Ilvermorny: Where Memory Sleeps

Saturday morning arrived cloaked in mist. The grounds were damp from a night of light rain, and pale fog curled around the spires of Ilvermorny like enchanted ribbon.

Aevelle dressed quietly, her thoughts tangled around one word still echoing from the mirror’s surface: Welcome.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not yet.

“Still can’t believe they scheduled you for a class alone on a weekend,” Ruby said as they walked through the chilled corridors together.

“You’re braver than I am,” Serene added. “I’d fake a cough and vanish under my covers.”

Cassandra, walking slightly ahead, gave Aevelle a sideways glance. “Just make sure you don’t come back speaking backwards or floating.”

The four of them moved through the castle until they reached the fork between the central staircases and the East Wing—the part of the castle students rarely entered, let alone for a class.

An arched door at the far end was cracked open now, casting faint light onto the hallway. Strange symbols shimmered faintly on its wood—like veins of silver catching breath.

“I guess this is where I leave you,” Aevelle said.

Ruby stepped forward dramatically and handed her a quill. “In case you need to write your final words.”

Serene snorted. “Ignore her. Just come back with stories.”

“And don’t trust anything that doesn’t blink,” Cassandra added, eyes serious.

Aevelle gave them a tight-lipped smile and stepped through the door.

The East Tower staircase spiraled higher and higher, each step lit by floating orbs that dimmed as she passed. No portraits lined the walls. No windows. Just cold stone and the sound of her own footsteps.

When she reached the top, a heavy door creaked open before she could touch it.

The classroom was circular, walled in ancient tapestries stitched with moving glyphs. A glass dome rose above, fogged from the outside. In the center of the room stood a pedestal with an orb of swirling, opalescent smoke.

Atleast she wasn’t alone.

Only a handful of desks circled the pedestal—six in total—and three were already occupied. A tall girl with a silvery braid nodded to herself as she sketched a symbol in her notebook. A Wampus fifth-year boy flipped through a book etched with strange gold letters.

And seated near the far edge was Soren Vexley.

He sat straight-backed, arms crossed, his silver debate team pin glinting faintly beside the emerald trim of his Horned Serpent collar. His sharp gaze flicked to her the moment she stepped in—observing, as always.

Aevelle felt a strange flutter of recognition. Not just from the library or the snowy path. Something else. Something older.

He said nothing, but there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Not unkind.

“Welcome, Miss Nourin,” said Headmistress Caelum Thorne, stepping into the light.

He wore indigo robes trimmed in silver thread and stood like he belonged to the stones themselves—anchored, timeless.

Aevelle nodded mutely and took the open seat closest to the pedestal.

Thorne raised a hand, and a symbol hovered from the orb—glowing, humming faintly like music too ancient to place.

“The Old Tongue is not dead. It is not forgotten. It is waiting,” he began, his voice low and resonant.

“It is the first language—before wands, before schools, before names. You will not learn it. You will remember it.”

The room seemed to shift around her. The air felt heavier.

Thorne turned to Aevelle. “Aevelle Nourin. What do you see?”

A sigil floated in the air between them, twisting gently. Her hand moved before she could stop it.

“Begin,” she whispered.

The symbol pulsed once—and disappeared.

Gasps rippled from the older students.

Soren looked at her sharply, something unreadable flashing across his expression.

Thorne’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Correct.”

The rest of the class passed in strange rhythms—words without language, meanings without rules. The older students mostly watched. Soren answered one other question, speaking in a voice like he was reciting something buried long ago.

When the lesson ended, the others filed out in silence. Aevelle lingered.

“Headmaster?” she asked.

Thorne turned, expression unreadable. “Yes, Miss Nourin?”

“That first symbol… I didn’t know how I knew. It was just there.”

He stepped closer. “That is how it begins. Do not question the door. Walk through it.”

He moved aside, revealing a tapestry she hadn’t noticed—one depicting a storm and a girl holding silver thread before a crumbling tower.

Then his voice dropped, quiet and clear.

“Tell no one about the mirror.”

Aevelle’s chest constricted.

“How do you—?”

But Thorne was already walking away, the hem of his robe trailing like a shadow.

Outside, her friends waited near the grand staircase, half-shivering in the drafty corridor.

“There she is!” Ruby called. “Still human?”

“Unless I grew horns I haven’t noticed,” Aevelle muttered.

“What happened?” Serene asked eagerly.

Aevelle glanced behind her. “He talked in riddles. Symbols floated in the air. And… I might need a nap.”

She said nothing about the mirror. Or the word. Or the way Soren Vexley had looked at her like they shared something unspoken.

Some truths were starting to feel too heavy to carry aloud.