November 1987
Two months into her first year, Integra learnt that she was indeed magicless.
She had always sat towards the back in Transfiguration class, where she could watch row after row of her friends—yearmates, really—achieve what seemed unthinkable at first. A matchstick into a needle into an embroidery hoop. A pretty glass vessel in place of a small rodent. Not all of them achieved perfect transfiguration at first try; some couldn't even manage after a dozen. But ultimately, be it in a day or in a month, they would all succeed.
Her inability to change one thing into another didn't exempt her from attending the class altogether, of course. As Professor McGonagall had put it ever so succinctly, Transfiguration was more than just practice. Integra had only begun to learn just how much theory went into a single flick of a wand. Why wands needed to be held just so, before going sideways and over, instead of around; or the mindwork that went into visualising certain things.
So that was how all of it was. She went to all the classes, tried not to stare at anything for too long, and applied herself to writing. Which wasn't so bad, really, remembering how her home tutor was a very hard taskmaster. If only they would let her write with pens and proper paper, though, instead of quills that snag constantly on the coarse surface of her parchments. (she tried not to glare at the girl sitting next to her who caste a quick parchment-stilling charm to keep the pages from curling ever inwards).
Two months into her first year, she learnt to appreciate the calm studiousness of Ravenclaw tower.
Her father had forwarded a letter from Elizabeth—who must no longer be called Lizzy upon pain of death—using a newly acquired owl. It was a short letter, less than a dozen sentences written as if on the run; messy nigh-on-unreadable words separated into three sparse paragraphs colliding into one another. She could almost feel the boisterousness of the school her friends went to. The school she would have attended if not for this.
In a way, she felt relief. Hindsight was a very wonderful thing, wasn't it. Now, she wasn't so sure she would survive something so boisterous and carefree as the school Elizabeth described. Looking around the quiet common room, heads bowed diligently over projects and essays, Integra frowned. "We spent whole nights staying up and gossipping," Elizabeth had wrote. "Extremely fun. Wish you were here."
It's only the second month of school, but Elizabeth and Mary had managed to have late night parties, then skipping morning classes to go to a nearby fête, earning them what sounded like detention until they beget children. It also seemed that everyone knew everyone else's secret in that school.
Later, when Integra shared her letter with Augusta, her roommate (curious—in a harmless way—to know what muggles wrote in their letters), Integra thought she saw a flash of horror. When she asked what was wrong, Augusta stared at her in disbelief, blinked once and then another time, looking very much like an owl, before scoffing, "I can't see what's more wrong than a school full of Gryffindors." Augusta huffed one more time before returning to her night reading.
"Dear Father," Integra would write the next day. "You would recall my whining about being sorted together with the 'bookworms'. You're quite right, after all. I would like to revise my assessment of my esteemed dormmates. I think they're quite nice for leaving me well enough alone and minding their own business."
Two months into her first year, Integra realized how she had gravitated towards two muggleborn Hufflepuffs.
As far as Integra could figure out, all Ravenclaws shared all of their classes with Hufflepuffs. It had always been that way, a tradition that went back ages. Therefore, traditionally too, Gryffindors would share all their classes with Syltherins. Which she thought was odd and unhealthy. The rivalry between the two Houses were entirely too well-documented, entirely too bitter, she wondered why everyone insisted upon upholding tradition. It didn't seem worth it.
Then again, what could she say? This was, after all, the wizarding world. So advanced in terms of harnessing the forces of individual cores and alchemy and nature, that it persevered pig-headedly in the past. Before Hogwarts, anything she knew about 'medieval' were from books. Now she was living it, quills and all.
And, despite her dislike for stubborn adherence to tradition and all things obsolete, she was quite content spending classes with Hufflepuffs. Moreover, out of everyone at school, she felt most at ease with Edwina-call-me-Winny and Quentin, both muggleborn and prone to forgetting that they could complete chores with magic. Coming inside from herbology or from a day outdoors, the three of them often lagged behind the others as they searched for soaps and clean rags and mops, forgetting that they could simply charm grime and dirt away.
Integra often wondered, especially during Charms and Transfiguration, if Winny and Quentin would one day get used to being magical. As she watched Quentin becoming more and more proficient in casting certain charms and Penny becoming adept at transfiguring one thing into another, she wondered if the Queen would send another poor non-magical sod to accompany her through seven years of schooling.