Harry's Remarkable Nose

A Harry Potter Fan Fiction

by Thimerri

Chapter One

'Star Struck'

"You do realise you're putting your shoes on the wrong feet, right?"

In spite of the fact that Annora had spent the recent minute and a half glaring furiously at her leather-clad feet, she had not, in fact, been paying much attention to her current undertaking. Indeed, pausing mid-task of lacing up her school shoes to observe her extremities, she noticed that they were stuffed awkwardly and unwittingly painfully into her footwear. Oops.

"...Oh."

"Yeah."

Shaking her head critically of her own folly, Annora loosened the laces, slipping her feet from their awry confines, and stuffed them back into the correct shoe. Cho Chang arched one impeccably forged eyebrow at her as she grinned triumphantly, wiggling her toes about before her.

"So, you're new, right?" Padma inquired, her delicate British timbre laced with a subtle hint of her Indian heritage. Her brow was creased slightly, as was Cho's, in confusion rather than irritation. Of course, Annora was well aware that there had not been a transfer student to Hogwarts in many, many years, and now of all times was exceptionally unusual. What, with the greatest villain of the era rampaging about Europe and all that jazz. She could understand their sceptics.

"Yeah," Annora confirmed with a brief nod of her head. "I'm from New Orlands. Madam Melee's Academy for the Magically Gifted. It's a really small place – has to be for it to fit in so well in the heart of a Muggle city. It's mostly Half-bloods and Muggle-borns who attend. No proud Pureblood would be caught dead in a place like that."

"So, why did you move here?" Cho asked. Her frown had deepened. Annora shrugged.

"Opportunity popped up, and I took it."

"But... wouldn't you be, like... safer in the States?" Padma pressed, apparently horrified. Annora snorted.

"You think You-Know-Who isn't running amok in the U.S as well? Nowhere is safe. And personally, I'd rather be under the protection of Dumbledore and a half decent Ministry than the fools who run the A.M.M. They're useless." The foreign woman crossed her arms, settling back into her seat. The Hogwarts Express rattled and heaved all around her, growling as it rumbled along it's winding tracks. Padma and Cho exchanged a wide-eyed glance. "Besides," she continued airily, "the quality of education at Hogwarts is famously superior to any American school."

"That explains the shoes," Padma quipped, and Cho smirked. It took Annora a moment to catch the reference, and she flushed with embarrassment when she did. A sheepish grin split her face, and Padma started to snigger.

"She's just taking the mickey," Cho assured her. Annora nodded, though her blush stubbornly refused to subside. "So, what house do you think you'll get?"

"Oh!" Bashfulness abruptly forgotten, Annora dove into the backpack set between her ankles. "Well, I've kind of been tossing up between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor. I was sent a whole load of information over before my departure," she informed them, fishing about the contents, and emerging with a thick envelope crammed full of parchment. The twisted remains of the Hogwarts emblem bedecked the ruined wax seal. 'I don't much fancy living in a Dungeon, and orange really isn't my colour. So red or blue it is!'

Cho wrinkled her nose. "Good thing, too. Slytherin's a snake pit, and Hufflepuff... well-" she tilted her head, her shoulders drawn slightly as her face contorted to an expression that could only be described as 'meh'. Padma nodded in agreement.

"It's more or less the house people get sorted into if you're not suitable for the other three," Padma elaborated. Annora's eyebrows shot upwards into her bangs."I mean, there haven't been very many exceptional students come from Hufflepuff. Loyalty isn't really... something you get famous for, you know? Knowledge and bravery and cunning, though..." Padma trailed off, and Cho picked up again.

"I guess it comes down to what you value most. So, are you smart, or are you brave?" The European girls stared expectantly at their American accomplice. Annora frowned thoughtfully.

'I don't know. I guess I'm reasonably intelligent -" to which Padma made another pointed glance at Annora's feet - "but I've never really been put in a position that would test my bravery before. How would I find out?"

