I buckle my bag and snatch my wand from the desk near the bed. Swinging the bag over my shoulder, I march out of the dormitory. A few of the other early risers are scattered throughout the common room. Some read, other write, several are playing instruments or singing softly, and two are sitting alone with their eyes closed, thinking.

While I wait for class to approach, I take out my History of Magic textbook and begin studying for the test during the upcoming period.

After a short stretch, I become bored with the studying. I know all of these stories down to the last detail and the most insignificant name. I rise from the cushion I had placed under the window. Yawning widely, I wander toward the bookshelf without really knowing what I'm going for.

The shelf has an extension charm placed on it, so the books there are seemingly without end. The initial layer changes every night, although the extent to which it does so varies. The older Ravenclaw students, myself included, have come to understand that the shelf can somehow sense emotion and sometimes see into the future. Students often retrieve books from the shelf that they are drawn to. They soon discover that they are the exact thing they needed, whether it be advice, inspiration, or just a good read.

My hands find their way to a small volume. I pull it from the shelf and it comes open in my grasp. A thin section of violet fabric flutters to the floor like a feather. I pick it up and read the faded lettering, barely visible on the dark cloth. It says, "Property of Eliza Suthers." The worn book is only about 70 pages long, and the words are written in careful type. Upon further scrutiny, I find that the pages have untidy additions scribbled in the margins in quickly written handwriting.

Before I can learn any more about the book, someone approaches me from behind. "Hi, Seth!" she says in her usual friendly tone.

"Good morning Carrie," I reply, smiling.

"What's that?" Carrie says suddenly, motioning to the book still in my hand. "Did you get it from the bookshelf?"

I sit at the table nearest to us. "Yeah," I reply. "I'm not sure what I'd need it for, though."

"You still think the shelf can think for itself?" she says disbelievingly. Carrie is one of the few Ravenclaws who doubt the strength of the enchantment surrounding the bookshelf.

"Of course. Haven't you seen it work?" I ask, knowing the answer that is common among the disbelievers.

"Yes, but that was just luck," she tries to explain. "Anyway, we'd better head to class or we'll be late. Not that Professor Binns would notice," she remarks.

"Yeah, I guess so," I say, slipping the book into my bag. "You know," I add as we walk to the dark wooden door, "Professor Binns isn't all there, even by ghosts' standards."

After my test is completed and handed in, I procure the old book from my bag. Realizing I hadn't seen the title yet, I glance at the front cover. In bold lettering it says "A Study of Quidditch," as well as a smaller subtitle in swooping gold that reads, "The Basics and Tips for Flying and the Game."

That would be interesting, I think to myself, but I already know the rules the Quidditch. I'm really not good at it, but all the same, I really don't want advice from a bookshelf. There's no reason I'd need this book, at least as far as I can tell. For a moment, I doubt the power of the shelf. Deciding there must be a reasonable explanation, I slide the book past the flap of my bag, storing it inside. The bell rings, echoing through the halls of the castle.

Hundreds of students shuffle up and down the stairs. A sound like a stampede of hippogriffs vibrates in the air. I walk quickly past the open door that leads to the grounds, wishing I had brought my scarf to protect me from the crisp autumn breeze. I glance at the hourglasses that tower like giants over the insignificant humans walking by. The emeralds in the hourglass that represent Slytherin's house points rise slightly higher than the Ravenclaw sapphires.

I slow my pace as I head down the stairs that lead to the dungeons. Now I really want my scarf and cloak; I have an hour of Potions class in the chilled, damp atmosphere of the dungeon classroom. I try to warm my hands by breathing into them.

On a small landing about halfway down the stone steps, I slip and fall hard. I look around and see a puddle of murky water, slowly fed by a constant dripping from the smooth ceiling. Somehow, my bag had come unbuckled during the fall. My belongings are spread across the landing and stairs, and my wand continues to clatter down towards the door.

Sighing, I scramble down the steps after my wand. I pick it up and stow it in my belt. I begin to stuff everything back into the now-wet bag as other students rush past me. Fortunately, my ink well didn't shatter.

I place my quill into my bag and do up the straps. I walk quietly (but carefully) down the stairs. If I don't hurry, I'll be late. I rush past several stragglers as my heart beats like a drum.

Just as I reach the classroom door, I hear a sound that freezes me in my tracks. Someone is crying.