Penwick.ink is a 16+, volunteer-run, fully independent writing site in a fully original setting within the Harry Potter universe. Many RP platforms either lock you into rigid systems, have a community that seems hard to break into, or overwhelm players wi
Pressed into a corner of the corridor is a small tower with a winding staircase that leads up to an old, creaky door. Passing through this door reveals a grassy terrace with low castle walls and battlements on one side and mountain cliffs on the other. This courtyard-like area is about half the size of the Quidditch pitch and a bit more weathered. If the weather conditions are inappropriate for flying, instruction is usually given in the Divination Dome, or some other empty classroom is found. School brooms and basic Astronomy equipment are kept in several small, round storage spaces inside the tower used to access the Aetherium.
Penwick Castle was BIG. Huge. And old. It mostly smelled like wet rock, but Devi didn't mind. Inside, he was buzzing. Most kids saw damp stone and drafty corridors. Devi saw pointed arches distributing weight into flying buttresses, mortared joints still holding after centuries, rib vaults fanning overhead like stone ribs. When being shown his common room, most of his peers "oo"d and "ah"d over the paintings or the view. The first thing Devi noticed was that the spiral staircase tightened far too early and would likely be a choke point in an evacuation.
He was already sketching routes in his mind. Which wings connected where, which doors aligned with which staircases, which corridors led to unknown destinations. Every hallway promised another discovery, corbels carved like beasts, vaulted ceilings with keystones weathered thin.
It would all need exploring properly. Tonight. Alone.
Which was kind of lame. Devi was close to asking someone in his Applied Magic class earlier today to join him, but they all had bustled out the door before he got a chance. He'd much rather wander with a buddy so he didn't look like the friendless first-year looking all naive and pitiful. Like a lost puppy. Devon was not a puppy. He was a boy.
9 pm rolled around, and Devon had finished his homework for the night (at least right now, learning about all this magic stuff was kind of interesting), and headed out. But first, just a quick look to make sure his sketchbook was locked up in his room. It was, good. And to make sure his contacts were still in. They were, good. And then maybe he got distracted by looking at the swords the suits of armour outside his common room held. So maybe it was actually after 9 pm when Devi actually set off exploring.
He went up a tower at the end of the hallway that he hadn't gone through yet, opening the very well-weathered door at the top. Grass spilled out from beyond the door, and walls . This must be where his flying lesson tomorrow would be.
And there was Tristan. Tristan, uh, Valentine. Von Trapp. Tristan Vandalize.
...
Tristan.
Somehow, your friends in school just always happen to be the people you talked to first.
Tristan and Devi weren't friends, not yet anyways. Hell, as far as Devon knew, Tristan had a twin, and he'd just been confusing them the whole time. Or maybe Tristan was actually secretly royalty. Or a pop star.
But he seemed nice. And Devon wasn't not nice. It was perfect.
"Hey," Devi called out, trying not to scare the guy. "You had flying class here yet? Wait, no, it's not called that. You know what I mean, though..." He trailed off, the flop of hair in his face and the evening sky thankfully hiding most of this oncome of timidness.
Tristan didn’t hate dogs. He really didn’t. The Veronas had a puppy back home and Tristan was the one in charge of taking care of it. Sure, the tiny pup was always running away and it was impossible to catch him, but he would always come back home in the end.
It wasn’t rare to feel a cold little nose brush up on your skin when you were sitting around the fireplace. Tristan would passively pass his hand through the dark brown and white fur while trying to follow the vanishing path of ash rising from the burning logs. Both dog and child would then slowly doze off to the sound of fire crackling and strokes of pencil to paper.
He missed his friend.
The Modron Hound, on the other hand, had none of the soft fur and was much more of a pain.
It just stayed there, blocking the way to the common room, asking questions.
Tristan had found it peculiar the first few days, but didn’t think much of it.
Since the Sorting, Tristan had studied hard and had picked up the new lessons pretty quickly. He had assumed the canine gargoyle was just making sure they were studying for their classes or whatnot, so he wasn’t worried.
But for some reason, the mutt had not let him head back to his room tonight. Tristan spent two whole hours trying to convince the hellhound to let him in, but he just wouldn’t budge.
The visible delight on the face of a few older students just breezing passed him definitely didn’t help him keep his composure. After hitting another dead end, he was so annoyed that he stormed off. He didn’t have a direction in mind; he just needed to get as far from the miserable guardian as he could.
Staircase after staircase, he ascended until he reached the furthest destination he could find.
A fresh breeze hit his face as he swung the door open. He was taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. He hadn’t noticed that it was getting brighter as he rose through the different floors of Penwick Castle, but now that he was outside, the starry sky was impossible to ignore.
Like embers against a dark fireplace.
Tristan sat down in the damp grass and breathed in.
