The letter came on a quiet morning, just after breakfast, as I was rereading a chapter on rune convergence theory. I heard the tapping at the window before I saw the owl—a large tawny creature, patient and noble, with the official Hogwarts crest tied neatly to its leg.
I opened the window and untied the letter. The parchment felt warm from the sun, but the seal was crisp, embossed with the familiar lion, badger, eagle, and serpent coiled around the great H. The annual letter—it was time.
With a sense of ritual, I unfolded it.
> **Dear Mr. Starborn,**
> The following list includes your required supplies for the third year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
> *Students may choose two electives. Based on your selection, the following additions apply: Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.*
> **Core Supplies:**
>
> * Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3 by Miranda Goshawk
> * Intermediate Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
> * Magical Drafts and Potions, Year 3 by Arsenius Jigger
> * The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection (Revised Edition) by Quentin Trimble
> * Numeromantic Precision: Arithmancy Essentials by Cleora Bauk
> * The Language of Runes by Bathilda Bagshot
>
> Third-years may bring an owl, a cat, or a toad.
>
> Term begins on September 1st.
> Sincerely,
> **Professor H. Beery**
> Deputy Headmaster
I stared at the list for a moment, letting the weight of it settle in. Third year. Electives. A narrowing of the path. Magic no longer cast from curiosity alone—but with purpose.
I tucked the letter into my coat pocket, sealed the window again, and went to prepare.
Diagon Alley bustled with the rhythm of late August—hints of autumn riding the breeze, the hum of voices full of anticipation and last-minute plans. It was a strange feeling, being here without my mother or father, or even without Eleanor or Henry chatting beside me. But I'd grown used to moving through the world like this: alone, but never uncertain.
My coin pouch was charmed against pickpockets, and I had written out a precise list of shops and items the night before. Flourish and Blotts for the books. Slug and Jiggers for potion restocks. A quick visit to the Arithmancy supply shop tucked between Eeylops Owl Emporium and Gambol and Japes. And, if time allowed, a stop at the small used bookshop near the end of the street—where magic clung to the pages like dust.
I moved from store to store with practiced efficiency, slipping past families wrangling toddlers and distracted third-years giggling over joke items at Weasleys' first small display booth near the side. The stack of books grew heavier in my satchel, parchment crinkling softly with every step.
I had just stepped out of Flourish and Blotts, adjusting the satchel strap across my chest, when a familiar voice rolled into my ears—rich, warm, and unmistakably indulgent.
"Well now—if it isn't our rising star of potioneering himself! Marcus Starborn, caught in the wild."
I turned, already half-smiling, and there stood Professor Slughorn. Dressed, as always, in robes of luxurious fabric—plum velvet today, trimmed with gold—his mustache twitching with mirth and his belly rounding beneath the buttons.
"Professor Slughorn," I said with a respectful nod. "I didn't expect to see you here before term."
"Oh, I always come early, dear boy. Always good to reacquaint oneself with the best ingredients before the school term drains the shelves." He patted a bulging pouch at his side that jingled with unmistakable galleons. "Stocking up on some third-year curiosities, are we?"
I held up my bag. "Yes, sir. Just finished the book list. A few ingredients left."
He twirled a bit of beard between his fingers. "Excellent, excellent. Still considering joining the Slug Club this year, perhaps?"
I'd evaded that invitation for two years now—not ungratefully, but carefully. Slughorn collected connections like some people did chocolate frog cards. But unlike a card, he expected each name to offer him something useful.
"I'll think about it," I said, giving him a grin that walked the line between polite and ambiguous.
He chuckled, not offended in the least. "Very diplomatic, Mr. Starborn. Dumbledore did say you had a sharp mind. Between you and that charming Miss Crombwell in Ravenclaw, I may just have the finest class of third-years Hogwarts has seen in a generation!"
I felt my ears warm slightly at Eleanor's name. "She's brilliant," I agreed.
"Well, tell her I'll expect both of you to whip up something impressive by Halloween. Perhaps a dual cauldron challenge? No pressure."
Before I could respond, he waved a hand as if dismissing his own suggestion. "Now, don't let me keep you. Enjoy your last free weeks, Marcus. Hogwarts may be the safest place in Britain, but your free time vanishes quicker than powdered erumpent horn once you cross the gates."
With a last wink, he disappeared into the crowd, heading for the direction of Twilfitt and Tatting's.
I stood still for a moment, letting the encounter sink in. It was always like that with Slughorn—brief, layered, and informative in ways beyond the words spoken.
The rest of the shopping went quickly. I picked up a few extra rolls of rune-laced parchment, a replacement crystal for my wand's focus point tuner (a niche tool I liked for spell precision), and a sealed box of rare potion stabilizers I'd ordered weeks ago. As the shadows lengthened across the cobbles and the air turned cooler, I began the slow walk back to the apparition point, satchel full and steps light.
That evening, back in my Hogsmeade house, I unpacked everything methodically—books on the shelf by subject, ingredients in labeled pouches in the kitchen cabinet warded for preservation. My wand sat next to the list of electives on the desk, its core—thunderbird tail feather and griffin claw—gleaming faintly in the candlelight.
