Fights at Hogwarts were a serious affair—more precisely, fights between Gryffindor and Slytherin were serious.
The other two houses rarely got involved in group fights. Ravenclaws were too busy with internal squabbles and weren't very aggressive outwardly, while Hufflepuffs—thanks to their numbers and unity—were generally left alone.
As for the bad blood between Gryffindor and Slytherin, it went so far back that no one could trace its origin. Over the years, their group fights had developed an unspoken set of rules:
Stay away from the castle, where there were too many unpredictable factors. If a professor passed by, everyone would be in detention.
Assign lookouts, to give the signal to scatter if things got dicey.
Avoid using magic, or at least only use hexes that had counter-curses. Magical injuries were usually worse than anything fists could do—especially if someone lost control and used a curse too dangerous.
Run if you can. If not, leave behind one or a few people to "take the fall." After the detentions and point deductions, things would go back to normal.
These weren't just traditions made up by one class—they were a set of unspoken rules formed over many years of magical adolescents constantly clashing. This was also why the Hogwarts infirmary always had a vast supply of dittany and a huge bottle of Skelegro. Madam Pomfrey, thanks to these students, had enough prestige to be treated like a senior figure even at St. Mungo's.
So why bring this up?
Because first-year student Harry Potter had both followed and broken the rules—somehow unintentionally.
In short: he got jumped.
Usually, fights between new batches of students happened after their first Quidditch match. But this year, things started early.
Slytherin students ambushed Harry on the way back to the castle after Herbology, before any Gryffindors could come to help. They hit him and fled before reinforcements arrived.
Even though Harry, Ron, and Neville (who just happened to show up) fought hard, they were outnumbered and ended up in the infirmary.
All this info was shared with Andrew during lunch by his dormmate, Hal. According to Hal, there would probably be another "incident" that evening.
"First-year problems are usually handled by the first-years themselves. Only during Quidditch season does it get a little messy."
Hal enthusiastically explained to their four other dormmates the chaotic and inconsistent 'rules' of inter-house fights.
Andrew, after listening for a while, came away with a few conclusions:
Fights end once enough key participants get sent to detention. That's usually how people figure out who the future prefects will be.
Madam Pomfrey won't tell professors about injuries unless they're magical.
No fights on weekends. It's an unofficial ceasefire day. (Andrew was skeptical but, on reflection, realized it was probably a hard-earned tradition born from years of fighting.)
"Anyway, let's wait and see what happens in this afternoon's Potions class," Hal grinned. "Looks like the whole year's going to get dragged in. And it's the last class before the weekend!"
In short, it was going to be a big event.
Unfortunately, Andrew had his own class: History of Magic.
And that classroom was way too far from the dungeons where Potions was held.
"No way we'll catch the action," Andrew sighed. "Let's just focus on taking good notes this afternoon."
That was his final verdict. Everyone checked the time and silently agreed—Ravenclaws didn't argue against facts unless other factors were at play.
+++
"Haah… yawn…"
Having finally survived History of Magic, Andrew covered his mouth as he let out a massive yawn, then asked his dormmates if anyone wanted to go to the library to study.
No one agreed—probably because History of Magic had been so exhausting, everyone just wanted to rest.
With no study buddies, Andrew reluctantly headed to the library alone to finish two extra assignments and maybe work on some personal writing.
"Haah…"
The lack of conversation made the drowsiness from class linger. By his second yawn, he decided to stop by the bathroom and splash some cold water on his face.
'I remember there's a spell that creates fresh water… pity I'm still a long way off from that level.'
While splashing water on his face, Andrew thought to himself. Once he was mostly awake, he carefully pulled a sheet of paper from his bag, tapped it with his wand, and turned it into a towel.
'Transformation magic's really progressing fast—once you understand the theory and practice it, you grow scary quickly…'
He casually wiped his face and glanced in the mirror—
Pupils dilated. Breath caught.
There, in the mirror, stood a transparent ghost behind him, staring intently at him.
Andrew's hair practically stood on end. His sleepiness vanished. Instinctively, his left hand reached for the nail in his pocket as he prepared to draw his wand.
"Holy—Ghost!"
Wait…
Just as he was about to pull out his wand, Andrew realized: Oh, right. A ghost.
This was Hogwarts. Ghosts were normal.
He'd seen them during the opening ceremony. Ravenclaw's ghost never really interacted with them, but he'd clearly seen the ghosts from other houses.
It's just… he hadn't gotten used to it yet.
Imagine being sleepy, looking in the mirror, and suddenly seeing a ghost behind you—who could handle that?!
"What are you doing?"
The ghost behind him asked sharply. Her gaze was aggressive.
"Washing my face," Andrew replied, heart still pounding but no longer afraid. Older students had explained that the only ghost you really had to watch out for was Peeves, and he was very clearly male.
"Not planning to throw a book at Moaning Myrtle's head or stomach?"
The ghost—probably this infamous Moaning Myrtle—glared suspiciously at Andrew's bag, which did indeed look suspiciously full.
"I'm a Ravenclaw. I wouldn't do something that pointless and unrewarding."
There was no actual connection between those statements. Andrew had seen plenty of Ravenclaws waste time on nonsense. But he said it confidently—because it was the fastest way to de-escalate the situation.
Only a fool would try to argue with a clearly delusional female ghost. (Who breaks into the boys' bathroom and then starts scaring people?!)
"Huh?"
"Pointless?"
"Unrewarding?!"
The ghost's mouth grew wider and wider, then she burst into tears under Andrew's bewildered gaze.
"Useless, boring Myrtle…"
"Even the first-years look down on Myrtle…"
"No one cares about Myrtle…"
Tears poured from her transparent eyes, and for some unknown magical reason, the bathroom faucet turned on full blast. Moaning Myrtle then dove into the pipes, fleeing with sobs echoing behind her.
T/N: For up to 20 chapters ahead on all my translations, become a p@tron at [email protected]/LordHipposApostle