It was quiet up here.
It was peaceful.
He wasn’t sure where he’d sleep tonight, but there were probably worse places than here.
At least, the stars didn’t ask questions.
“Hey, You had flying class here yet? Wait, no, it's not called that. You know what I mean, though..."
…
Devon Fondatore.
Yes, he remembered his name now.
Tristan had made sure to take a peek at the attendance sheet and memorize it so he wouldn’t be caught unprepared. Devon had gotten him out of what could have been an embarrassing moment in front of everyone at the Sorting. Getting his name right was the least he could do for him.
What was Devon doing out here? Was he also locked out of his room? There weren’t a ton of other reasons to be out here this late. Did Dranaga have a talking dragon guarding the door? That sounded worse than his own four-legged foe.
Maybe Devon had come to meet up with some of his other friends who were on their way. He really hoped not. Tristan didn’t think he could handle more than one intruder right now. Although Devon seemed fine. He was the first student who had talked to him at Penwick after all.
Tristan sighed inwardly. He smiled; He turned towards Devon. His eyes were still green
"Hey Devon! Not yet. I think my Aether class is tomorrow. Thought I’d come and scout out the field a bit. You had the same idea?"
Yeah, same idea, I guess,” he said, a little too quickly. Lying. He tried to play it cool, though his version of “cool” mostly involved standing there too stiffly with his hands stuffed in his pockets, hair slipping into his eyes.
His eyes flicked past Tristan, nodding toward the school brooms stored on the other side. “Figured I’d, y’know, check out the place before class. Make sure I don't get lost or something tomorrow.” He tried for a grin, though it came out more crooked than confident.
A beat passed as Devon toed at the grass with his shoe.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be up,” he finally spoke again. He crouched down in the grass, then gave up and just sat, legs bent awkwardly, arms resting on the ground behind him. The sky really was incredible. The near-full moon peaking over the cobbled parapets was surrounded by a sky unlike anything he had ever seen. "It's so clear," he murmured to himself, almost forgetting Tristan was there.
Almost. But he was there. And silence was awkward. Awkward was bad. Being social was really easy once you understood that.
Devi pulled at a blade of grass and twisted it between his fingers. “So… do you do this a lot?” he asked, careful not to sound too nosy or judgmental. “Just… come outside at night?”
The words hung there, softer than he meant them to be. He wasn’t sure if he was making conversation or actually wanted to know. Maybe both. "Or you a fan of space or something?"
He risked a sideways glance, trying to read Tristan’s face in the dim light, but the shadows made it impossible to tell.
Tristan was not one to talk much. Listening was always easier. He kept weighing words, ordering them in his mind in different patterns, restructuring syntax and grammar until it was right. If he were half the writer his dad was, he’d have no issue at all.
Silence was better. You can say a lot more with your eyes than you can with words. You just need to know how to read.
But Devon was trying to keep the conversation alive.
So, might as well give him something other than a stone facade. He thought back to the dog downstairs and decided he’d make more of an effort than the Modron hound did.
He shifted his shoulders forward, leaning his chin and arms on bent knees.
"Mom likes to tell me about the constellations. We would often stay up so she could teach me about the different groupings of stars and how to recognize them. She says that each constellation has a piece of legend burning in it."
He thought he saw a shooting star from the corner of his eye. Lying down with folded hands beneath his head to get a better look, he glanced over at his classmate and noticed the way he was sitting. He chuckled thinking that it didn’t look very comfortable.
"Imagine how cool it would be to write your name in the stars. Tristan and Devon, inscribed in the sky. No one would ever forget us. We’d have our own legends, our own stories."
He felt a twinge of sadness. Tristan was sharing a bit more than he usually would. He wasn’t superstitious but he was willing to blame the shining celestial bodies tonight.
As if I’ll ever see my name up there…
The feeling of solitude hit Tristan like a broom to the head. He didn’t share much company back home. Maybe having someone to talk at Penwick to wouldn’t be so bad.
Mums were an interesting topic for Devon. Not a sad one, just a sort of empty-feeling one. The feeling he got when people started talking about them was like when someone starts explaining some weird scientific concept that just goes over your head. And then you nod and go "uh-huh", "oh, okay", "wow" until they stop. Not because you don't care, but because you can't. Devon just kind of hummed in light interest at the story.
"Imagine how cool it would be to write your name in the stars. Tristan and Devon, inscribed in the sky. No one would ever forget us. We’d have our own legends, our own stories."
Devi chuckled. "I don't know about my name, but it'd be pretty cool to have a story up there. A legend." He turned to Tristan, now noticing he was fully lying flat, gazing at the stars. "I think we have a shot."
