Ilvermorny: Where Memory Sleeps

The morning mist still clung to the grounds as Aevelle, bundled in her cloak, made her way past the South Green toward the oldest wing of the castle. The stone corridors grew cooler, darker, the air tinged with the scent of old parchment and moss. Her schedule had listed the location simply as “The Listening Hall.”

She wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from a class called Language of the Old Tongue. Most students whispered about it with uncertainty, and no one seemed to know much beyond rumors—that the subject wasn’t about speaking so much as hearing.

When she reached the door carved with curling sigils and flaking gold runes, Aevelle hesitated, then stepped inside.

The room was dimly lit, round, and windowless—its ceiling vaulted like a cathedral. Dozens of cushion-lined seats encircled a central platform of smooth stone. Students whispered in curiosity and unease, and as Aevelle slipped into a seat, she spotted a few familiar faces—including Soren Vexley, seated toward the back, legs crossed with that ever-calm focus.

A hush fell over the room as the door creaked open again. The Headmaster entered.

Professor Caelum Thorne moved like smoke—quiet, sharp, and unreadable. His dark indigo robes glinted with silvery threads that resembled constellations. Aevelle hadn’t had a class with him before, only glimpses at meals or assemblies. Seeing him step into the circle made the room somehow feel smaller.

He didn’t raise his voice when he spoke, but every syllable seemed to brush the edges of their minds.

“Language,” he began, “is older than ink. It is older than speech. The Old Tongue isn’t taught. It is…heard.”

A few students shifted uncomfortably.

“You do not learn it with your ears, nor speak it with your mouth,” he continued. “It speaks through memory, through instinct. It is the magic behind magic—the pulse beneath the spell.”

Aevelle leaned forward, heart thrumming.

Thorne raised a hand, and the runes carved into the stone platform flared with violet light. The air changed. Warm, then cold, then heavy with a quiet hum—like an unseen string being plucked.

And then…she felt it.

Something deep in her chest stirred. A pressure. A recognition.

Images flickered in her mind—ink swirling across old parchment, whispers in the dark mirror’s surface, the glyph that had appeared and vanished…

“Some of you may not hear anything,” Thorne said. “Some of you already have. Dreams, symbols, feelings you cannot explain. That is the Old Tongue brushing against your thoughts.”

Aevelle sat frozen.

This wasn’t just a class. It was connected.

Connected to what was happening.

To the mirror.

To the glyph.

To the fading magic.

And—somehow—possibly to her.

The Headmaster let silence fall for a long moment before finally adding:

“Each of you will begin a journal. Not for what you learn, but for what you feel. No answer is wrong. And no answer is final.”

As the class ended and students filtered out, Aevelle lingered near the stone platform. She met Professor Thorne’s gaze as he gathered the glowing runes back into silence.

“Is something troubling you, Miss…” He didn’t need to finish.

“Aevelle,” she said. “Yes. Sort of. I think… I think something’s trying to speak to me.”

The headmaster studied her for a long, unreadable moment.

Then he gave a small nod.

“Then listen carefully.”