The Twin Who Lived - Seventy Points Before Supper

The Great Hall at dinner was never quiet.

It was alive in a way few other places in Hogwarts were—alive with clattering plates, drifting candlelight, murmured gossip, bursts of laughter, and the constant shimmer of enchanted ceiling-sky reflecting the deepening dusk beyond the castle walls. Floating candles bobbed gently overhead like patient stars, their wax never melting, their flames steady.

But tonight, beneath the usual hum of first-day excitement, something sharper threaded through the air.

A name.

Mira Silverthorne.

The Slytherin table was already filling when she entered with Draco, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo. Conversations did not stop—but they shifted.

There was the subtle tilt of heads. The glance from across benches. The faint whisper.

“That’s her.”

“She earned seventy points.”

“On the first day.”

“Seventy.”

Mira walked as she always did—calm, balanced, aware without appearing so. Her silver-white hair caught the candlelight, gleaming softly as she took her seat between Draco and Daphne. The heirship ring on her finger glinted faintly as she reached for a goblet.

Draco leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice.

“You’ve caused a situation.”

“I attended class,” she replied simply.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Across the Hall, at the Gryffindor table, three first-years had just sat down together—Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley.

Ron was halfway through reaching for a roast potato when he froze.

“Seventy?” he whispered, eyes wide. “Seventy points? In one day?”

Hermione, who had been carefully stacking her books beside her plate before touching her food, nodded emphatically.

“It’s true. I heard Professor McGonagall award twenty in Transfiguration alone.”

Harry blinked.

“She helped Malfoy and Greengrass, didn’t she?” he asked.

Hermione’s lips pressed thinly.

“Yes. Apparently, she performed the matchstick-to-needle spell nonverbally.”

Ron choked slightly on air.

“Nonverbally? We only just learned it!”

Hermione’s eyes gleamed—not with jealousy, but fascination.

“That’s exactly why it’s impressive.”

Harry glanced toward the Slytherin table.

He spotted her immediately.

Silver-white hair in a precise bun. Teal eyes focused quietly on her plate. Calm.

She didn’t look triumphant.

She didn’t look proud.

She simply looked… steady.

Ron followed his gaze.

“She doesn’t even look like she knows she’s done something huge.”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

“I don’t think she cares about the points.”

Ron snorted softly. “Everyone cares about points.”

Hermione shook her head slightly.

“Not like that.”

At the Ravenclaw table, two third-years were discussing animatedly.

“Flitwick said her Colour Change Charm was perfect on the first try.”

“She corrected the hue gradient before he even mentioned it.”

At the Hufflepuff table, a first-year leaned forward eagerly.

“She helped my cousin with the flutterby bush! Didn’t even make a fuss about it.”

Back at Slytherin, a group of older students were speaking in lower tones.

“Silverthorne.”

“Of course.”

“Did you expect anything less?”

Draco reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, clearly enjoying the attention—though it wasn’t his.

“You realize,” he murmured to Mira, “we’re already ahead because of you.”

“That wasn’t the objective,” she replied softly.

Theo’s quiet voice cut in.

“Objectives don’t need to be stated to exist.”

Mira glanced at him briefly.

“Learning was the objective.”

“And yet the result is influence,” Theo replied evenly.

Daphne studied Mira with faint curiosity.

“You really don’t seem affected.”

Mira paused before answering.

“Should I be?”

Draco gave a faint laugh.

“Most first-years would be insufferable by now.”

She gave him a small look.

“Am I insufferable?”

“Not yet.”

Blaise smirked faintly. “It’s unnerving, actually.”

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione leaned closer to Harry.

“She corrected Professor Binns about the Goblin Wars.”

Harry’s brows lifted.

“Binns? He barely notices when people fall asleep.”

“Exactly.”

Ron shook his head in disbelief.

“She got points from Binns?”

Hermione nodded firmly.

“Ten.”

Ron leaned back in his seat.

“Blimey.”

Harry continued watching her from across the Hall.

There was something strange about the situation—not in a negative way, but in contrast.

He had grown up hearing about extraordinary witches and wizards. He had grown up in a house where magic was commonplace and brilliance expected. Yet watching someone his age accumulate seventy points in a single day felt… startling.

“She doesn’t look like she’s showing off,” he said quietly.

Hermione followed his gaze again.