Padma snorted. "Hang with Harry for a week?" she suggested. Cho rolled her eyes. Annora frowned.

"Who?"

"Harry Potter. And she's joking. He's more trouble than he's worth, trust me" Annora pursed her lips as Cho's cheerfulness slipped from her face.

"Duly noted," she mumbled.

It had not, of course, escaped her notice than she would be sharing the school with one of the most famous wizards of the age. Harry James Potter was inconceivably well known even in the States, and had been the face of Witch Weekly International for the past six editions (which her mother purchased religiously for the recipes) in spite of the fact that he was never actually smiling. 'Regal' was the term they often used to buffer his less than appealing expression, although Annora had always considered 'pissed off' a more accurate description. There was only so much the editors could do to tweak a character before the subject started to appear fake, and often his portraits looked rather as if he were a plastic mold than a real human being. It made her wonder exactly how irritated the Boy Legend had been when the originals were taken.

Annora cleared her throat awkwardly. "So, erm... what houses are you in?"

"Both in Ravenclaw," Padma informed her, pointing between herself and Cho. Annora nodded. "I have a twin sister in Gryffindor, though, in case of any future confusion. Pavati Patil. She's-"

Padma was cut short by the rumbling and grinding of the compartment door sliding open. In it's frame stood a tall young woman with a mane of tightly twisted bay tendrils. Annora cringed inwardly – she couldn't imagine the effort it would take to tame that every morning.

"Hello, Granger," Padma greeted her cordially. Granger smiled pleasantly in response.

"Hello, Pavati. Chang. I'm looking for Annora Chaplin." Her honey brown eyes swiveled about in their sockets to conciser Annora. "That must be you. I'm Hermione Granger, Head Girl," she introduced herself proudly, extending her hand in greeting. Annora shook it briefly. The red and gold emblem of a rearing lion was embroidered onto her right breast. A Gryffindor. "I've been instructed to assist you for your first few days at Hogwarts. As I expect we will be arriving shortly, I thought it best to -"

"Hermione! There you are!" A male voice came rumbling from somewhere down the isle. Hermione's eyes closed briefly, her thumb and forefinger shooting up to pinch the bridge of her nose. When she dropped her hand, she smiled apologetically.

"Excuse me a moment." And with that she turned towards the source of the voice, and strode out of sight. In spite of her hushed tones, her voice carried back to their compartment, clear as a bell. "Ron, I'm on duty! Go away!"

"So? I'm a Prefect, I have just as much right to see the new girl as you do!"

"I'm not checking her out, you pervert! I'm helping her!"

"Well I can help, too!"

Annora snickered, though their thick accents were distorting their somewhat heated conversation to her ears, the direction was easy enough to follow. Padma rolled her eyes, while Cho seemed only mildly amused beneath her sudden sullenness.

A red headed young man with an admirably long nose and baby blue eyes poked his head around the corner a moment later, grinning widely amidst a thick smattering of freckles. Honestly, it was difficult to tell if he could be considered attractive at first glance, so overwhelming was the vividness of both his hair and complexion. Annora assumed this was Ron. Hermione stood behind him, stiff-shoulders and tight-lipped, with her arms folded firmly across her chest.

"Hello!" the red-head greeted cheerfully, apparently ignorant of the fact that he had been overheard. "Ron Weasley, Gryffindor Prefect." Annora shook his proffered hand, also.

"Annora Chaplin." Ron's grin widened.

"Yes, well. Now that we've gotten the pleasantries dealt with, Annora – Oh. I see you're already changed. Excellent!" Hermione's brown eyes narrowed at Cho and Padma. "I would suggest you two do the same."

"Welcome to Gryffindor," Hermione smiled , slipping into a seat at the farthest end of the long table. She gestured for Annora to do the same. "We're not sure if you'll remain here, of course, but Professor McGonagall thought it to be a bit much to force you to endure your test in front of the entire school, but we wouldn't want you to miss out on the Sorting Ceremony either. I expect you'll be sorted afterwards, with a little more discretion."

