It was late when Sirius finally drifted to sleep, his mind buzzing with names, voices, and the dull ache of a long day's tension. The flickering light from the fireplace danced across the dark green walls of his new quarters, casting quiet shapes on the ceiling. Somewhere down the hall, a door creaked, a student laughed, and the plumbing sighed through the ancient bones of the castle.
He hadn't even changed out of his uniform before collapsing onto the four-poster bed. Hogwarts was larger than life, but tonight, it was simply overwhelming. The sort of overwhelming he couldn't admit aloud—not yet.
When he awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the cinnamon. A single biscuit rested on a tray beside a steaming teacup on the small table by the fire. He sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and blinked at the unfamiliar softness of the blanket tucked around him. The room had changed.
The cold, impersonal greens and greys of the night before were still there, but softened—layered now with warmth. The tapestry on the wall had transformed into a celestial chart, with silver-stitched constellations forming serpents and dragons winding across the stars. The fire gave off a golden glow, far gentler than it had been. The curtains had a richer sheen, the bedcovers bore a more elegant pattern in House colors, his clothes were unpacked in the wardrobe and his desk now held a neat stack of parchment, a quill, and a polished inkpot.
Sirius didn't need to ask.
"Kint," he murmured.
The elf appeared instantly with a bow, eyes wide with pride and a hint of anxiety.
"Kint is sorry for not asking, Master Sirius, but you were sleeping, and Kint thought it best to do something nice, sir."
Sirius looked around the room once more. He didn't usually care about his surroundings—home had always been perfectly kept without needing his input. But somehow, this felt different. Like Kint had tried to bring a sliver of Black Manor into the dungeons.
"It's fine," Sirius said at last, voice low. "Thank you, Kint."
Kint beamed, nodded deeply, and quietly vanished.
Sirius slid out of bed, picked up the parchment from the desk, and uncapped the ink. He sat down, quill in hand, and began to write.
Dear Father and Mother,
I have arrived safely and been sorted—into Slytherin, of course. As expected, but I'll admit: hearing it confirmed still brought a subtle satisfaction. Even foregone conclusions must be fulfilled to hold value, no?
The Sorting Hat considered my mind for only a moment before it echoed what we've always known. I walked to the Slytherin table with my head high.
Burton and Cloyd were sorted right after me. You'll be pleased to know they're both here as well. Old friends, steady company. Cloyd had a bit of an argument with the Hat—it tried to send him to Gryffindor of all places—but he made the correct choice in the end. I suspect that will earn him a bit of quiet respect down here.
The House is as it should be. Traditional, elegant, focused. There are undercurrents already—alliances forming, lines being drawn. I'll observe carefully before moving.
The castle is everything they say it is and more. The arrival by boat beneath the moon was... dramatic. Fitting, really. I couldn't help but imagine how it will look when Phineas arrives in a few years. He'll do well here—especially if he's prepared. Tell him I'll write to him soon, with advice.
I already miss the manor, and our evenings together, especially mischief caused by Ella at every other moment, even soft cries of Isla, but I intend to make the name Black shine even brighter here, as I was raised to.
Your dutiful son,
Sirius Rigel Black
He sealed the letter with green wax and passed it to Kint, who reappeared without being summoned this time, as if sensing the moment.
"This goes home. To both of them."
Kint nodded solemnly. "Kint will make sure it gets there, sir. At once."
With a pop, he was gone again.
Sirius sat back, sipping the tea. He let the cinnamon from the biscuit linger on his tongue as the morning light—faint and filtered through the Black Lake above—cast soft green shadows across the room.
A new beginning had quietly arrived in the night. And Sirius Black was ready.
At breakfast —just as Sirius was buttering a warm cinnamon scone and listening half-heartedly to Burton's account of a Slytherin fourth year who claimed to have dueled a Veela in summer—the whisper reached the Slytherin table like a cold wind under the door.
Cloyd was the first to pick it up, pausing mid-sip of tea. "They're saying we'll be tested," he said, voice low but alert. "Divided into sections."
Arlo Vaisey leaned in from a seat over. "It's not a rumor. I heard Orpington and Ogden talking about it last night. Some kind of evaluation. To separate the real scholars from... the rest."
Sirius didn't look up immediately. Instead, he smoothed the corner of his napkin and reached for the pot of clotted cream. "When is this happening?"
