217 Selection beginnings

Midst a volley of opinions on Professor Hinkel's unusual approach to transfiguration, the conversation's very fabric seemed to sway and flicker like the shadows cast by the fire's whimsical dance. Robert, with his freckled face illuminated by the fire's glow, held a tiny, enchanted creature, the product of our latest class, now frolicking in his palm. "I still think it's cheating to use a charm in transfiguration," he mused, his voice as calm as the creature itself.

Fred sat with his usual stoicism, staring into the flames. His silence often felt like the deep water beneath a still lake, dark and uncharted. He had managed to turn his teacup into a little silver mouse, now stowed safely in his pocket, away from prying eyes.

Percival, never one to let a silence linger, tossed his blonde locks back and chimed in, "You may call it cheating, Robert, but Hinkel calls it 'innovative spell-blending.' It's the result that counts!" His argument, as always, was delivered with the confidence of one who never doubted his own words.

I, for one, sat with the bickering dragons in my head, barely listening to the chatter. Their ceaseless debates on bravery and strength were like a familiar song played too often and too loud. Yet, tonight, their argument seemed distant, muffled by the comfort of the fire's warmth and the anticipation of the night's conversation.

John, meanwhile, his nose buried in a book on illusions, muttered something about the sloppy execution of our assignments that day. "A good illusion," he quipped, "requires a meticulous hand, not the barbaric waving of a wand like a conductor gone mad."

It was then that Percival, perhaps tired of the circular debate or simply seeking a new audience for his opinions, shifted the course of our discussion. "Enough about Hinkel's experimental methods. What about the selection for the tournament? Who here fancies their chances?" His blue eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and genuine curiosity.

Robert shrugged, his interest lying more with creatures than with competition. Fred's eyes flickered with a hint of interest, his eyes rovering over all of us, lingering on me a second too long, and then dulled again; the fire's reflection dancing in them was the only thing that seemed alive.

I leaned forward, the dragons in my head pausing their squabble as I spoke. "I don't just fancy my chances, Percival; I expect them. Bravery isn't just about facing what you find fearsome. It's about stepping up when there's something at stake." My words hung in the air, a challenge to both my friends and the dragons within.

John looked up from his book with a smirk. "Assuming they allow participants with untidy hair and a penchant for holding grudges," he jabbed, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and dare.

***

The morning sun had scarcely begun its ascent when the buzz of anticipation acted as a more effective reveille than any alarm. As we descended the tower, the air around us was electric, charged with the excitement of the day to come. The dormitory, which had been a quiet cocoon of slumber mere moments ago, was now alive with a symphony of hasty preparations.

Our banter was as light and airy as the morning itself, with Robert jovially warning an imaginary audience about the dangers of Fred's 'silver mouse,' which had grown overnight into a 'voracious beast' that was, at this very moment, feasting upon his socks. Fred merely rolled his eyes, a silent chuckle betraying his composed facade.

Percival was animated, his voice a crescendo among our morning chatter, detailing a dream he had where he was crowned the tournament champion, his hair perfectly coiffed even amidst the chaos of duels. John, meticulously adjusting his robes, spared a moment to point out that even in dreams, style must never be sacrificed for the sake of victory.

As we spiraled down the staircase, Jenna and Abby fell into step with us. Jenna, her mind ever the atlas of our world, was quickly updating us on the statistical likelihood of each house winning the tournament, her words a rapid stream of facts and figures. Abby, with the fierce gleam of a duelist in her eye, proclaimed that statistics would bow to skill, and that she intended to prove it.

Stepping into the dining hall was like walking into the heart of a storm. The energy was a palpable thing, as if each conversation added a charge to the air. There was an almost rhythmic clinking of cutlery and crockery that played the soundtrack to a hundred hushed speculations and bold declarations.

Our group found a table, the usual spot where the wood bore the subtle scars of spell-marks and potion spills, and the conversation naturally turned to the upcoming duels. "Hundreds of duels," I mused, "and each one a story waiting to unfold. A chance to prove oneself."

Jenna pondered the matchups, her eyes reflecting a mind already drawing maps of possible outcomes. "Strategies will be as important as spells," she noted.

Abby, cracking her knuckles with a grin that was all thrill and no fear, added, "And let's not forget the element of surprise. I've been working on a few... unconventional moves."

As we ate, we eyed the sea of students, each one a potential rival or ally. Some faces were alight with confidence, others masked with feigned disinterest, but none could hide the spark of eagerness. Today, we were all part of a grander narrative, each of us with a role to play in the spectacle of magic and might that was to come.

In that moment, we understood that the selection was more than just a tournament; it was a tapestry of ambitions, fears, and aspirations. And somewhere among the threads, our own stories would be woven into the history of Ilvermorny.

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An: Good morning or evening! Felt like coming back, don't know if it will be a steady thing, but I'm guilty for putting it off for as long as I have. tell me what you think, and where it might go from here? until next time (hopefully not too long this time lol).