"Yeah. You'd stick out like a sore thumb amongst the midgets," said Ron, who had just settled into a seat across from them. Hermione shot him a scathing glare, though Annora only smirked. Though he lacked wit, Ron Weasley was entertaining.

"They're not midgets, Ronald, they are first years!" Hermione fumed, perhaps a little dramatically in Annora's humble opinion. "As a Prefect, a certain level of rectitude is expected!"

"Well I don't remember ever being that short," Ron retorted, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the hall doors. Hermione huffed, shaking her head, bushy hair bouncing. "Wish they'd hurry up,' Ron continued, rubbing a hand over his abdomen. "I'm – Oi! There you are!"

Two young men plopped down side-by-side across from Annora and Hermione. The figure furthest to the right was a round-faced fellow with a soft, child-like character, even in spite of the bum fluff sprouting from his lower jaw, blonde though his hair atop his head was a mousy brown. He was holding a small pot plant, which he set on the table before him as he shuffled into his seat. He smiled kindly at the girls, greeting them in a deep voice which contrasted starkly with his boyish physique.

"Neville, this is Annora Chaplin. Annora, this is Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor seventh year," chimed Hermione informatively.

The second man didn't acknowledge them, though Annora required no introductions to know exactly who he was. In spite of herself, she felt her breathing hitch at the sight of him, and a swarm of butterflies erupted in her gut. Harry Potter - 'Boy Legend', 'Dark-Lord Vanquisher Extraordinaire', the 'Chosen One' if you believed everything the Media wrote – sat before her, looking every bit as cheerful as he appeared in his photographs. Only, in the flesh, he didn't look like a disfigured Ken Doll. Apparently, Ron found this mildly concerning.

"Harry, are you-"

"No, and I'm not talking to you," Potter cut him off sulkily, shoulders hunched forwards as he picked intently at one of his cuticles. Annora blinked. He was whiny. By Merlin, of all the people, Harry Potter was whiny.

Ron frowned. "Why?" he demanded, and then near fell out of his seat when Potter rounded on him, shoulders squaring to a somewhat impressive span. He glared furiously abaft his trademark wire-rimmed glasses.

"Because you left me all by myself with Neville and his singing plant is why!" he growled. Ron, at least, had the decency to look sheepish, though Neville was suddenly frowning resentfully.

"Hey!"

"You had better not be bringing that ridiculous stick into our dorm, Longbottom," Potter growled warningly, plucking a cutlery division from the table and banishing it in the other man's direction, "or I swear to Merlin I will be taking my salad fork with me."

"That's a dinner fork, Harry," Neville dead panned, pointing at the silverware clutched threatening in the Boy Wonder's fist, "and Singing Sumac is lethally toxic if consumed."

"What does it sing?" asked Ron, peering over Potter's shoulder at the innocent looking plant. Potter threw him a ferocious glance, and set the fork back in it's place. Hermione cleared her throat.

"Harry." The Boy Legend looked up, and Annora could feel her cheers flooding with embarrassment as Harry Potter's glorious green eyes swept over her. Briefly. Too briefly, she realized. He was staring expectantly at the Head Girl, quite as if she weren't even there. A balloon swelled in her throat as her stomach plummeted in disappointment. Oh god, she was star struck. And she was being ignored. "Harry, this is Annora Chaplin," Hermione informed him, gesturing to Annora. She smiled meekly as Harry's eyes considered her now, though, still, he did not seem particularly interested. "Annora, this is Harry. He's also one of the Gryffindor seventh years."

"Hello," he greeted her cordially.

"Hi." Her voice was but a feeble squeak, and her hands had begun to tremble as she sought for something intelligent to further say. But then Harry Potter looked away in favour of glaring heatedly at Neville's silent plant, while Ron goggled curiously and Neville began explaining the magical properties and abilities of the Singing Sumac, which, at this time, was but a mere seedling. And that was that.