The morning air in Hogsmeade was crisp and cool, hinting at the coming of autumn. I stood before the green-flamed hearth in the local Floo hub—an inconspicuous building disguised as a storage shed at the edge of the village. My trunk, shrunken to the size of a shoebox, rested in my pocket, along with the rest of my belongings. My wand was in hand, fingers already dusted with ash. The destination had been arranged by the stationmaster in advance: King's Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters' access chamber.
"King's Cross Station, London. Platform entrance," I called clearly and stepped into the fire.
The world blurred into a rush of green, spinning fireplaces and brief flashes of strange rooms before I landed—knees slightly bent—in a private Floo chamber tucked within the depths of King's Cross. The room was dim and smelled faintly of soot, but I knew the drill. I stepped out, brushed myself off, and exited into the hidden hallway that led to the barrier for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.
A moment later, I was walking straight through the wall between Platforms Nine and Ten, heart giving a familiar flutter as the red engine of the Hogwarts Express came into view. The scarlet train steamed gently under the high glass arches, and students in various states of travel swarmed around it. Luggage trolleys, owls in cages, excited chatter—every bit of it hit me with a wave of warmth and familiarity.
"Marcus!" came a voice that could've only belonged to Henry Potter—loud, unmistakable, and filled with excitement.
I turned just in time to be clapped on the back by Henry, who had grown a little taller over the summer but was still sporting that reckless gleam in his hazel eyes.
"Good to see you," I said with a grin.
Behind him came Elizabeth, her curls tied up in a ribbon and her trunk hovering neatly behind her. "Did you get your results back?" she asked immediately.
"O in all core subjects," I said.
Henry whistled. "Show-off."
"EE in History and Astronomy," I added. "You?"
"Same for me," Elizabeth said. "Henry got an A in History."
"Because Binns is a ghost and a bore," Henry muttered.
We were soon joined by Eleanor and Edgar—Eleanor looking as composed and intelligent as ever, her Ravenclaw badge polished to a shine, and Edgar with a sleepy but happy expression, waving awkwardly. I felt a genuine warmth spread through me at the sight of them. My friends. My people.
We boarded the train together, managing to claim a compartment midway down. Once settled, we shared snacks and traded summer stories. Henry had gone camping in the countryside with Muggle relatives and ended up accidentally casting Lumos in the dead of night. Elizabeth had brewed perfumes using dried petals and minor potioncraft. Edgar, of course, had spent most of his summer reading through old Herbology journals, and Eleanor had written an essay on metaphysical spellcasting before school had even started.
When the train finally slowed and the familiar shape of the castle emerged against the dusky sky, my heart gave a small leap. No matter how many times I saw Hogwarts, it always pulled something out of me—like awe, and purpose, and memory all bound together.
We arrived at the station and walked up to the carriages—Thestrals pulling them, though only a few of us could see them. The ride was uneventful, full of the golden twilight and scattered conversations. When the carriages rolled up to the castle gates, the grandeur of Hogwarts rose before us, warm lights shining through ancient stone.
Inside the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling mirrored the cloud-scattered sky, tinged with orange and violet. Candles hovered above the long house tables, and the room buzzed with the excitement of another year beginning.
We took our seats—Ravenclaw table for me, Eleanor, and Edgar; Gryffindor for Henry and Elizabeth. The Sorting Hat, brought out on its stool once again, began its song. It was a haunting piece this year, alluding to unity, vigilance, and choices that shape the soul.
Then came the Sorting itself—one by one, nervous first-years approached the stool. The Ravenclaw table welcomed three new additions, and I clapped politely for each. Slughorn gave me a brief nod from the staff table. Beery looked pleased to see his students return, and Dumbledore, ever enigmatic with his auburn beard and brilliant robes, caught my eye for a fleeting moment and offered a small, knowing smile.
Finally, Headmaster Dippet—an imposing and old figure with silver-threaded black robes—stood and gave the start-of-term announcements. Forbidden Forest off-limits. No magic in the corridors. New changes to the library checkout system. The usual.
After the feast, filled with roast and pudding and clinking goblets, the students were dismissed. The Ravenclaw first-years were guided by Prefect Laverne to the tower, while I hung back, letting the younger ones go ahead. Eleanor walked beside me, Edgar trailing a little behind.
"Third year," she said, a thoughtful tone in her voice. "It already feels different."
"More responsibility," I murmured. "More magic."
"And more ways to get into trouble," Edgar added, yawning.
The common room welcomed us with its deep blues and soft light. After a brief nod to the bronze eagle knocker, which asked us a riddle, we stepped inside. The room smelled faintly of parchment and starlight, and the circular windows framed the sky like paintings.
I climbed the stairs to the third-year dormitory and found my bed already turned down. My trunk had been placed by the foot, and my books—those I brought with me—stacked neatly nearby. I stood by the window for a moment, looking out over the lake, the dark shape of the Forbidden Forest just beyond. Then, with a satisfied exhale, I changed into nightclothes, slid into bed, and let the quiet of Hogwarts fold around me like a blanket.