Pandora decides you need an education. Not the kind with textbooks or essays - those she finds dreadfully limiting - but the kind that requires sitting cross-legged on the floor of the Ravenclaw tower at midnight, surrounded by moonlight and a suspicious number of stones.

“Don’t touch anything yet,” she says dreamily, arranging crystals into a loose spiral. Her voice carries the soft certainty of someone who has already stepped three thoughts ahead. “They need to know you first.”

You blink. “They... need to what?”

Pandora smiles at you like you’ve asked the most reasonable question in the world. “Listen. Obviously.”

She hands you a small piece of amethyst, cool and smooth. “This one’s for clarity. Not the sharp kind. It's more like when you finally understand why something hurt.”

You roll it between your fingers, humouring her. “And it works?”

“That depends,” she says lightly. “Are you paying attention?”

You spend the next hour learning the language of crystals, according to Pandora. Quartz for amplifying intention. Rose quartz for gentler emotions - “not romance,” she corrects when you tease her, “connection.” Obsidian for protection, though she warns it has a habit of uncovering things you’d rather keep buried.

She presses a piece of moonstone into your palm last. “This one helps with intuition. Which you have plenty of. You just ignore it.”

You open your mouth to protest, then stop. Pandora’s gaze is soft but knowing, as if she’s already seen the thought forming before you have.

As the spiral of crystals glows faintly - probably a charm, though she never admits it - you feel oddly calmer. More grounded. Like the world has slowed enough for you to catch up.

“Do you really believe all this?” you ask quietly.

Pandora tilts her head. “I believe magic listens when we speak kindly to it.”