Disclaimer in Chapter 1.

Chapter II: First Impressions

Sneaking out of the portrait hole was entirely more difficult than Harry had imagined. The loud and largely unnecessary gathering of Gryffindors had lasted all night, to the point where most of the males and some of the more daring females slept out in the common room. Apparently they were too tired to drag themselves up the stairs to their respective dormitories.

The dawn was nearly there, but the Common room was still quite dark. The Boy who Lived was not unprepared for such a circumstance. By focusing on a spot far to the left or right of where you were actually looking, you could cause the area to be received by the peripheral cones of the retina. They were more sensitive to light, but could only tell the difference between white and black. Looking out of the corners of your eyes, you could make out shapes and obstructions in near-moonless conditions. Mustering all of his considerable stealth, he padded silently out of the room.

It occurred to Harry, while sitting in an entirely vacant Great Hall for breakfast, that he had lost something when he vanquished the Dark Lord. The light meal of eggs, sausage and orange juice didn't seem appealing at all, but he shoveled it in mechanically. He didn't need to taste the food, he just needed to eat it. The resulting calories would come in handy soon, during his morning workout.

The staff and students at Hogwarts didn't seem to value daylight. Not a soul was up except for him, and it was already 4:25 in the morning! True, there weren't any classes until 9am, but these people were wasting the light. The Boy who Lived couldn't abide that.

All his life he'd been training hard. His motivation was simple: Eventually, he would have to fight Voldemort to the death. If he wanted to win that battle, he'd have to train hard. That day had come, and found Harry still standing.

So now what?

He felt strangely ... obsolete. His mission was complete, but he was still here. Like a tool that had outlived its usefulness. What was he supposed to do now?

No answers arose in his head.


As he jogged out to the lake to start his morning routine, his mind emptied of those frivolous thoughts. He was still a soldier, and nothing was going to change that. He still needed to maintain an optimal level of fitness. The breaking dawn, the still, crisp morning air... It was so quiet.

His warm-up consisted of a 30-minute run at a moderate pace of about 10 miles per hour. Every 5 minutes, he would drop and pump out 50 pushups and 50 situps. The lake was about 1.5 miles around, so it evened out fairly well.

Dropping his pace down to 8 miles per hour, he veered off of the path around the lake and headed into the Forbidden Forest. Interesting choice of words there, but what could he possibly run across that was more dangerous than giants, manticores, renegade dementors and a Dark Lord? It took more than a name to scare Harry James Potter.

It wasn't even that forbidding, to tell the truth. He'd slept in danker places, Merlin knew. Squatted in the muck for days, in fact, just to catch a cell of Death Eaters or break up a larger meeting. Simple reasoning behind all this trouble: magical signatures lasted for days. You had to apparate or portkey in several miles away, then make the trek on foot and hide yourself with non-magical means. That meant making a hide and sitting still for a minimum of 72 hours while the signature of your arrival disappeared.

The sniffers, men who came first and conducted a magical survey of the area, were notoriously hard to fool. The real targets, higher-ranking Death Eaters, only came after word was sent that the area was free of magical signatures. Then they'd set up an anti-apparition ward and unplot the zone to keep Aurors from utilizing their portkeys. Only specially-tuned portkeys, those which were created by a certain person, were accessible in this mile-wide field. So they sat in the mud and rain and dirt and grime for days on end, appearing out of the blue and pacifying the area once the higher-ranking Death Eaters finally apparated in.

Those evil bastards never quite picked up on that tactic, to the delight of Aurors and Order members alike. Apparently, wizards (especially ministry wizards) spending days in an inhospitable forest without magic was a concept foreign to them. Harry didn't mind the grime. Everything he wore was cleanable, including his skin.

Their double agent, Severus Snape, had proven 100 reliable in the War. It was too bad the Death Eaters caught on. Harry took on the rescue mission himself, sneaking into the Parkinson's Manor and dragging the spy out. He'd earned the Order of Merlin, First Class for that. Not that the medal was important. Mr. Snape's work as a double agent saved countless innocent lives and led to the death or capture of well over 60 of Voldemort's Death Eaters. Saving Severus Snape from a life destined for endless torture and a brutal murder was the least that Harry could do.

Exiting the forest, he frowned momentarily. The next section of his routine consisted of weights, but there were no weights at Hogwarts. He couldn't just transfigure them, either. There were strict limits on what he was allowed to transfigure, on what magic he was even allowed to perform for that matter. After all, a weapon should not be wasting his magic on frivolous matters. He could be contacted on a moments notice, just in case they needed him for something. As such, he was expected to maintain maximum magical capacity at all times. Not a problem. A moderately difficult swim would suffice.

Waving his hand over his clothes to clean them, he walked into the cold lake fully clothed. Swimming clothed offered a higher level of resistance, letting him push his muscles further in the same amount of time. He settled into a moderate-pace crawlstroke and took off towards the other side of the lake.

