HP: Ashborn

For the time being, we decided to take a well-earned break for lunch—but not before locking down our next study subject: Transfiguration.

Naturally, this decision wasn't reached without a bit of dramatic flair. There were passionate arguments, exaggerated eye-rolls, and one instance of Jasmine theatrically clutching her chest as if I'd just insulted her entire bloodline.

It took some skillful persuasion (and an absolutely flawless transformation spell, if I do say so myself) to convince her that I wasn't just a clueless amateur dabbling in sacred art of Transfiguration. The moment I pulled it off—turning a stone into a very fashionable quill—her jaw practically hit the floor.

"Alright, show me how you did that," she demanded, trying (and failing) to mask her amazement behind feigned indifference.

And being the ever-gracious gentleman that I am—one who believes in the noble art of flexing when the opportunity arises—I graciously agreed.

As we strolled toward the Great Hall, I decided to up the stakes. With the confidence of a man who had just won a duel (which, in a way, I had), I made a bold suggestion:

"Why don't you sit at the Gryffindor table this time?"

A dangerous game, I know. The unspoken house table rules were practically wizarding law. But hey, fortune favors the brave—or in this case, the slightly overconfident.

She gave it some thought, tilting her head slightly before replying, "I'd rather enjoy my meal in peace. And, well… silence and the Weasley twins cannot coexist. Why don't you sit with me at Ravenclaw?"

A fair point. The Weasley twins were an unstoppable force of chaos—charismatic, brilliant, but about as peaceful as a herd of stampeding hippogriffs.

But I had other plans.

"I'd love to, Jasmine, truly. But I have a quick errand with Charlie Weasley. How about we meet back here at 3:00 PM? You can take a break, chat with your fellow Ravenclaws, or, you know… socialize."

The moment the word socialize left my lips, her mood visibly deflated like a punctured Quidditch bludger. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she gave a small, silent nod.

I understood.

It had to be exhausting when people only wanted to talk to you because of your connection to the Boy-Who-Lived rather than seeing you for who you truly were. The weight of that realization sat between us, unspoken yet heavy.

I stopped walking and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, bringing her to a halt as well. She blinked up at me, startled by the unexpected gesture.

I met her gaze and held it, giving her a look that I hoped conveyed something beyond just understanding—something closer to I see you, not just your reputation.

I let the moment settle before speaking in a calm, thoughtful tone.

"Jasmine, listen." I kept my voice steady, reassuring. "The Boy-Who-Lived has been a mystery and a source of endless gossip for nearly a decade. And you? You're the only connection to him that people have managed to find. Of course, they'll be curious. Of course, they'll come to you with questions."

I paused, letting my words settle.

She didn't move, but I could see the gears turning in her mind, her fingers absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

"You can't just avoid them forever," I continued. "The more you dodge their questions, the more relentless they'll become."

Her shoulders tensed, her grip tightening slightly. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, tinged with something raw and vulnerable.

"Then what do I do?"

Her eyes shimmered slightly, as if she was fighting back tears.

I exhaled softly, lowering my tone to something gentler, something meant just for her.

"Deflect it," I advised. "Just say, 'I'm bound not to reveal anything for his safety.' Even if you wanted to share something, say you can't because of the security measures put in place by the Potter family."

I watched as she processed my words, her expression flickering between hesitation and understanding. Her eyes widened, still misty but now brimming with dawning realization.

I watched as the pieces clicked into place, giving her a moment to process before—suddenly—her entire face lit up like Christmas had come early.

"That's brilliant!" she gasped, practically bouncing on her heels. "If they know I won't give them answers, they'll eventually stop bothering me about the Boy-Who-Lived. The only reason they'll come to me after that is if they actually want to talk to Jasmine Potter."*

I smirked. She caught on fast.

"Exactly, my clever little Ravenclaw. And if anyone pressures you too much? Just smile and say they're welcome to owl Senior Auror Potter at the DMLE for further inquiries."

A second ago, I had been convinced that Jasmine's face couldn't possibly get any brighter. And yet, somehow, it did.

And for a fleeting moment, time seemed to freeze. My surroundings blurred, and all I could focus on was the way her eyes sparkled—actually sparkled—as she grinned at me.

My heartbeat pounded inexplicably louder in my ears.

No way… I thought, completely lost in my realization.

-ax?

-hborn?

"MAXIMUS ASHBORN!"

I snapped out of it with all the grace of a stunned troll, blinking rapidly as I registered my full name being yelled into existence, my brain still catching up, only to find Jasmine standing there, practically glowing with excitement.

Her hand gripped mine, her eyes locked onto me expectantly.

"What?" I asked, still a little out of it.

"Don't what me. You were completely zoned out."

"Oh," I said, brilliantly contributing to the conversation.

Jasmine rolled her eyes before flicking her wand. Tempus. Glowing numbers appeared in the air.

"Anyway, it's already 12:34 PM. Let's get lunch, take a little break, and then—you're teaching me Transfiguration."

She declared this with the authority of a seasoned professor, now firmly holding onto my wrist like I might suddenly escape.

I straightened up, throwing her a mock salute. "Yes, ma'am."

