted through the high windows of the dungeon classroom, casting long shadows across rows of cauldrons. The air was cool and faintly damp. Cain sat beside Draco, a Potions textbook open between them as Draco bragged—at length—about being a genius at the subject.
Professor Snape swept into the room, his black robes billowing behind him as though moved by an unseen wind.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he began, his dark eyes scanning the room with open disdain. "I expect you to understand the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. I do not expect most of you to appreciate the beauty of a simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses…"
His gaze flicked across the class.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
His eyes stopped on Harry Potter, who was exchanging nervous looks with Ron.
"Potter!" Snape snapped. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked, caught off guard. "I don't know, sir."
Snape's lip curled. "Clearly. Fame isn't everything."
Draco leaned toward Cain and muttered under his breath, "Seems Snape doesn't like Potter either."
Cain smiled wryly. No shit.
He whispered back, "Looks more like he hates even his name."
Draco stifled a laugh, disguising it with a cough.
Snape continued his interrogation, firing questions at Harry—each met with hesitation or silence—as the tension in the dungeon thickened.
Finally, Snape turned his attention to the rest of the class.
"Today, you will attempt to brew a Cure for Boils. Instructions are on the board. Work in pairs. Fail—and you will suffer the consequences."
Cain and Draco bent over their cauldron. Draco measured dried nettles with careful precision while Cain crushed snake fangs into a fine powder. The ingredients hissed as they met the bubbling liquid, releasing a sharp, acrid scent.
"Stir counterclockwise—three times," Cain said, reading from the board.
Draco followed the instruction, his movements steady.
The potion thickened, its color shifting from murky brown to a pale green. Cain adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron, lowering it just enough to prevent scorching.
Draco glanced at him, impressed.
"You're good at Potions, I see," he admitted.
Cain shrugged. "It's similar to things I've been doing for a long time."
Draco smirked. "Still better than half the class. Look at Longbottom—his cauldron's about to explode."
Indeed, Neville's potion was bubbling violently, smoke rising as Snape swooped down on him with a torrent of remarks.
Cain and Draco's potion, however, settled into a smooth, pale consistency. Snape paused beside their station, eyes narrowing as he inspected their work.
He offered no praise—but they both knew.
They had passed.