"On 5th," Vaisey replied. "Two exams. Morning and evening. Eight subjects total. It's all structured. Arithmancy, History, Herbology, and Astronomy in the morning. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and Defensive Magic in the evening."
"And english language," added Burton, nodding. "Reading and writing scores are tucked in."
There was a subtle change in the air. The Ravenclaws, further down the hall, had already begun clutching their parchment and quills nervously, some muttering incantations under their breath. The Hufflepuffs whispered anxiously, while a few Gryffindors exchanged grins that didn't quite reach their eyes. Among the Muggleborns, confusion flickered—some hadn't even received proper muggle education before Hogwarts, let alone studied Arithmancy or Astronomy.
The division wouldn't just be based on performance. It would be labeled. Purebloods, Halfbloods, and Muggleborns—PB, HB, and MB—grouped and sorted for different sections accordingly. Some pretended not to care. Others looked terrified.
Sirius placed his scone back on the plate, finally meeting Burton and Cloyd's gaze. "It was bound to happen. Hogwarts might offer education to all, but it was never built equal."
Cloyd frowned. "Still, separating us like this? It's just going to make things worse."
Burton gave a lazy shrug. "Not for us. You're a Prewett. I'm Flint. And Sirius here..." he smirked. "Well, he practically is the wizarding Britain"
A quiet pride curled at the edges of Sirius's expression. He didn't gloat, but he also didn't deny it. Being a Black meant Slytherin had always been the only destination. But it still felt good—like a weight lifted, a relief from an invisible burden he hadn't admitted he carried.
"I didn't come here to be humbled," Sirius said calmly, voice silken but firm. "Let them do their tests. I intend to be at the top of every list they make."
Arlo gave an approving nod. "Good. The rest of us need someone to raise the curve."
Across the room, uneasy glances were exchanged by a group of Muggleborn boys huddled at the far end of the table. Sirius noted them—two in ill-fitting robes, one already fumbling with a wand that sparked erratically. A half-blood from the Midlands muttered something under his breath, earning a half-smile from an older student nearby.
"They are in the six-bed dorm," Cloyd said quietly, following Sirius's gaze.
"The largest," Burton added, "but most cramped. 'Fair' accommodation, I suppose."
Sirius didn't respond, but the flicker of distaste in his eyes said enough. He wouldn't mock them—not yet—but he wouldn't carry them either. This was Hogwarts. Every step forward was earned.
As the Great Hall cleared after breakfast, Prefects made quiet rounds, handing out a printed notice. The schedule was real, official, and signed with Headmaster Fortescue's long looping hand.
Hogwarts Foundational Assessment - Year 1856
Date: September 5, 1856
Time:
Morning Exams: 10:00 AM – 12:00 PM
Subjects: Herbology, Astronomy, History of World and Magic, Arithmancy
Evening Exams: 4:00 PM – 6:00 PM
Subjects: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Defense and Offense
Instructions:
All first-year students must report to the Great Hall ten minutes prior to exam commencement. Each paper includes a language section with assigned marks. Points per subject:
Morning exams: 40 Points
Evening exams: 40 Points
Language and composition: 20 points
Stationery will be provided.
Sections will be posted the next day in the common room notice boards.
As they filed out into the corridor, Sirius tucked the notice neatly into his robe.
"Feel like we're being sorted all over again," Cloyd muttered.
"No," Sirius replied, tone cool. "The Hat judged our character. This will judge our mind. One is fate. The other—well, that's mostly in our hands."
And with that, the trio made their way toward their common room, heads high and steps measured, calm amidst the rising tide of nervous whispers.
As Sirius walked the castle corridors, his face remained the picture of calm—chin up, strides long and sure, his robes trailing behind with quiet dignity. But beneath the composed exterior, his thoughts twisted and turned like the staircases of Hogwarts themselves.
This was, objectively, a good exam. Sensible, even.
The castle opened its doors to anyone with a hint of magic in their blood—no matter how raw, wild, or unrefined they were. And with that open door came chaos: students who had never seen a quill, who squinted at parchment like it might explode, who didn't know to use a fork and knife at the same time. He'd watched one muggleborn boy on the first night eat roast turkey with his hands, then lick the grease off his fingers with loud, guttural pleasure. The boy hadn't even noticed the stares.
