Chapter 4 First Class

The morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Hufflepuff common room, painting golden streaks across the polished floor. Liora Potter yawned and stretched, feeling the lingering weight of her first night in the castle. Hogwarts had a rhythm all its own, one that took a little getting used to: early mornings, hurried walks between classes, and the curious mix of excitement and exhaustion that came from learning in a world infused with magic.

“Breakfast is ready!” called Ella, bounding down the stairs.

Liora followed her down to the table, already bustling with chatter and laughter. Her stomach rumbled at the sight of scrambled eggs, toast, pumpkin juice, and a small plate of treacle tart. She greeted her dormmates, Marnie and Tobias, and quickly filled her plate, knowing she needed energy for her first day of formal lessons.

Today, she had her very first Charms class, followed by Potions. The prospect thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. She had read about spells and cauldrons, charms and incantations, in her brother Harry’s old notes, but she knew firsthand that books were only the beginning. Hogwarts demanded more: precision, focus, and a kind of instinct that couldn’t be taught.

As the Hufflepuffs filed into the Charms classroom, Liora’s eyes widened. The room was bright and spacious, lined with shelves of glittering instruments, jars of powders, and books piled neatly in crooked stacks. Professor Flitwick, small and sprightly, perched atop a stack of cushions at the front, his wand tapping lightly against a desk. His voice was cheerful yet commanding, carrying easily across the room.

“Good morning, students! Today marks the beginning of your journey into the art of magic proper,” Flitwick began. “Charms are not merely words and wand movements; they are an expression of your will and your focus. Remember, magic responds to intention.”

Liora nodded, gripping her wand tightly. She could feel the familiar tingle of magic coursing through her fingers. She had practiced a few simple spells at home, but never under the scrutinizing gaze of a classroom filled with peers—and never with such intensity.

Flitwick demonstrated a simple Levitation Charm, murmuring Wingardium Leviosa as he waved his wand. The feather on his desk lifted gracefully into the air, twirling before settling softly back onto the table.

“Your turn!” he called, his bright eyes sweeping over the students. “Remember: focus, intent, precision!”

Liora raised her wand, heart pounding. She mimicked the motions, carefully pronouncing the incantation. The feather wobbled, rose slightly, then dropped with a soft thump. She frowned, biting her lip in frustration.

“It’s okay,” whispered Ella from the next desk. “It takes practice. Just feel the magic, don’t force it.”

Liora closed her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, letting the rhythm of the wand and the energy in the room flow through her. She tried again, slowly, deliberately. This time, the feather rose smoothly, hovering a few inches above the desk. A small cheer broke out from the Hufflepuff table. Liora’s lips curved into a tentative smile. She hadn’t mastered it yet, but she had instinctively known how to let the magic respond without forcing it.

“Excellent!” Flitwick exclaimed, clapping his tiny hands. “That, my dear, is promising indeed. Talent, when paired with focus, can lead to greatness.”

Liora felt a warmth in her chest. She wasn’t perfect, not by any means, but the small success filled her with confidence. Perhaps Hogwarts wasn’t as intimidating as she had imagined. Perhaps she really could learn, grow, and—most importantly—belong.

The next lesson was Potions, and Liora felt a twinge of nervousness as she followed the class to the dungeons. The room was dimly lit, filled with rows of cauldrons and shelves lined with jars of powdered roots, dried herbs, and sparkling liquids. Professor Slughorn greeted them with a genial smile, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

“Ah, new students! Welcome to the art of potion-making,” he said warmly. “Potions require precision, patience, and respect for the ingredients. A pinch too much, a stir too little, and the result may be… explosive.”

Liora gulped. She had always been careful, cautious even, but the idea of mixing magical ingredients with unpredictable results made her palms sweat.

The first task was simple: a basic healing draught. Following Slughorn’s instructions, she measured ingredients, whispered the incantation, and stirred carefully. Her cauldron emitted a soft glow, and the liquid inside shimmered like liquid moonlight. For a moment, Liora dared to hope she had done it correctly—until the potion bubbled violently and splashed onto her robes.

“Ah!” she yelped, brushing off the sticky liquid as it cooled. Around her, other students laughed gently, and Slughorn chuckled. “A learning experience! Very good—instinct is there, my dear, but patience is your next lesson.”

Despite the mishap, Liora couldn’t help but feel a thrill. Her hands had followed the instructions perfectly, yet her own intuition had added a little spark, a little flare that made the potion almost glow. She realized, with quiet wonder, that magic seemed to respond to her naturally—her gestures, her focus, her very intention shaped the outcome.

As the class ended, Liora cleaned up her cauldron with help from Marnie and Tobias. The students poured out of the dungeon into the sunlit grounds, laughter and chatter filling the air. Liora’s robes were stained and her fingers smelled faintly of herbs, but she felt alive in a way that only Hogwarts could inspire.

On the way back to the common room, she caught sight of him—Mattheo Riddle—standing across the courtyard. His dark gaze was fixed in her direction, yet he did not approach. Liora felt the same pull as before, the magnetic tension that made her chest tight and her heartbeat quicken.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss it. “Focus on your classes,” she whispered to herself. “You’re here to learn, not… whatever that is.”

And yet, as she crossed the cobbled paths and entered the familiar warmth of the Hufflepuff common room, the sensation remained. Somewhere in the castle, someone was watching her. Someone with dark, calculating eyes that seemed to see her, understand her, even when she barely understood herself.

That evening, as she sat at her desk, reviewing the day’s lessons, she realized something remarkable. Despite the chaos, the spills, the near-fiascos, she had learned more than she expected. Her instincts guided her, her hands responded naturally, and she had survived her first real day of magic without disaster.

And she knew, with an odd, unshakable certainty, that her journey at Hogwarts—and her encounters with those dark, piercing eyes—was only just beginning.

Somewhere across the castle, Mattheo Riddle had taken notice, and the thread that connected them was beginning to pull taut, ready to draw them together, whether they were prepared or not.