The first rays of sunlight streamed through the high arched windows of Ravenclaw Tower, illuminating the intricate blue and bronze decor that surrounded Artemis Lovelace, Rosaline and Eliza Dawson as they groggily pulled themselves from their beds. The three had spent half the night whispering, too excited to sleep in their new dormitory, their home for next 7 years, but today was their first full day at Hogwarts, and there was no time to waste.
Slipping into their uniforms, they hurried down the spiral staircase to the common room, which was already bustling with early risers flipping through tomes or practicing wand movements. A few older students cast them amused looks but said nothing as the first-years navigated their way out of the common room and toward the Great Hall.
Breakfast was a lively affair. Plates of toast, eggs, and porridge filled the long Ravenclaw table as the first-years nervously chattered about their upcoming classes. A boy named Cassius Prewett, a rather pompous second-year, took it upon himself to educate them on what to expect.
"Professor Flitwick is an excellent teacher," Cassius said, nose buried in a book even as he spoke. "But don't expect him to go easy on you just because you're first-years. And if you get Professor McGonagall for Transfiguration, Merlin help you."
Artemis exchanged a look with her friends. "We're here to learn magic, not to be coddled."
Cassius smirked. "We'll see if you still think that after your first practical lesson."
A prefect distributed their Timetables during breakfast.
After breakfast, they collected their books and made their way to their first class—Charms with Professor Flitwick, their Head of House. The tiny professor stood on a stack of books behind his desk, his cheerful demeanor setting many of the nervous students at ease.
"Welcome, welcome! Charms is an essential part of magic, and by the end of this year, I daresay you'll be making objects dance with ease!" he squeaked, beaming at the class.
The lesson was filled with theory at first, discussing wand movements and incantation clarity. Rosaline, ever the eager one, tried to flick her wand with a swish before Flitwick had even finished explaining, nearly sending her ink bottle tumbling to the floor.
"Steady, steady! Magic requires patience as much as skill," Flitwick gently reminded her, righting the ink bottle with a wave of his own wand.
After Charms came Herbology in the greenhouses, where Professor Sprout introduced them to some particularly wriggly plants that Eliza was convinced had a vendetta against her. The morning passed quickly, and soon it was time for lunch.
As they sat at the Ravenclaw table, Artemis observed their housemates more closely. Many were deep in their books, engaged in rapid-fire discussions about theory and magical history rather than casual conversation. She had expected academic enthusiasm, but the level of snobbishness some older Ravenclaws displayed surprised her.
"Did you hear that fourth-year? 'If you can't recite the twelve uses of dragon's blood, you shouldn't be in this house,'" Eliza muttered, stabbing her mashed potatoes with a fork.
Rosaline wrinkled her nose. "I thought Ravenclaws would be nice, but a lot of them are just... competitive."
Artemis smirked. "Well, we'll just have to be brilliant enough to put them in their place, won't we?"
The three of them burst into laughter, and Artemis felt a warm satisfaction. If nothing else, she had her friends.
The afternoon brought their first Potions lesson with Professor Slughorn. Artemis found herself fascinated by the delicate art of potion-making, though she quickly learned that Slughorn played favorites. He seemed to take an immediate liking to a pure-blood boy named Benedict Travers, who bragged about his family's illustrious history in potion mastery.
Still, Artemis, Rosaline, and Eliza managed to brew a passable Cure for Boils by the end of class—though Rosaline's had bubbled dangerously at one point.
After dinner, the three of them gathered in the common room to write letters home. Artemis had named her owl Kevin in memory of her husband from last life, while Rosaline and Eliza had named theirs Nimbus and Cleensweep respectively, thinking it funny to name their owls after Brooms.
Artemis tapped her quill against her parchment, pondering what to write to Aunt Aurelia. Finally, she settled on:
Dear Aunt Aurelia,
Hogwarts is every bit as grand and enchanting as I imagined—perhaps even more so. The Sorting Hat placed me in Ravenclaw alongside Rosaline and Eliza. It said I had the potential to fit into multiple houses, but in the end, I chose to stay with my friends. I suppose it is rather fitting, considering Ravenclaw was your and Dad's house as well. I wouldn't have minded Hufflepuff either, I wish I could share this with my mom. I did spend a lot of time thinking about what could have been Edward's house. He always seemed shoe-in for Ravenclaw like dad, always had a book. He would have been a 6th year student by now.
The Ravenclaw Tower is breathtaking, perched high above the castle with the most stunning views. The blue and bronze décor gives it such an elegant air, and the enormous built-in library is a dream. I already anticipate many nights curled up in one of the vast armchairs by the fire, buried in books. Our common room entrance is guarded by riddles—challenging at times, but I rather like it.
There are twelve boys and ten girls in Ravenclaw in our year. We are the second largest year with Hufflepuff having twenty four students , while Gryffindor and Slytherin have twenty one students each. Our dormitories are arranged in groups of three or four. Fortunately, I share mine with Rosaline and Eliza, so I already feel comfortable. Some of our housemates are more competitive than I expected—intelligence, it seems, is not the only thing they take pride in—but I'm slowly getting used to the atmosphere.
Classes are utterly fascinating. Charms is my favorite so far; I love the precision and elegance of wandwork. Potions intrigues me as well—I suspect I might grow to love it in time. Our professor, Horace Slughorn, is quite the character. Have you ever met him? According to the older students, he has a habit of collecting talented witches and wizards into some sort of private club. I wonder if I'll catch his attention.