Ravenclaws, of all people, had fared worse. The House of Knowledge now seated a handful of students who didn't know Latin, didn't know how to hold a wand properly, didn't even speak English or French fluently.
It was less obvious in Slytherin—of course. The ambition that drew muggleborns and half-bloods to the house also made them mimic pureblood mannerisms with remarkable efficiency. Polished shoes. Eyes lowered when spoken to. A silent nod of deference when senior students passed. They adapted quickly, and Sirius had to admit, he respected that. But it didn't change the fact that this—this whole system—felt like a quiet culling, wrapped in the language of "support" and "readiness."
Because it wasn't just about skill.
It was about blood.
The groups weren't just being labeled to form sections. They were being marked—PB, HB, MB. There was no veil of subtlety, no effort to mask the divide. A rare pureblood without education would be in the MB group, but Sirius knew—they all knew—that wouldn't happen. The Board of Governors, every last one of them draped in velvet and pedigree, wouldn't allow it. Not truly.
The school was ruled by tradition. Power sat with those born to it. Even his family, as mighty as the Blacks were, didn't have a seat at the very top—yet. And Sirius? He was just a first-year. A promising name, yes, but not one the Headmaster or the Board would think twice about overruling.
Not yet.
He couldn't change things from the outside. Not by whining about fairness or declaring the exams unjust. That was the Gryffindor way—loud, brave, ineffective. The Slytherin way was quieter. Strategic. It whispered behind closed doors, smiled at rivals while sharpening the dagger.
I'll learn the rules, Sirius thought, jaw tightening slightly as he turned toward the Slytherin stairwell. And when I've mastered them, I'll rewrite the book.
He passed a group of older students in the corridor—fifth-years, chatting about some Advanced Alchemy lesson—one of them gave him a brief nod. Recognition. Already.
It wasn't power. Not yet. But it was the scent of it, and Sirius Rigel Black had a good nose for that sort of thing.
He would ace the exam. Not just to prove himself, but to ensure he was in the room when decisions were made. No one would change a thing for muggleborns or half-bloods out of charity. But perhaps... if someone clever enough stood high enough, they could change things out of design.
And until then? Let the school sort and stamp and label everyone as it pleases.
He'd wear whatever label they gave him—so long as it was etched in gold.
Couple of days later, the dungeons were buzzing.
Not with fear—at least, not openly—but with the restless energy of students trying to outrun uncertainty. Tables in the common rooms and study rooms had been rearranged, transfigured, and repurposed into study spaces. Textbooks were cracked open, quills scratching feverishly on parchment. Charts of star constellations floated midair, diagrams of potion ingredients rotated slowly above tables, and candlelight flickered over rolled-up timelines of magical history.
The test was tomorrow. And everyone knew it wasn't just a test.
Older students had been assigned—or volunteered—to help first-years prepare. They hovered like hawks over groups of eager, squirming students, correcting quill grips, quizzing Arithmetic equations, and drilling astronomy charts. There was laughter, groaning, and a few quiet tears hidden in sleeves. It could almost have passed for a scene of unity.
Almost.
Sirius sat on a bench by the Slytherin fireplace, a thick sheaf of notes resting in his lap. He wasn't part of the tutoring circles, not officially. But his eyes scanned the room constantly. Watching. Measuring.
Humfrey Ogden, the fourth-year Slytherin representative, stood nearby with a few of the younger boys, including Cloyd. He was running through potion ingredients at a clipped, efficient pace.
"Snake fangs, powdered root of asphodel, crushed daisy root—Prewett, what's the reaction if you add too much asphodel?"
Cloyd, unusually alert, shot back, "Temporary paralysis. Countered with mandrake essence or mild pepperup draught."
Ogden gave a sharp nod. "Good."
Burton was across the room, calmly decoding a star chart with the help of a girl from third year. The two seemed oddly in sync—Burton with his stiff posture and quiet intensity, she with an eye for precision.
But further across the hall, Sirius saw something else.
A group of muggleborns—two boys and three girls—sat awkwardly in a cluster near the back of the hall. Their textbooks were open, but none of the older students had approached them. One of the girls, a nervous one with frizzy hair, raised her hand tentatively toward a passing prefect. He smiled tightly and murmured something about "coming back later."
He didn't.
They were being left to fend for themselves.
