Cast the Bronze Solo Fin

This is part of Aly's Cast the Bronze storyline. You can find other portions here: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

When I'm gone, cast the bronze
for the bust of my head to be displayed in the library...

Aly's first N.E.W.T. loomed high on the morrow, and while the rest of Hogwarts trembled in trepidation and buried their brains in their books late at night, the seventh-year Ravenclaw was out wandering the castle.

With only about a half-hour til the elder years' curfew, the soon-to-be graduate found herself at the door to the trophy room. Almost inevitably, she had intended to meander up to the Astronomy Tower for a bit of late-night stargazing - and perhaps a bit of extra last-minute cramming before her N.E.W.T. on the subject, incoming at the middle of the next week - but something about the large, arched room underneath the Astronomy class had called out to her, and before Aly knew it, she was pushing open the door and slipping inside.

In the low evening light, a single golden lantern flickered ominously on the far wall, casting dark shadows that moved in an unchoreographed dance on the floor and the dozens of tall glass cases that filled the space, each filled to the brim with polished trophies. Clearly, someone had found themselves in detention earlier, forced to scrub their silvery and golden surfaces manually; a smile touched upon Aly's lips as she moved further into the dark. Should my greatest achievement have been that I never once landed myself in detention? Penalty laps, sure, but she'd only ever heard stories of trophy-room cleans, candelabra polishings, and preparations of disgusting potions ingredients from those of her classmates who had been unlucky enough to get caught. The teacher's pet mentality had certainly served her well.

She traced her fingers along the wooden frame of the nearest case, then froze when her green gaze fell upon something familiar inside. A golden cauldron. Three of them, actually, all in a row, but it was the one furthest to the right that she most immediately recognised, having hoisted it with her two best mates just the year before. 2025 Wizarding Schools Potions Championship, the plaque read, carved in an ornate, blocky font. Years 5-7 Champions: Pericles Dralt, Dealla Prince, Alyssa Salinger.

"I didn't realise those were in here," she said, softly, pressing fingertips against the glass, tracing the shape of her name and her best friends' on its surface.

I wonder what else in here bears my name.

A quick wander around and examination of the trophies present there answered her question, at least to her knowledge; there were probably hundreds of awards in here, dating back over a hundred years. Some names were familiar from History of Magic; others she recognised as having been students right alongside her... but her name, Salinger, was in there a handful of times, as well. A small plate identifying her as one of the winners of this past spring ball's Royalty Court, for one. The Potions Championship, naturally. And there, in the dead centre of the room, on a tall silver trophy with four intricately carved handles of the House mascots and topped with a slowly fluttering carving of a Snitch, she found herself not once but twice: once listed as a member of the 2021-2022 winning team of Ravenclaws, and then again in the most prominent spot, identifying her as one of two captains in the most recent Ravenclaw sweep.

The Quidditch Cup.

She had held it over her head the previous month, just days before her eighteenth birthday; she had handed it off to members of her team, given them hugs, told them how proud she was of them. Several of her Housemates had carried her on their shoulders as she hugged this giant silver trophy to her chest, reeling in the moment of pure elation. Her strategies had been a large part of bringing Ravenclaw this win, this dynasty, this dream that every House Quidditch player had whenever they joined a team: three of three games won, three of three Snitches caught. A desire realised, a hope come to life. And yet, it still didn't seem real to see her surname emblazoned so prominently on this award that so many people coveted so much.

Next year, new first-years will come into here and point at the Cup and say, 'I want to win that,' it occurred to her. And they'll read the names of the most recent winners. Maybe even hunt them down, and most of them will still be here. But they won't be able to find two of us. They might ask, 'Who's Salinger?' And, hopefully, someone will know enough to tell them of me.

To tell them of the curly-haired Ravenclaw who had served as the Quidditch team's captain for over a year and had played three of the four positions over her six years on the squad. Of the girl with the green eyes who had recently been voted in as Hogwarts' senior ball queen, who had hosted strategy competitions and Pride boat parades, who had pulled straight Outstandings on every O.W.L. examination (and, hopefully, every N.E.W.T. as well). Not of the scared first-year who had been so shy she had hardly made friends, of course, but perhaps of other iterations of herself: of the second-year who had nearly set the Ravenclaw common room on fire, or the third-year who had taught others to make flower crowns at that year's spring Blossom Ball, and who had always had a smile and a blossom for anyone she met. Of the fourth-year who had vanished from school for six months, only to come back and immediately get the daylights smacked out of her by her best mate in the Great Hall. Of the fifth-year who had defended her other best mate and cried when he lost his eye, when she couldn't save him. Of the sixth-year who had planned the Mistletoe Spin that had caused such dramatics, won the Potions Championship as part of that iconic bronze trio of friends, had hosted raves in the Ravenclaw commons, and had publicly kissed her one-year-older Headliner secretary at Pride. Of the seventh-year who had done so very much, who had mentored so many, who had saved others, who had been written about and photographed all year long and yet who had stayed so very herself.

Hopefully, one or two of the new children would pipe up something to the effect of "I want to be like her."

And for the first time, Aly knew that she was someone to be looked up to. That she actually was, after it all, a role model. A good friend and a lover. A baker, a fighter, an athlete. An excellent student. A great person.

She leaned forward and touched her forehead against the silver plaque most recently bearing her surname on the Quidditch Cup.

"Long after everything else about me is scrubbed from this castle, and the walls have forgotten my name," she whispered, "you will remain."

Next year, someone else would sleep in her bed, the sheets freshly laundered by the Hogwarts house-elves. Others would sit in her favourite spot in the window seat in the common rooms and on the bench at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall. A different Seeker would have her locker in the eagles' Quidditch team's room. Her desk in the Headliner office would go to a new writer team lead, and the worn copy of Quidditch Through the Ages she'd checked out no less than a dozen times from the library would end up in someone else's satchel. The flowers she had planted around the grounds back in her younger Herbology phase would eventually wither and die. The Cup, next year, would be engraved with new names.

But the old ones would stay, too. All these memories of laughter in the commons and feasts in the hall. Trips to the kitchen, sugar exploding in her face. Tying back her hair atop a broomstick on the pitch when the wind picked up too heavily. Being caught reading under the desk in class. Chanting her House name with her teammates before a match. Dirt under her fingernails. An accidentally differently-coloured eyebrow. That bedamned trick step near Gryffindor Tower. Late nights hunched over a desk scribbling articles or essays, or out on the Astronomy tower stargazing.

Seven years' worth of love, all packaged and wrapped up into her mind, with just two final weeks to go.

Aly pressed her lips to the Cup.

"Thank you," she said, quietly.

It was not to the trophy itself, but to Hogwarts. To any part of this castle that could hear her. The thanks was enough for now, gratitude crammed into two tiny words that otherwise would have been far too great to summarise; goodbyes would come later, but she wasn't ready for those quite yet.

The Ravenclaw turned and left the room, her quick, light footsteps echoing in the otherwise silent, empty space. There were only five minutes to curfew, after all, and she didn't want to lose her streak of seven years without a detention. She did not know that this was the last time she would ever be in the Trophy Room, but that is okay. Not all lasts need be celebrated.

The Trophy Room | June 14^th, 2026 | #C47DDB