Ilvermorny: Where Memory Sleeps

The third week of classes melted into the fourth like candle wax—slow, persistent, a little hazy at the edges. Aevelle had finally settled into her routine, if not fully into comfort. Her classes demanded more and more of her attention, her notes had multiplied tenfold, and still, the feeling of something pressing at the edges of her reality remained. It lingered in the silence between questions in class, in the hush of the common rooms late at night, and especially in the way magic sometimes hesitated—just a breath too long—before obeying.

Thunderbird Tower, her home for the past few weeks, had become a kind of sanctuary. She shared a dorm room with three other girls, including Cassandra Virell, who, though sharp-edged and intensely focused in lessons, had quickly grown to be a steady friend. They studied together most nights, often in a comfortable silence broken only by parchment rustling or Cassandra murmuring corrections under her breath.

Serene and Ruby had less time to sneak into Thunderbird Tower with the mounting coursework, but they always found ways to stay close. Sunday afternoons were unofficially theirs—long walks near the cliffside trails, hot drinks from the Dining Hall courtyard, and shared discoveries scribbled into Aevelle’s enchanted notebook.

It was after one of those long days that Aevelle found herself walking back to the library alone. The snow had crusted over the old paths, sparkling beneath a pale winter sun. Students bustled past, bundled in wool, carrying armfuls of books or broomsticks. She turned a corner near the east courtyard and almost collided with someone.

Soren Vexley.

He looked just as polished as ever—dark hair swept back, emerald Horned Serpent trim crisp on his robes, and that silver debate pin glinting under his collar. But today, there was something different. His brow was furrowed in thought, and he was flipping through a book as he walked. Of course.

“You’re going to bump into a stone wall one day doing that,” Aevelle said, steadying herself.

Soren blinked, looked up—and then gave her a small, wry smile. “I’ll take that as a prediction, not a threat.”

“Wouldn’t dream of threatening Ilvermorny’s debate champion,” she said, matching his smirk.

They stood in the shadow of the arches for a moment, the winter air settling around them like a curtain.

“You’re in the middle of something?” she asked, nodding to the book.

Soren hesitated, then held it out. “Sorting through inconsistencies. Magical theory texts don’t agree on the foundations of dream-bound enchantments. I’m...looking for patterns.”

“Dream-bound enchantments,” Aevelle echoed. “You think that’s what’s happening to the school?”

“I think it’s part of it.” His gaze sharpened. “And I think you’ve seen something.”

Aevelle’s heart gave a small, startled thud. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’ve been in the Restricted Section. Because the glyphs on that parchment you had weren’t from any modern spellbook. And because,” he added softly, “your magic flickered just like mine did. Only yours came back faster.”

They looked at each other for a long, cold second.

“You’re not the only one watching,” Aevelle finally said.

Soren tilted his head. “I didn’t think I was.”

She hesitated, then added, “Ruby, Serene, and I—we’re not just curious. Something’s wrong. Magic is...thinning. Fading. There’s a place beneath the school. We found a way in, and...it dreams. It remembers us.”

Soren didn’t look surprised. If anything, he looked relieved. “So I’m not losing my mind.”

“Not yet,” she said. “But give it time.”

He gave a soft chuckle, then sobered. “Aevelle, whatever it is—it’s watching us too.”

She nodded.

And in the silence that followed, it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t frightening. It was something else. A quiet strength passed between them, like a spell whispered just beneath understanding.

Just then, a student raced by, shouting something about snowball duels near the Wampus green, and the moment fractured with a smile.

“Do you think we’ll figure it out?” she asked.

“We’re Horned Serpent and Thunderbird,” Soren replied with a flicker of pride. “Riddles and risk. Of course we will.”

They walked toward the library together, their footfalls light on the frost-hardened path, and behind them, in the long shadow of the east wing, a flock of crows lifted into the air—circling, watching, then vanishing into the white sky.