No one said anything cruel. No one pointed and laughed. But the silence around them was loud, and the avoidance was deliberate.
"Why aren't they helping them?" Sirius asked softly, glancing toward Felix Nott, who had taken the seat next to him.
Nott didn't look up from his Arithmancy workbook. "Because there's no point. They'll be in the MB section. Doesn't matter how well they score. Everyone knows it."
Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Even if they outperform half-bloods?"
Nott's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "They could get perfect scores and still end up in the third section. You think the Board would let muggleborns sit next to a Malfoy?"
He said it casually, like a simple truth, and turned a page.
Sirius said nothing, but inside, something shifted. He looked across the room again—one of the muggleborn boys had written something upside down in his notes. Another was practicing wand movements with his left hand because no one had corrected him.
They don't even know they've already been sorted, Sirius thought grimly. Not by the Hat. But by the world.
Still, he didn't get up.
Not yet.
Because he knew—this wasn't the moment for noble gestures. This was the moment for taking stock, for learning the terrain. He wasn't here to rescue anyone.
He was here to win.
"Care to quiz me on Charms?" he asked Nott instead, breaking the silence.
Nott arched a brow. "A Black asking for help?"
"I'm asking for speed," Sirius said coolly, flipping open his notes. "I don't have all night."
Across the room, one of the muggleborn girls silently switched from her battered old book to copying notes from the boy next to her. Her handwriting was careful. Her eyes burned with determination.
They would learn soon enough.
That magic was only half the battle.
The morning of the exam dawned grey and cool, the sky overcast as if Hogwarts itself had lowered a veil of solemnity over the castle. Rain tapped softly against the dungeon windows, steady as a heartbeat.
Sirius Rigel Black rose early, long before the chime of the enchanted alarm tones. Kint had left out a set of perfectly pressed black robes with silver-threaded cuffs and polished boots. A bowl of cinnamon biscuits waited beside a pot of hot cocoa on the side table. Sirius ate slowly, dressed precisely, and took one last look in the mirror above his fireplace. His expression was calm. His stomach was not.
By the time the rest of Slytherin House stirred, he was already in the common room, reviewing last-minute notes with Cloyd and Burton.
"I've revised Arithmancy twice. If they throw numerological paradoxes at us this early, I swear I'll scream," Cloyd muttered, chewing the end of his quill.
"You'll scream quietly," Burton said. "Slytherins don't make scenes."
Sirius gave a dry smile. "Except in the courtroom or on the battlefield."
Breakfast was a quiet affair, but food was still served till 9 AM. Students sat in clusters, whispering, eating, or staring blankly at their plates. The tension was thick, like a potion ready to boil over.
Sirius noticed how some of the muggleborn students barely touched their food. One boy kept glancing nervously at the professors seated at the dais, as though awaiting judgment. Others, more cheerful or more naïve, chatted amongst themselves, unaware of what awaited them by the end of the day.
At precisely 9:45, Professor Hereswith Marchbanks—one of the most senior members of the faculty and Head of Examinations at hogwarts—opened the doors of the great hall again. The long tables in the Great Hall had been removed and exchanged with neat rows of single person exam desks.
"First years, please take your assigned seats. Exam parchments are color-coded and enchanted with your names. Wands in plain sight on your table. Quills down until instructed. You may bring a water flask."
The Great Hall shimmered slightly as the ceiling adjusted, cloudy skies giving way to a cool blue ambiance. Rows of desks—elegant but austere—were now covered with charmed parchment. Sirius found his name without trouble and took his seat behind Cloyd, who looked pale but determined.
At exactly ten o'clock, Marchbanks waved her wand and the first portion of the exam began.
Morning Exams: Herbology, Astronomy, History of World & Magic, Arithmancy
It was brutal—but not unfair. The first section on Herbology required students to identify illustrated magical plants and explain basic uses. Astronomy followed with constellation mapping and a question about lunar phases affecting magical creature behavior. The History section was long and essay-based, much to the horror of those unfamiliar with writing more than a few sentences. Arithmancy—the real monster—had numerical pattern analysis and a single logic puzzle that left half the hall staring in despair.
Sirius worked methodically, his handwriting neat, answers precise. Cloyd sweated through the logic puzzle, muttering numbers under his breath. Burton finished the entire section with five minutes to spare and spent the rest of the time checking each answer like a soldier inspecting his weapons.
