Ilvermorny: Where Memory Sleeps

The warmth of the Great Hall was a welcome contrast to the wind outside. Golden light spilled from floating candelabras, and platters of spiced pumpkin pie, roasted chestnuts, and caramelized apples lined the long tables. The usual chatter of students filled the space, but Aevelle couldn't help feeling slightly out of step with it all.

She sat across from Ruby and Serene, nibbling on a piece of pie while their conversation swirled around Kyren's wink and Soren's silent gaze.

"Okay," Ruby said, setting her fork down dramatically, "I know we said we wouldn't read into it, but did you see how Vexley looked at you? That was not 'great job, fellow student.' That was 'I saw something in you I wasn't expecting.'"

"I think you're imagining things," Aevelle muttered, but her voice was quiet.

Serene smirked. "He was circling like a hawk. And Kyren... well, he's circling like a different kind of predator."

Aevelle groaned. "Can we not turn my life into a Quidditch metaphor?"

Before either of them could tease her again, Headmaster Thorne's voice echoed through the hall.

"Students, a reminder that those enrolled in Language of the Old Tongue are to report tomorrow morning to the east tower classroom, not the lower library hall. A scheduling conflict has... made alternate arrangements necessary."

Aevelle's head snapped up. She shared a glance with Serene.

"Did he say the east tower?" she whispered.

"That's new," Serene murmured, eyes narrowing. "That part of the castle's usually locked, I've tried the stairwell twice. It's sealed tighter than Ruby's candy stash."

Ruby perked up. "Wasn't there some story about the east tower? Something about—"

"The Dreaming Room," Serene finished. "It's where older students used to practice deep—focus magic. And supposedly where one girl went mad after trying to speak with something that spoke back."

"Lovely," Aevelle muttered, stomach twisting slightly.

"Perfect place to study a haunted language," Ruby added cheerfully.

Later that night, long after the feasting ended and the castle quieted, Aevelle sat on her bed in the Thunderbird dormitory, the sounds of wind tapping faintly against the windows. Cassandra was already curled up with a book in the corner, but Aevelle's thoughts weren't settling.

Her hand drifted to the small notebook tucked under her pillow—the one she'd been using to record the symbols from the mirror, the dreams, and the whispers.

She flipped to a fresh page.

'Tomorrow, we climb into the tower,' she wrote. 'What are they hiding up there?'

She didn't sign it. She never did.

But in the silence that followed, she swore—just for a heartbeat—she heard something rustle behind her mirror.

----

That night, Ilvermorny felt too quiet.

Not peacefully quiet, like snowfall on windowpanes or a common room dimmed by candlelight. No, this was the kind of silence that listened back. Aevelle lay in bed with her hands tucked beneath her pillow, trying to slow her heartbeat while moonlight pooled across the floor like spilled silver.

Her dormmates slept soundly, their breathing a soft rhythm. Cassandra, curled up with a book half-fallen onto her chest, mumbled something about wand polish. A gust of wind pressed against the windows and then faded, leaving only the faint creak of timber and stone.

But Aevelle's mind was far from still.

Every time she closed her eyes, her thoughts returned to the way Soren had looked at her after the match. Not victorious, not smug—curious. As if he'd recognized something in her he hadn't expected.

And Kyren. His words still echoed like a spark threatening to catch. "She's just...interesting."

Aevelle sat up and pulled her notebook from beneath her pillow. She flipped past pages of scribbled symbols and journaled dreams, until her finger landed on the sketch she'd drawn after the mirror incident. The symbols she hadn't yet translated, the ones that still danced at the edge of understanding.

As her finger traced one of the curling marks, a subtle shimmer passed over the ink.

Then—

Click.

A small, definite sound. Somewhere in the room.

She looked up sharply. The mirror across the dormitory wall—perfectly ordinary by day, now framed in moonlight—shivered.

Aevelle's breath caught. The reflection was gone.

Instead, the mirror now showed a corridor, ancient stone and heavy shadows. It flickered as if half-formed by memory. Torches lined the walls, their flames pale and wavering. And at the end of the hall stood a tall door—arched and rimmed with carvings so faint they could've been smoke.

She leaned forward, squinting. The runes above the arch weren't English. They weren't Latin either. But they stirred something deep inside her, like the memory of a lullaby heard in the womb.

The mirror blinked.

Back to her room. Her bed. The moonlight. Her wide eyes staring back at her.

She scrambled to grab her wand, heart pounding now. But nothing else moved. No sound, no shimmer.

"Aevelle?"

Cassandra's sleepy voice cut through the stillness. Her bed creaked as she rolled over. "You okay?"

Aevelle forced a breath. "Yeah. Just... thought I saw something."

Cassandra's voice was thick with sleep. "Probably a reflection of guilt for sneaking that toffee from Ruby earlier."

Aevelle gave a dry laugh. "You might be right."

But she didn't lie back down. Not for a while.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at the mirror, notebook open on her lap. Her hand trembled as she tried to draw what she'd seen. The corridor. The torches. The carved arch. The impossible door.

As the candle on her nightstand burned low, she almost missed it.

There—at the bottom of the page. A single word had appeared, etched in a shade of ink she hadn't used.

Not in her handwriting.

"Welcome."