Ilvermorny: Where Memory Sleeps

The week began with rain, a soft, constant drizzle that turned Ilvermorny's courtyards into mirrored puddles and dulled the once-lively crackle of enchanted ivy climbing its outer walls. But the quiet unease among the students couldn’t be blamed on the weather alone.

Spells were misbehaving.

Charms flickered, transfigurations reversed themselves, and even simple magical tools began to hum strangely—like they sensed something was off. Aevelle had noticed it in herself first, but now, it was happening all around them.

In Professor Whitlow’s Charms class, the lesson was meant to be a simple illumination charm layered with a color-casting twist.

“Let’s see some vibrancy today,” the professor called, waving her wand to demonstrate. Her light burst out in brilliant violet.

But when Aevelle tried, her wand sparked, fizzled, and cast a faint blue haze before fading.

Across the room, other students muttered. One student’s charm flared red before turning to smoke. Another got their light, only for it to dim seconds later.

Professor Whitlow frowned deeply. “Focus, all of you. Something’s—”

Her voice caught mid-sentence. Aevelle noticed her gaze lingering on her own wand before she quickly composed herself.

After class, as students poured into the hall murmuring about the strange inconsistencies, Aevelle, Ruby, and Serene lingered behind.

“She knows something,” Ruby whispered. “She looked spooked.”

“She did,” Serene agreed. “And did you hear? It’s not just us anymore. Everyone’s magic is fraying.”

Aevelle nodded. “Whatever’s happening… it’s spreading.”

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At lunch, the trio found an empty table near the Horned Serpent window, where filtered sunlight streamed across their notebooks. The great enchanted river that curved along the window’s edge flowed slower than usual, like its current was unsure of itself.

Serene ran a hand over her notes. “We need more than guesses. We need someone who knows the Old Tongue.”

“Greaves?” Ruby offered.

“Maybe,” Aevelle said. “But I don’t think he’s telling us everything. Not yet.”

Just then, the door to the Great Hall opened and in strode the last person they wanted to see: Calder Flint.

He walked with the arrogant ease of someone who’d never been told no, his robes immaculate, his wand tucked behind one ear like a showpiece. His sharp eyes scanned the room and—of course—landed on them.

“Trouble with your wand again, Yvaughn?” he said as he passed, loud enough for others to hear.

Aevelle didn’t rise to it.

Ruby, however, glared. “At least she’s not compensating with a borrowed surname.”

Calder smirked but kept walking.

“I can’t wait to wipe that smug look off his face,” Ruby muttered.

“Soon,” Aevelle said softly. “But not now.”

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That evening, Aevelle found herself wandering the quieter edge of the library, where forgotten books lined dusty shelves. She wasn’t sure what she was searching for, until she saw it—a thin, hand-bound volume etched with the same kind of glyph she had seen in the chamber.

She reached for it.

But before she could touch it, a hand closed gently around her wrist.

Cassandra.

“You’re not the first to look for that book,” she said quietly. “And you’re not supposed to find it alone.”

Aevelle turned, startled. “You know about this?”

“I know more than I let on,” Cassandra replied, her voice low. “And so do the professors. But they won’t tell you everything. Not unless you ask the right questions.”

Aevelle looked down at the book. “Then help me ask them.”

Cassandra studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Come with me. There’s someone you need to meet.”

As they slipped out of the library into the fading light of early evening, Aevelle’s pulse quickened.

Because for the first time since the mirror, since the voice, since the glyph...

She felt like the path forward wasn’t just opening—it was calling.