Rowan closed his spellbook and looked at the three boys with mild amusement.
"Sorry," he said lightly. "I actually like this bed. I'm not giving it up."
"You really don't understand the situation, do you?"All three stepped forward together, their expressions turning ugly."The school bans magic in the dorms," one of them said, "but nobody said anything about fists."
From their point of view, Rowan looked slimmer and smaller. They were three. He was one.
"If you insist," Rowan replied calmly, "Slytherin tradition is simple. Whoever performs better gets respect. If your grades are higher than mine, I'll move beds. Deal?"
He preferred not to hit children if he could avoid it. After all, he was a wizard now. Wizards valued composure. Rolling up sleeves and throwing punches was a soldier's habit.
The boy in front burst out laughing. "Did you hear that? A half-blood thinks he'll outscore three purebloods. That's the funniest thing I've heard all year."
"I'm giving you one last order," the boy sneered. "Take your luggage and that stupid owl and move. Now. Or you'll regret it."
Rowan sighed.
"Well then," he said, standing and setting his book aside, "I do know a bit about fighting."
No magic. No tricks. Just his body.
Against children his age, it wasn't even a contest. His strength and speed were simply on another level.
They rushed him.
Two minutes later, Rowan was back on his bed, reading again.
"I'd advise you not to run to a prefect or teacher," he added without looking up. "Three against one, and you still lost. That story would follow you for seven years."
The three boys lay on the floor, bruised, teary-eyed, pride shattered.
"We know," one of them muttered bitterly. "Don't get cocky. We'll beat you in class. In magic."
"That was my suggestion earlier," Rowan said, turning a page. "You chose fists."
Their faces darkened further.
The next morning, Rowan woke exactly seven hours later, refreshed. His roommates were still snoring.
After washing up, he headed to the Slytherin common room. The prefect had mentioned that weekly timetables would be posted after six.
It was just past seven. Only a handful of older students were awake, revising quietly. Likely fifth-years preparing for their O.W.L.s.
Rowan scanned the timetable.
"Only one class today?"
First-years had History of Magic at two in the afternoon. The rest of the day was free.
The rest of the week looked heavier. Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Potions, Charms, Astronomy. Flying lessons started in the second week.
Classes were shared between houses. Slytherin would attend Potions and Flying with Gryffindor, Charms and Transfiguration with Hufflepuff, and the rest with Ravenclaw.
He memorized everything in one pass.
"Too few Charms lessons," Rowan muttered.
Charms mattered most. Fundamentals. Theory. Spell structure.
Still, it made sense. Many first-years came from non-magical families. Foundations came before complexity.
"I'll have to make up the difference myself."
Fortunately, Hogwarts made self-study efficient. Professors, libraries, unrestricted access to knowledge. Far better than any back alley shop.
With no classes until afternoon, Rowan decided to explore.
He started with the dungeons.
Hogwarts' underground was vast. Corridors twisted endlessly. It took nearly an hour to map the basics.
Boat house access points. Storage vaults. A chamber often used by ghosts. The Potions classroom. The Slytherin Head's office. Underground classrooms. The kitchens. Hufflepuff's barrel-lined entrance.
He didn't enter the kitchens, but the sounds of house-elves preparing breakfast echoed through the walls.
Satisfied, Rowan climbed to the Entrance Hall.
Breakfast awaited.