And then—lunch.
The students staggered out like they'd just returned from battle. Some, like Nott and Malfoy, seemed to glide out, untouched by anxiety. Others were pale, whispering to each other in frantic tones. Sirius passed a Hufflepuff muggleborn girl in the corridor, crying quietly behind a pillar. No one stopped.
Afternoon Exams: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Defense & Offense
The Great Hall, now dimmed with the late afternoon light filtering through high windows, still buzzed faintly with the static tension of nerves. Students filed in once more, moving slower this time, their morning energy dulled by fatigue and growing dread.
At precisely 4 PM, the second stack of exam parchments materialized on each desk, subject names flashing briefly across the top: Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Defense & Offense.
The exam was entirely theory-based—no wandwork, no incantations—just ink, logic, and prior learning.
Sirius exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves, and set to work.
Charms tested incantation structure, spell mechanics, wand movement theory, and magical safety protocol. Questions asked students to identify the difference between a Lumos and a Lumos Maxima, and explain why improper pronunciation of Alohomora could cause an unintended magical backlash. Sirius answered with careful detail, including two footnotes referencing spellwork journals he had read last summer.
Transfiguration focused heavily on magical laws and limitations: Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, material-to-material transference ratios, and transformation consequences. Where some scratched their heads over the difference between animate and inanimate transfiguration boundaries, Sirius breezed through, recalling pages of handwritten notes from his family's library and information drilled in him by his tutors.
Potions was less abstract—more about potion composition, ingredient interaction, and sequence importance. Diagrams showed cauldrons mid-brew and students were expected to identify what had gone wrong based on steam color, froth consistency, or temperature notes. Sirius found it almost leisurely. Years of helping Phineas catalogue dried belladonna and grind bezoars had paid off.
Defense and Offense, though its name suggested action, was all theory—structured like a strategy paper. There were essays on curse categories, classifications of magical threats, wandless defense hypotheticals, and an ethics section on acceptable magical retaliation. It was dense, abstract, and—according to Sirius—more about demonstrating clarity of thought than actual magical aptitude.
Around him, students scratched quills furiously or stared blankly at their parchments. A few muggleborns openly struggled, clearly not used to long-form essay answers or technical vocabulary. Even some half-bloods stumbled. Sirius glanced up once to see a Gryffindor boy biting his lip, blinking back tears. Across the hall, Professor Marchbanks stood like a statue, expression unreadable.
By the final parchment, Sirius's hand was cramping, and ink flecked his fingers—but he was confident. Not arrogant, not entirely. But confident.
He had been trained for this. Taught to write with precision. To analyze spells. To memorize theory. This wasn't new—it was simply a new arena for things he had studied at home for years.
Burton finished with ten minutes to spare and folded his parchment with the casual grace of someone who knew he had performed well. Cloyd, determined and a bit breathless, scribbled his final sentence just as the clocks chimed six.
When the exams officially ended, the hall fell into a drained hush. Marchbanks dismissed them with a flick of her wand, and Sirius, Cloyd, and Burton walked out together, boots echoing against the stone.
"Defense was wordy," Cloyd said, rubbing his neck. "But I think I managed."
"You'll be fine," Sirius said, adjusting his sleeves. "You always do better under pressure."
"I liked Potions," Burton said casually. "Straightforward. I don't trust Transfiguration. Too many exceptions."
Sirius gave a small laugh but said nothing more.
The tension had drained from his body, but something else remained—anticipation. Tomorrow, the results will go up. The divisions would be made.
And for all his knowledge, his hours of study, his name, and his pedigree—he still felt like he was walking a tightrope, and the wind was just beginning to blow.
The hearth in the Hogwarts staff room glowed softly, shadows licking the walls as the long oak table groaned beneath the weight of parchment stacks, steaming teapots, and floating quills. It was well past curfew, and yet every chair around the table was occupied.
This was the night of judgment.
Deputy Headmistress Eupraxia Mole sat at the head, her posture straight and expression unreadable. Her dark green robes shimmered faintly in the firelight, and though she had long since relinquished her post as a Magical Theory professor, no one at the table doubted she was the most discerning magical intellect among them. She was here to listen, but she would decide.
At her right, Professor Marchbanks cleared her throat, conjuring a large chart that hovered over the table, inked neatly with scores and categories. "Examinations concluded at six o'clock. All eight core subjects have been evaluated. Language and Composition scores are averaged into each subject score. We now discuss placement for the academic terms."
