The first few weeks of lessons swept over May like a wave — exhilarating, exhausting, and unpredictable.
May quickly started to enjoy Charms. Professor Flitwick, a tiny man who stood on a stack of books to see over his desk, had a cheerful energy that made the room feel lighter.
"Miss Potter!" he squeaked one morning after May had effortlessly levitated her feather with a perfectly pronounced Wingardium Leviosa. "Textbook pronunciation and wand movement! Five points to Ravenclaw!"
May flushed pink, her feather still floating gently in the air. She loved the neatness of Charms — the logic, the delicacy, the quiet precision of it. Each spell felt like unlocking a door just waiting for the right touch.
Olivia, sitting beside her, whispered, "You're going to be his favorite by next week."
But not all lessons came so easily.
Potions, taught in the cool, shadowy dungeons by Professor Slughorn, was another story. While May admired the idea of brewing magic, her hands never seemed to move quite fast enough, and she often misjudged quantities or forgot a stirring direction.
During their second week, she leaned too far over her cauldron and dropped in the lacewing flies too early. The potion hissed and bubbled into a foul purple sludge.
Slughorn tutted as he passed behind her. "Ah, Miss Potter — perhaps patience before potioneering, hmm? This isn't quite the color of Forgetfulness, unless we're brewing to forget taste entirely."
The Slytherins at the next table snickered, and May hunched over her notebook, cheeks burning.
It wasn't that she didn't understand the theory — she did. But the potions themselves had a rhythm she hadn't yet found.
Still, she didn't give up.
⸻
Herbology with Professor Sprout was more pleasant, if occasionally muddy. May didn't mind the dirt under her nails or the odd screech of a mandrake root — it reminded her of time spent in the garden with her mother, who always said good soil was a kind of magic in itself.
Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was the most intimidating class. The professor's sharp eyes missed nothing, and her standards were high — but May respected her deeply. When she finally managed to turn a matchstick into a needle after three attempts, McGonagall nodded with a faint smile.
"Well done, Miss Potter. Precision over haste — remember that."
May scribbled the words into the margin of her notebook.
⸻
It had been May's first flying lesson, and although she hadn't fallen off the broom — she'd nearly flown into a second-story window trying to control a sharp turn. Madam Hooch had barked something about keeping brooms on a leash, and the rest of the class had let out a mix of laughs and groans.
By dinner, James had already heard about it.
He strode into the Great Hall flanked by Sirius, Remus, and Peter, a familiar glint of mischief in their eyes. May barely had time to take a bite before they were standing behind her bench at the Ravenclaw table.
"Nearly went through a window, huh?" James grinned, ruffling her hair.
"It wasn't that bad," May mumbled, cheeks pink. "I didn't even fall."
"Doesn't matter," Sirius said, crossing his arms. "We're putting you on a broom next Hogsmeade weekend — under supervision. Ours."
May raised a brow. "That's not allowed."
"Neither is half the stuff we do," Peter added helpfully, stuffing a roll into his mouth.
Remus, the only one who seemed even mildly reasonable, leaned closer and said gently, "Ignore them. But maybe do practice turns before aiming at the castle next time."
Despite herself, May laughed.
James sat down beside her, his grin softening. "Just… be careful, yeah? You're the only little sister I've got."
"I know," she said quietly, "and I've only nearly died once. That's not so bad."
Sirius threw an arm around James' shoulder. "She's definitely related to you."
⸻
And so the days passed. Between shifting staircases, whispering portraits, and piles of parchment, May's world began to fill with a different kind of magic — not the one in books or bedtime stories, but in challenges, in learning, in becoming.
Even when the potions boiled wrong.
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