She grinned. "Come on then, let's go!"

And just like that, she started dragging me toward the Great Hall.

Oddly enough, I felt no irritation at being pulled along like some lost puppy. In fact, the warmth of her enthusiasm had an unexpectedly soothing effect—one I hadn't anticipated.

By the time we arrived at the Great Hall, we shared an unspoken agreement. Without a word, I veered toward the Gryffindor table while Jasmine melted effortlessly into the sea of blue and bronze at the Ravenclaw table.

I sat down, grabbing a plate of food, but my mind lingered elsewhere.

Well, I thought, that was… something.

"Ashborn, where were you, mate?" asked a curly-haired, dark-skinned boy as I took my seat.

"I have a habit of waking up early, Jordan. Went exploring the castle alone, then spent some time in the library."

Lee Jordan raised an eyebrow, but before he could comment, Fred Weasley cut in.

"But you weren't alone, were you?"

"—We heard you had company since morning," George finished, both of them grinning like cats who had just spotted a trapped canary.

I casually grabbed a piece of toast as food appeared on the table. "Yeah, I wasn't alone," I admitted nonchalantly.

George leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "And?"

I took a bite, making a show of chewing slowly. "And what, George?"

Fred and George exchanged a dramatic look before Fred spoke, his voice ominous.

"Probably you should know—"

"—Indeed, you should," George added, mirroring his brother's serious tone.

I sighed, setting my goblet down. "Should know what?" They had successfully piqued my curiosity to an abysmal level.

Fred shook his head, as if discussing a tragic case. "Jasmine doesn't show interest in any fun activities."

"Yup. No Gobstones,-" George added.

"-No chess-"

"-No Exploding Snap-"

"-All she cares about are her books, her room, and the potions she brews with Lily."

Fred wagged a finger. "The only time I saw her smile was last month when she successfully cast a spell."

"Or when she was brewing potions with Lily," George chimed in.

I listened carefully, my interest growing.

"And then there's her temper," Fred continued, lowering his voice like he was sharing a ghost story.

George nodded solemnly. "Oh, her temper."

They both shuddered for effect.

"Go on," I prompted, my curiosity now fully engaged as I resumed eating—politely, of course.

Fred and George exchanged a knowing look, as if about to reveal the sacred texts of an ancient legend.

"One time, our dear Ronnikins and Harrykins were having way too much fun," Fred began dramatically.

"Somehow, they managed to spill her cauldron," George continued.

"Potion everywhere."

"Jasmine was furious."

Fred leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So furious… that every time she saw them afterward, they'd mysteriously get in trouble."

I raised an eyebrow. "Trouble?"

George nodded solemnly. "The terrible kind."

Fred waved a hand vaguely, as if recalling some unspeakable horror. "Mom told us it was Mother Magic punishing them for troubling a pure-hearted girl like Jasmine."

George crossed his arms. "And from that day on," he declared with dramatic finality, "we never pranked Jasmine again."

Fred sighed, shaking his head as if mourning a great loss. "Some things just aren't worth the risk, mate."

I stared at them, half amused, half impressed.

Jasmine Potter: booklover, potion enthusiast… and possibly a walking bad luck charm for those foolish enough to cross her.

Interesting.

This information definitely made me raise an eyebrow.

Magic protecting someone by giving others troubles? Possible—sure. But even for purebloods, it sounded a bit too far-fetched.

Or… maybe they know the real reason but prefer this story to keep the younger kids from fearing her.

Every time she met them, they'd get in trouble.

Huh.

A very disorganized and utterly far-fetched thought wormed its way into my otherwise perfectly structured mind.

That… actually makes some sense.

But I had no way of confirming it right now, and I wasn't about to go down a conspiracy rabbit hole over lunch.

Shaking off that dangerous train of thought, I refocused on my meal, methodically clearing my plate. As my eyes wandered across the Great Hall, they landed on none other than Charles Weasley.

And, of course, I did what had to be done.

"Prefect Weasley!" I called out, loud enough to turn a few heads.

Charlie looked up, spotted me, and made his way over. "Ashborn. You called?"

"Yeah. Are you free tomorrow?"

His expression turned thoughtful as he considered my question. "Morning, yes. I have plans after lunch."

"Perfect. I'd like to call in that favor you owe me."

Charlie let out a small sigh, already looking mildly concerned. "Alright… but it better be reasonable."

I gave him my most innocent smile. "Oh, it is. I want you to give me and one other person a full tour of the castle. Everything you know—shortcuts, secret passageways, hidden corridors—the works."

His eyebrows shot up. "Oh! That can be done. Just be ready by 8:00 AM, and we'll cover as much ground as we can."

I grinned. "Sounds good."

Charlie shook his head with a chuckle. "You better not be planning anything too reckless, Ashborn."

I simply smiled wider. "Who, me?"

With that settled, I finished my lunch and made my way back to the dormitory. Grabbing a Defense Against the Dark Arts book, I leaned back on my bed, letting its familiar weight rest against my chest. But as I skimmed through the pages, my thoughts drifted—not to spells or dark creatures, but to something far more mysterious. A puzzle I hadn't quite solved yet. Or rather… someone.