Annora felt herself deflate a little at Potter's sheer nonchalance towards her arrival. She had never been one to become engrossed in the goings on of celebrity life, and although Harry Potter was one of the few stars to whom she did devote a small amount of time, along a few knuts here and there into checking up on him, simply because she'd thought his Heroics a little more worthy of such conduct than the day's overrated Pop singers, she'd never considered herself a fan girl. She appreciated him, certainly, but she'd never fawned over him the way her friends had, who would begin giggling and fanning themselves at the mere mention of his name. Jodie Lavrat – one of her dorm mates back at Madam Melee's – was even an honorary member of the American Official Harry Potter Fan Club. There had been posters of his Ken Doll frowny face pinned to every available space on her wall.

The girl was certainly dedicated.

Of course, that wasn't to say Annora didn't enjoy the Harry Potter craze to some small extent. Discussing his adventures with a like-minded intellectual who didn't turn into a puddle the moment he was brought up had been somewhat enjoyable, and she couldn't deny that her heart skipped a beat whenever a new article appeared in Witch Weekly. She knew, of course, that half of the writings were 90% bull – her Mother was a small-time radio reporter - but that had never prevented her from finding a secluded spot and enjoying the read. If nothing else, the young man was intriguing.

More so now than ever. And, unwittingly, Annora found herself staring.

He was good looking, she decided, as had 85% of the female population. Not classically so; he resembled nothing of Gilderoy Lockhart's godly good-looks, but he was, somehow, as equally appealing. He was reasonably tall, and wiry of frame. Annora couldn't fathom him being overly bulky beneath his loose-fitting robes, but he was certainly not a feeble fellow. The taunt skin that stretched over the firm, elastic muscles that made up his forearm, spidered with bluish veins, proposed a sinewy, athletic physique. Streamline, yet strong. Perfect Quidditch material.

His hair was so black it was almost blue, perpetually messy, and about three inches long. His bangs fell into his eyes, which were, perhaps, his most striking feature. Green - so incredibly green the brightest emerald might seem dull in comparison - large, expressive and almond in shape, and rimmed by twin fans of thick, dark lashes. His lips were full and shapely, though not too big, and harbored an attractive, rosy hue. His face was slightly narrow, his jaw refined and his cheekbones lofty. And his nose... Well, his nose was perfect. Straight-edged, defined, a tad long through the alas, and just the right-

Hermione's elbow nudged her suddenly. "Don't stare," she whispered, leaning in until Annora could feel her hot breath tickling her ear. She fought the urge to cringe, or look disgusted, and quickly averted her gaze, colour rising in her cheeks once more.

"Sorry," she muttered, although she had no idea what she was apologizing to the Head Girl for. She might have apologized to Potter, but he was too busy hating on the Singing Sumac sapling to have even noticed her eyes on him. Or perhaps he was just playing ignorant. She supposed he'd be well practiced in such things. "I didn't realize I was." Hermione offered her a look that Annora assumed was intended to be 'understanding.'

"He's famous. I get it," she mumbled, shrugging nonchalantly. "He just gets funny about it." The side-long glance thrown their way lasted but a split second, but it was enough. Annora's obnoxious gawking had not, to her utter mortification, escaped Potter's notice, and she suddenly felt very small. She'd been there not ten minutes, and already she'd embarrassed herself in front of him.

It could have been worse, though, she supposed. She could have thrown herself onto her hands and knees and grovelled for an autograph. If he couldn't stand so much as being looked at, then she imagined that would have gone down like a ton of bricks. Still, the idea of asking – perhaps when he was in a better mood – was not unfathomable. Not for herself, of course, but to send back to the States. Sharon and Bridget would be incredibly jealous of her, and just as grateful to posses something he'd touched.

The doors of the Great Hall, which Hermione then began explaining about, opened abruptly. A layer of silence fell suddenly over the student body as a tall, elderly woman in a green robe strode down the center isle, a mob of fresh young faces in toe. And so, the Sorting Ceremony began.

Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I do not and nor will I pretend I own any part of J. 's Harry Potter universe.