Professor Beatrix Bulstrode, one of the faculty of Potions—her greying hair coiled like a serpent at her nape—flicked through the top parchment. "It's a solid year for purebloods. Strong showings in Defense, Transfiguration, and Potions. Expected, of course."
Professor Merrythought, younger and sharper in disposition, raised an eyebrow. "Some of the half-bloods did better than you might think, Beatrix. Especially in Astronomy and Arithmancy. Two Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw placed within the top fifteen overall."
Professor Redmund Thornley, head of Transfiguration, let out a scoff. "Arithmancy, Astronomy, and History are non-magical disciplines. Useful, yes, but not indicative of magical strength. They require discipline, not magical instinct."
Merrythought rolled her eyes. "You'd think discipline would count for something."
Near the end of the table, Professor Harrion Slughorn—on sabbatical from his tenure at Beauxbatons and now observing as a guest lecturer—was scribbling meticulous notes. He had a strong nose, a courtly manner, and an eye for patterns in both names and behavior.
"Interesting, though," he murmured, eyes glinting. "Many of the top scores, even in theory, belong to students tutored before Hogwarts—especially those with private instructors. That does tend to skew expectations, doesn't it?"
Professor Viridis, the Charms Mistress, nodded. "Indeed. Home tutoring varies wildly. It's part of why we reevaluate in the fourth year, when they've had time under our curriculum. The re-sorting of sections then is based entirely on merit and declared subjects."
Mole raised a hand, and the murmuring settled.
"Continue," she said softly.
Marchbanks conjured five glowing banners into the air, each labeled with one of the upcoming academic sections for the year.
First Year Academic Placement (1856 Batch):
Total Students: 152
60 Pureblood
70 Half-Blood
24 Muggleborn
Section 1PA – Pureblood A (30 students)
→ 10 Slytherin – 8 Ravenclaw – 6 Hufflepuff – 6 Gryffindor
Section 1PB – Pureblood B (30 students)
→ 9 Slytherin – 8 Ravenclaw – 6 Hufflepuff – 7 Gryffindor
Section 1HC – Half-Blood C (35 students)
→ 6 Slytherin – 10 Ravenclaw – 10 Hufflepuff – 9 Gryffindor
Section 1HD – Half-Blood D (35 students)
→ 6 Slytherin – 9 Ravenclaw – 11 Hufflepuff – 9 Gryffindor
Section 1ME – Muggleborn E (24 students)
→ 5 Slytherin – 6 Ravenclaw – 7 Hufflepuff – 6 Gryffindor
Professor Viridis gestured lazily toward the ME column. "Twenty-four muggleborns. Even with the few outliers, the majority scored lowest in Charms, Defense, Transfiguration, and Potions."
Beatrix Bulstrode nodded sharply. "Lack of magical heritage and access to basic education. They'll be placed together. Best to tailor the curriculum to their level as usual."
Merrythought raised her voice a fraction. "You're assuming they can't catch up."
"You're assuming they can," Thornley muttered.
Slughorn spoke again, softly but clearly. "Well, it's not a question of potential, is it? Only preparedness. That's what these first-year divisions are always meant to measure."
"Exactly," Marchbanks said with finality. "By fourth year, they'll be re-sorted based on actual performance and declared subjects. OWL eligibility requires a minimum of three magical subjects and two non-magical ones. We're laying the foundation now—one that allows each student to reach the bar."
Professor Mole stood at last, folding her arms.
"We all know the Board prefers clean divisions," she said. "But that does not mean we make our decisions purely on blood. Test results support the groupings—barely, but enough. No muggleborn qualified for a pureblood section. Only three might have qualified for half-blood, and even they are missing key conceptual understanding. Language especially."
She looked around the room, eyes lingering on each professor.
"We continue this policy. First-year sections are to be fixed. But by third-year's end, every student will have the opportunity to move based on merit alone. That is non-negotiable. If any student earns it, they will rise. Do we understand?"
Murmured affirmations echoed across the room.
Marchbanks gave a crisp nod. "Then I'll finalize the rosters."
Mole turned and swept out of the staff room, her cloak trailing behind her, leaving the fire to flicker alone in the silence.
And just like that, another year's quiet war had begun.