His answer was genuine, though he couldn't realistically imagine someone like him becoming 'legend'. But of course, the answer to a lack of sincere answers was comedy. "Maybe I'll... I don't know, mess up a potion so badly I invent a new disease. Where you... you burp fire whenever you say the word parsley. Then my name’ll be etched in history as the guy who ruined soup forever.”
He smirked, satisfied with himself, then flopped onto his back beside Tristan. The damp grass clung to his sleeves, but he didn’t mind. It was kind of nice, actually.
“I mean, people get remembered for weirder things, right?” he said, softer now, eyes tracking one of the brighter constellations. “What would you be remembered for, do you think?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? It would be quite magical if Tristan Verona was remembered at all, but it looked like Penwick was the most likely place for that to happen. He would be dead in the ground before he would let them forget it. Even then, the gravestone would stand tall and proud.
"I’m not sure yet. Ruining soup sounds legendary. I even have someone in mind you could run trials on. I just want to be the best at something."
That sounded lame. The best at something… what did that even mean? Devon said it best: People get remembered for weird things. Tristan didn’t want weird, he didn’t want cute, he didn’t want “special”.
Tristan needed to be remembered for something great. Things they’d write in the newspapers. Things that would inspire others. The type of remarkable your parents talk about with their friends when they want to showoff. When they smile and buy you a puppy because they said they were proud of you.
Silence hung in the air for a bit. Tristan listened for the chirps of nearby crickets, but more importantly, any sound coming from the top floor of Penwick. Most students were probably getting ready for curfew or hanging out in the common rooms. Devon and he probably wouldn't get any more company up here tonight.
They hadn’t been lying down for long, but he was already getting restless and excited, a pair of feelings that rarely mixed well. History wasn’t going to wait for him, he’d have to make it himself. Well, mostly by himself.
"Whatever it is, I’ll make it hard to forget. You know, the kind of thing where they name a move after you."
Tristan had started having doubts about whether Devon was out here for the same reason he was, but who cared? They were both out there, right? He wasn’t being totally truthful either, anyway. It’s not like he was going to be able to get back to his common room tonight. Might as well make the most of it.
Tristan slowly rose up, patting down his uniform to get rid of the dirt and the extra grass sticking to the garments. He then crouched next to Devon, extended his hand and said:
"You said you were here to check out the class, right? Want to get a head start on studying?"
Studying? Devon was starting to form certain opinions about a boy who wanted to study at night, but then he remembered which "classroom" they were in. His eyes flicked over to the collection of school brooms as he took Tristan's hand, standing. There was something in his eyes, the dream everyone has at least once in their life. The dream of flying. “Absolutely,” he grinned, not bothering to brush the damp grass from his legs or the stray blades from his hair. His heart was already beating faster. "If we show up tomorrow already knowing how to fly, maybe we'll earn a prize or something."
He ran over to the brooms, shoes scuffing the ground, hoping Tristan would follow. He grabbed two brooms, one for each of them, and tossed them both on the ground haphazardly. "Right," he said, voice bright with half-confidence, half-guesswork. “Do you know how to do this?” His grin tilted nervously. Devon sure hoped so, otherwise they probably wouldn't be getting very far. "I saw my uncle do it once last week, you put your hand out like this..." He stretched his arm out stiff and straight, palm hovering just above the broom. "And then I think you just say up."
As soon as the word "up" escaped his lips, the broom he was standing over violently threw itself in the air, landing a very precise smack on Devi's forehead. He stumbled backwards a step, hand flying up to rub his temple, and the broom clattered back to the ground, utterly innocent.
"Guess that's the right idea, then..." he muttered, cheeks flushing as he stepped cautiously back into place. This time, his voice was firmer, his stance squared. "Up!" The broom whizzed up into his hand at the command, and Devon looked up wildly at Tristan. "Wicked..."
Convincing Devon had been easier than Tristan had expected. He had assumed the seemingly nervous boy would be a little reluctant, but apparently, he was wrong. The kid had jumped up at the chance for mischief without an ounce of hesitation.
Tristan had been confident up to this point. However, seeing the broom fly up to Devi’s hand on the second try, it took much effort to conceal his amazement. Sure, this was his idea, but he had imagined that commanding the broom was as far as they’d get tonight.
In mere seconds, Devi had done it and was now waiting expectantly for Tristan to do the same.
He stepped forward with simulated assurance. He wasn’t going to let Devi hog all of the glory.
"Seems easy enough! "
Nonchalantly, he positioned his outstretched hand: "up"
Tristan winced a bit, expecting a broom to the head like Devi had experienced.
The broom lay motionless...
Perhaps it hadn’t heard him. Maybe if he said it louder?
"UP!"
Nothing.
Tristan hoped the moonlight would silhouette well enough that his face would be obscured, because the colour rising in his cheeks was not one he wanted his friend to see.
This was supposed to be simple. Tristan was supposed to be good at this!