“No,” she admitted. “She doesn’t.”

The enchanted ceiling above shifted gradually from twilight blue to deep indigo.

Candles flickered.

Laughter rose and fell.

At the staff table, Professor McGonagall was speaking quietly with Professor Flitwick.

“Composed,” McGonagall was saying. “Not flashy.”

Flitwick nodded enthusiastically.

“Her control is exceptional. Not just output—control.”

Professor Sprout leaned slightly toward them.

“She has her mother’s touch with plants.”

Professor Quirrell, sitting further down, said nothing—but his eyes flicked occasionally toward the Slytherin table.

Professor Snape, meanwhile, observed without outward expression.

His dark gaze rested briefly on Mira.

Seventy points.

On the first day.

Not reckless brilliance.

Not showmanship.

Precision.

He looked away before anyone noticed.

At the Gryffindor table, Ron was still shaking his head.

“We barely survived Transfiguration.”

Hermione frowned faintly.

“We weren’t exactly prepared.”

Harry glanced down at his plate.

“She helped Malfoy.”

“Yes,” Hermione said.

Ron made a face.

“That figures.”

Hermione hesitated.

“But that’s not a bad thing.”

Ron looked confused.

“Helping Malfoy?”

“Helping anyone,” she clarified. “She could have kept the knowledge to herself.”

Harry considered that.

He thought back to the whisper he had overheard in Transfiguration—her warning to Draco about calling McGonagall “old.”

It hadn’t been mocking.

It had been observational.

Measured.

“She doesn’t seem like she’s trying to compete,” he said slowly.

Hermione nodded faintly.

“She’s just… competent.”

Ron let out a breath.

“Well. Gryffindor better catch up.”

At the Slytherin table, conversation had grown louder—but not chaotic.

Older students were discussing her duel stance in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“Quirrell looked almost startled.”

“She held the shield without flicker.”

Draco leaned back slightly.

“You realize this means expectations.”

“Expectations exist regardless,” Mira replied calmly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

She took a sip of pumpkin juice.

Across from her, a fourth-year Slytherin spoke up.

“Silverthorne.”

Mira looked up politely.

“Yes?”

“Seventy points.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not common.”

“I’m aware.”

“Planning to keep that pace?”

Mira’s expression remained neutral.

“I plan to attend class.”

A faint ripple of amusement moved down the table.

Draco smirked openly now.

Theo’s lips twitched faintly.

Back at Gryffindor, Hermione had pulled out her parchment again.

“I’m going to review the Colour Change Charm,” she said firmly.

Ron groaned.

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

Harry glanced toward Slytherin once more.

Mira was laughing softly at something Draco had said—barely audible, but genuine.

Not triumphant.

Not smug.

Just present.

“Seventy points,” Ron muttered again.

Hermione adjusted her quill.

“It’s not about the number.”

Ron looked at her skeptically.

“It’s absolutely about the number.”

But even as he said it, his gaze drifted back to the Slytherin table.

Because something about the situation felt different from normal house rivalry.

It wasn’t about one house crushing another.

It was about one student quietly shifting the atmosphere.

By the time dessert appeared—treacle tart, custard, sliced apples—the Hall was still buzzing.

The number had solidified now.

Seventy.

It rolled through conversations like a refrain.

And yet—

At the center of it, Mira remained unchanged.

She ate.

She listened.

She responded when spoken to.

She did not seek out the whispers.

She did not avoid them either.

Draco finally leaned close enough that only she could hear.

“You know they’re all talking about you.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t seem bothered.”

“Should I be?”

He studied her carefully.

“You’re not even satisfied.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“I learned.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

“…You’re strange.”

She smiled faintly.

“I’ve been told.”

At the staff table, Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly as he observed the subtle shift across the Hall.

A first day.

Seventy points.

And yet no arrogance.

Interesting.

Very interesting indeed.

As the meal wound down and students began rising in clusters to return to their common rooms, the whispers continued—but softer now. More contemplative than astonished.

Seventy points.

Not because she demanded attention.

But because she earned it.

And as Mira stood with Draco, Daphne, Blaise, and Theo to leave the Hall, the candles overhead flickered slightly in a silent current of magic.

Not loud.

Not blazing.

But steady.

And steady magic, especially on the first day of term…

Had a way of lasting.

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