Kevin, my owl, has settled in well. He's a charming little thing, though rather demanding when it comes to treats. I'll write again soon with more updates. I hope you, Grent, and Fenny are all doing well. Please give them my love.
With Love and affection,
Artemis
P.S. - Can I call Fenny in time of need or just to keep me company here at hogwarts? Are there any rules against having a Personal elf at hogwarts? If not then please send Fenny with some of the home cooked food, I already miss it.
Rosaline and Eliza finished their letters at the same time, and together, they took their Letters to the Owlery, tying them to their owls and then releasing them into the night sky. As they walked back, Artemis glanced up at the stars above Hogwarts, feeling a deep sense of belonging.
The first few weeks at Hogwarts solidified something Artemis had already suspected—she was not, by any means, an ordinary first-year student.
It wasn't simply a matter of intelligence; it was the decades of accumulated knowledge from her past life as a professor that set her apart. Sitting among eleven- and twelve-year-olds, she felt an almost visceral discomfort when anyone bested her in class. It was irrational, she knew—these children were learning magic for the first time, just as she was meant to be. But she wasn't a child, not truly. And when someone else managed to master a spell before her or answer a professor's question faster, something sharp and prideful twisted in her chest.
She compensated by ensuring she never fell behind, and soon enough, she was excelling in every subject. She learned to balance her answers—sharp enough to establish her place among the best but never so much as to alienate her classmates. The Ravenclaws were naturally competitive, and she thrived in the intellectual challenge they presented, though she quickly learned that some preferred knowledge as a weapon rather than a pursuit.
Still, she played the role of the eager young scholar well, excelling in her classes with grace and calculated humility. She was careful not to stand out too much, though it was difficult when the professors themselves began taking notice. Flitwick had already praised her charmwork, and Professor McGonagall had raised a brow at her Transfiguration abilities, clearly recognizing something unusual in her execution.
Beneath the surface of academic brilliance and childhood camaraderie, a deeper, more troubling thought lingered. The war.
She had lived long past this time before, had read about the First Wizarding War in the books and seen fragments of it in films. But memory was a fickle thing. The finer details eluded her, leaving her with only a general outline of events. Voldemort's rise. His growing reign of terror. The Order of the Phoenix. The countless lives lost. And yet, there were names she did not know, events she could not recall, and timelines that blurred at the edges. Could she change anything? Should she even try? Why didn't she try before today? This War had already taken her family.
Late at night, when her roommates were asleep, Artemis sat by the window of Ravenclaw Tower, quill in hand, and began to write. If she could not trust her memory, then she would commit everything she did recall to parchment.
She charmed the pages to conceal their true contents—should anyone glance at them, they would see nothing but innocent musings about classes and daily life at Hogwarts. But in reality, each page held fragments of her past life's knowledge. The Dark Lord's rise. The Horcruxes—at least, the ones she could remember. The names that mattered.
Lily and James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin. Peter something. The traitor. The survivors. The deaths.
As she wrote, she felt the weight of her knowledge pressing down on her. Was it arrogance to think she could alter history? Or was it cowardice to do nothing? She was no warrior, no hero. And yet, she could not simply ignore what she knew.
She dipped her quill into the inkpot, tapping it absently against the rim as she pondered where to begin. What did she truly know?
Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The Prophecy.
The words stared back at her, stark and jarring. The name felt so familiar, yet distant, like recalling a childhood story half-forgotten. She knew the general outlines—the Dark Lord, the Chosen One, a war that would stretch into the next two decades. But details? They were scattered, fragmented like brittle parchment in the wind.
She pressed the quill to the page again.
Voldemort. Tom Riddle. Horcruxes. Dumbledore's Army. The Order of the Phoenix.
She wrote feverishly, her mind straining to conjure more details. There were people she knew were important— Severus Snape, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger—but their roles were blurred. She could not recall how they fit into the grand scheme of things. And that was a problem.
And yet, despite her knowledge, a question loomed over her: Should she interfere? Could she change the tides of war with what little she knew?
She wasn't certain.
The timeline was fragile. Her memory, unreliable. If she acted, she risked drawing attention, altering events in ways she could not predict. Yet to do nothing? To let the war unfold as it had in the stories she had once read to her children? The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
The quill scratched against the parchment again.
Dumbledore. Does he already know about the Horcruxes? If so, how many?
She frowned, pressing her lips together. Dumbledore was formidable, a man with secrets deeper than the Black Lake itself. But was he infallible? No. He had made mistakes, ones that had cost lives. Could she outmaneuver him? Influence him? Or was she better off working from the shadows?
Her fingers tightened around the quill.
For now, I watch. I listen. I learn.
She shut the journal, running her hand over its smooth cover, feeling the secrecy enchantments pulse beneath her fingertips. The world outside her window was still, the castle steeped in the hush of midnight.
Artemis exhaled, pushing the book beneath her pillow before sliding into bed. For now, she would play the part of the bright-eyed student, the clever Ravenclaw with an insatiable curiosity.
But behind that façade, the mind of a seasoned professor worked tirelessly, laying the groundwork for something greater.
A plan. A strategy.
And perhaps, just perhaps, a way to change fate itself.