What if Devi thought he was a failure? What if he saw how incapable he was and didn't want to hang out anymore? How could he even dream of becoming a legend if he wasn’t able to succeed at the simplest of spells?
Breathe.
No. Tristan Verona wasn’t a failure. Tristan Verona was capable of the greatest of magic. A stupid broom wasn’t going to change that.
Breathe.
"up."
Wood hit the palm of his waiting hand. A wave of relief flowed over him. He traced the fibers of the grain with his thumb, feeling the textures, the bumps, and everything in between.
He turned to look straight at Devi with confident eyes and a mischievous smile.
Devon shifted his weight, wanting to help Tristan but not knowing how to as he shouted 'Up' at the broom. Hell, he hardly knew how he did it himself. “Maybe it’s shy?” Devi offered, voice light, though his hand rubbed absently at the sore spot on his forehead. “Or maybe they only like smacking me. Your forehead isn't tempting enough, I guess.”
Tristan tried again, and the broom still didn’t budge. For a heartbeat, Devi thought maybe this whole adventure would end with the two of them skulking back to their respective dorms, one of them concussed, the other humiliated. What a boring way to spend your evening. Again, Tristan tried, and the broom jumped up at last, slapping neatly into his hand.
Tristan turned back toward him with a smile full of bravado and mischief. “Let’s fly,” he said, and suddenly Devi’s heart was beating in his throat again.
This was madness. No teacher, no instruction, no safety net. Just two boys in the middle of the night, about to hurl themselves into the air on sheer confidence.
Before he could think better of it, he swung one leg over the broomstick, the wood surprisingly more comfortable than he expected. The broom dipped dangerously forward under his weight, so sharply that his stomach dropped. There was no mistaking the pounding in his chest. This was it. This was the dream. Every child who’d ever stared bored out a classroom window had wondered what it would be like to break free from the ground. This is for you, bored Devi in Mr. Abernant's social studies class.
Devi pressed his toes down experimentally, and the broom responded, rising off the ground a few centimetres. He laughed, half nerves, half exhilaration, and leaned forward. The broom shot up like it had just been waiting for permission.
Grass and dirt dropped away beneath him as he screamed, whizzing by stone chimneys and roofs that looked far too close for comfort. He wobbled sideways, nearly clipping the edge of the wall before overcorrecting with a wild, clumsy swerve. Eventually, he remembered this was not a roller coaster, he was actually the one controlling this thing. He gripped the broomstick with white knuckles and pushed down, eventually levelling himself out. It had only been a few seconds, but it felt like minutes had flown by (pun fully intended).
"Don't, uh, don't do that." His face was equal parts petrified and exhilarated. "It's amazing, mate. Just push down, I think. These things really like to zip, apparently."
Tristan quickly understood that flying looked a lot easier than it actually was. He was starting to feel a slight swelling of jealousy rise in his heart as he remembered the elegance of the owls as they flew overhead on his arrival at Penwick.
Slowly finding his balance on his own broom, he saw his flight partner launch towards the sky at a dazzling speed. Hovering a few feet from the ground, he looked up to try and follow the zipping projectile that Devi had become.
He’s going to hit one of those chimneys!
Tristan was about to try to rush up and do something to slow him down, but he was still trying to figure out where to shift his weight in the right direction. He wished this broom came with instructions. Tristan glanced back up to see Devi narrowly avoiding a frontal collision with a wall, probably much more sturdy than his friend’s bones.
He let out a sigh of relief.
Let’s try not to die tonight.
Devi’s voice reached him with a mix of thrill and alertness.
"Push down? Ok thanks!"
The simple tidbit of advice was appreciated and mostly helpful as Tristan tentatively rose higher and higher. With cool air flowing through his hair, he picked up a bit more speed. Any apprehension he had previously harboured quickly melted away under the glow of the moonlight. Flying was the stuff of dreams, and yet here he was, soaring through the skies on a wooden stick. The best part was that he got to experience it with someone else as well!
They would need much more practice. That was undeniable, but the fact that both Devi and he were in the air flying above the roofs after a few minutes of improvised training was an accomplishment in itself. The swish of dashing brooms in the air was just the proof that both of them would achieve spectacular things. Tristan was sure of it.
There was a newfound confidence in Tristan’s heart. The previous failure was just an obstacle on the path. That kind of thing happened. It would probably happen again but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.
He heard the sound of fabric flapping in the wind. He had somehow caught up to Devi and they were now flying side by side, their silhouettes painted against the moon. Admiring the view, Tristan could make out the outlines of mountain ridges cutting off the edges of the sky. He peered around and spotted three bodies of water glistening in the distance. Further on, he saw a large stone structure that seemed to stretch out along the edges. Penwick was huge and there was so much to explore.
Turning back towards Devi, he called out: "This is crazy right?!"
