Astronomy Table In Hogwarts Romane & Geschichten

Its cracked spine bore a date in faded silver ink: 2029 – Spring Semester. My heart thudded. 2029. The year before I arrived. Fingers trembling, I pulled it out and flipped it open. Pages of potion inventories, ingredient lists, enchanted brewing instructions. My eyes scanned desperately until a name leapt at me from a crinkled page margin: Mira Blackwood. My breath caught. Scribbled notes surrounded her name – dosage adjustments, resilience thresholds, something about moonwater dilution. I flipped the page but before I could read further, harsh white light flooded the vault. I squinted up, tears spilling freely.

The faint scent of smoke and storm lingered in the air familiar now, like Wyverndale’s own breath. On the largest table, parchment sheets were scattered across an open grimoire. Strange symbols shimmered faintly on their surface, like they were written in lightning. Seraphine leaned closer, squinting. The marks shifted subtly, refusing to stay still. “What language is this?” she murmured. It wasn’t any spellwork she’d seen in class. The diagrams looked like constellations but twisted, spiraling into a pattern that made her heart thrum strangely, like it recognized something her mind didn’t.

*Aria* The first time someone mentioned it, my stomach dropped straight through the floor. “It’s just an astronomical note,” Rowan said, as if that made it better. He waved a scrap of parchment at me over the pile of ledgers on his desk. “Lesser blood moon. Partial umbral eclipse. There is nothing to do with curses. Probably.” “Probably,” I repeated. He winced. “Wrong choice of adverb.” I took the parchment. The symbols and notations meant little to me beyond the highlighted circle and the neat line explaining that, on a certain night, the moon would rise red‑tinged again.

The particular roar of five hundred students eating, arguing, negotiating alliances and betrayals over plates of roasted griffin and mana-infused vegetables. I sat with Astrid at the Ignis table, picking at something that claimed to be venison but tasted of spellwork and desperation. The silver-white hair I'd earned in the arena caught the chandelier light and threw it back distorted, a mirror that didn't reflect what people wanted to see. "You're not eating." Astrid's observation was casual, her own plate empty, her amber eyes tracking the room with the particular vigilance of a predator in unfamiliar territory. "I'm waiting."