Meanwhile, in Ravenclaw Tower…

A very happy girl sat comfortably in her dormitory, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the spine of a book she wasn't really reading. For the first time in what felt like ages, she was free—free from the relentless questioning of her housemates, free from the weight of curious stares and whispered gossip. And it was all thanks to him.

To her utter delight, her friend's clever little trick had worked like an Anti-Muggle Charm on—well—Muggles. The fascination surrounding her had simply… vanished. No one cared anymore. They all believed she couldn't say anything about the Boy-Who-Lived, and just like that, she was no longer a walking curiosity.

She exhaled, a small, content smile playing on her lips. For a Gryffindor, that had been an awfully cunning plan.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the golden afternoon sunlight spilled across the stone walls, casting soft, dancing shadows. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere between his exasperating smirks and unexpected wisdom, she'd found herself… intrigued.

And perhaps—just perhaps—she was very glad she had met that weird boy.

Maximus Ashborn was different.

He was one of the very few people who seemed genuinely interested in her—not just the name Potter. He didn't ask about the Boy-Who-Lived, didn't prod for details or treat her like a source of exclusive information. He saw Jasmine, not just a last name wrapped in mystery.

And, to her reluctant admiration, he was nearly as good as her in Charms—which she grudgingly admitted was impressive. He was, of course, a complete dunderhead at Potions (one of her personal victories), but surprisingly skilled at Transfiguration—at least, based on the demonstration he had so smugly given her.

But beyond all of that… he had done something no one else had.

He had told her—without hesitation, without doubt—that he believed she would be a great witch.

Only a handful of people had ever given her that kind of unwavering confidence. Her mother, her Grand-Aunt, her Grand-Uncle… and now, him.

Maximus Ashborn was strange. Too observant. Maybe even a little bit creepy, the way he could see through things, unraveling thoughts she hadn't even spoken. Those piercing ocean-blue eyes of his always seemed to know more than they should.

But more importantly?

He was not like the other yucky boys their age, the ones who always had a broomstick practically glued between their legs, talking of nothing but Quidditch. No—he actually cared about magic. About theory, about knowledge, about learning. He spoke about spells and ancient runes the way others spoke about their favorite teams. He shared her passion.

And today?

He had made her feel better after a truly terrible morning.

For that alone… she found herself smiling.

She smiled to herself, the thought of their plan lingering in her mind.

3:00 PM. Great Hall. She had promised to meet him.

A quiet thrill ran through her, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was just relief—the weight of relentless questions finally lifted off her shoulders. Or maybe… maybe it was something else. Something that made her heart race just a little too fast whenever she thought about him.

But there was no time to dwell on that. She had work to do.

With a deep breath, Jasmine Potter flipped open her Transfiguration book. If she wanted to keep up, she needed to at least meet the basic requirements.

Unlike a certain white-haired boy, who—before today—didn't even know how to stir a potion correctly.

She smirked to herself. Honestly.

(She would later come to learn that only two first-years at Hogwarts knew how to properly stir a potion: Jasmine Potter and Maximus Ashborn. A fact that, for reasons beyond her understanding, made Severus Snape's stomach churn most uncomfortably every time he thought about it.

Why?

Well, go on—guess. 😏)

(Max's POV:)

Defense Against the Dark Arts turned out to be an amusingly grim subject—equal parts fascinating and mildly terrifying. My current read, Dark Arts Unmasked: A Beginner's Defense Guide, was surprisingly practical—no dramatic proclamations about the evils of the Dark Arts, no sanctimonious lectures about the "path of righteousness." Instead, it had the audacity to do something truly radical—something that would make both the light and dark factions clutch their metaphorical balls in horror.

It explained things logically.

According to the book, magic wasn't about "Light" or "Dark" at all—it was all about intent. Any spell designed to harm was classified as part of the Dark Arts. The whole "Curse, Hex, and Jinx" distinction? Less about morality, more about just how much suffering you were dishing out:

Curses were the big leagues—the kind of spells that made people write very serious laws and required years of therapy to recover from.

Hexes were a solid middle ground—nasty, inconvenient, and absolutely capable of ruining someone's entire week.

Jinxes were the wizarding equivalent of stepping on a Lego. Annoying? Yes. Life-threatening? Only if you had really bad luck.

But here's where things got interesting—intent mattered more than the spell itself.

The book even provided a delightful (read: deeply horrifying) example:

Picture this: Wizard A, standing in front of a fully grown dragon, preparing to Apparate to safety. Wizard B—who, for legal reasons, I will simply describe as an absolute moron—decides to cast Expelliarmus. A completely harmless disarming jinx.

Result?

A loses his wand.

The dragon, feeling mildly peckish, roasts him like a well-seasoned steak.

The takeaway? The spell itself wasn't meant to kill—but Wizard A was still very much dead.

The moral of the story? "Harmless" magic is only harmless until it isn't.

I could've happily spent hours lost in the twisted logic of this book, but alas, duty called. More specifically, a certain Jasmine Potter was expecting a Transfiguration lesson.

And considering the competitive gleam she had in her eyes last time, I had the distinct feeling that not showing up would be far more dangerous than any Dark Arts curse.