The lake was about half a mile wide at its center, which worked out perfectly for Harry. Three times there and back should take him about an hour. Crawl there, butterfly back. Butterflies worked more muscles than any other stroke, useful for purging excess lactic acid from his less-used muscle groups. He made sure to take large breaths to help repay the oxygen debt he had acquired during his run. It was important to repay oxygen debt as soon as possible, so you weren't sore throughout the day.

Emerging from the lake dripping wet and breathing rather hard, Harry waved his hand over his clothes to dry them. He took extra care to fully dry his socks and shoes, wet footwear was the bane of soldiers.


It was only 6:45 when Harry re-entered the Great Hall. He had worked up quite an appetite, and was used to eating 6-7 times a day to replenish the energy he consistently drained. Helping himself to more sausage, two rashers of bacon, a piece of wheat bread and another tall glass of orange juice. His blood sugar would be lower than optimal after his workout, and he needed to replenish it quickly. 'Ready at a moments notice', was a motto that had been drilled into him since he could understand a spoken language. Picking up his fork, he prepared to dig in.

There weren't many people up, even this late in the morning. All of them were faculty. Dumbledore watched the new 6th year student with twinkling blue eyes. "Mr. Potter, would you care to join us at the staff table this morning? Your peers are conspicuously absent at this hour, and Professor Sprout's seat will be empty until lunchtime." There were 6 teachers up at the table, including one who was head and shoulders taller than the rest of them. Harry recognized him as the man who led the boats across the lake last night.

Harry nodded curtly, pushing back his bench and picking up his plate and glass. Making his way to the staff table, he sank into a comfortable leather chair and set his breakfast down again. "Thank you, Sir." He said in appreciation as he dug in.

It was in his nature to shovel down food, but sitting at the Officers tables required decorum above and beyond the common grunt. Harry was trained in proper table manners, but had precious few occasions to exercise them. He thought he did a decent job, when the situation required it, of eating politely.

After he was finished, he looked around the table at the faces gathered there. Headmaster Dumbledore he knew, as with Professor Snape and Madam Hooch. She taught him to fly when he was 8 years old, and it had remained one of his favorite hobbies. He introduced himself to the Transfiguration Professor, whose name was Minerva McGonagall, and the Arithmancy Professor. His name was Professor Vector. Then there was the matter of the gigantic man sitting across from him.

He had to stand up to properly greet the incredibly large man with an outstretched hand. "Pleased to meet you, Professor." He recited a properly respectful greeting to the man, whose curly beard and hair obscured the majority of his face. The man took Harry's hand in his own (which was at least as large as the plates they were eating on) and shook it vigorously. Harry could appreciate a good firm handshake, Hagrid and he would get along just fine.

"'Arry Potter! I bet 'ye don't 'member me, do yeh?" The man said with a wide smile. "Th' name is Hagrid, and th' pleasure's all mine. Las' time I seen 'ye was when I took 'ye to Sirius' after yer folks..." His beady black eyes got misty and he sniffed loudly.

Nodding, Harry sat back down and consumed the rest of his food in a manner fit for esteemed company. The next hour passed rather uneventfully, as he listened to the idle banter between the professors. There was talk of Madam Pomfrey, a certified medi-witch, and the earmuffs she gave to the Headmaster last Christmas. Apparently, they could be used in conjunction with a device called 'the wireless' to listen to music throughout the castle. Professor Dumbledore was immensely pleased with them, although the heat of the earmuffs was quite uncomfortable during the summer.

Professor Snape had given Professor Lupin the wolfsbane potion for the full moon two nights ago, but he had still not recovered from the transformation. A company called Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes had started last year and proved immensely popular. The items in that store were entirely and singularly banned from Hogwarts this year, but the faculty had to take preemptive measures to ensure the ban was enforced. They had just yesterday received word of a new product called a 'portable swamp', and there was no denying that a corridor in Hogwarts, preferably one that was well-traveled, would be a perfect place for one.

As Harry was leaving to prepare for class, Professor Snape stood up and called after him. "Harry, I never did get a chance to tell you how much I appreciated your help with ... that incident at the Parkinson's." The look in his eyes was one of extreme gratitude. It looked somewhat out of place on his sallow face.

"Just doing my job, Professor." Harry replied, nodding his head slightly.

Without another word, he walked back up to his dormitory and changed for Transfiguration. The halls were illuminated with the bright morning sunlight filtering through the windows, casting stark shadows in an impressive array of geometric shapes.

Wizarding robes were good for wands, in that they allowed a completely free range of motion, but they would be terrible in a real fight. In a real fight, your enemy won't stand still and let you cast spells at him, nor will he let you free your legs when the hem of your robe is caught on something. It made no logical sense to wear robes in a fight. But when in Rome...


The Transfiguration class was buzzing with activity when he entered. There were already 14 people there, but the class was only half full. Harry took a seat at the front center bench. There was nobody sitting within three benches of him, they were all at the back. Harry was taught to sit as close to instructors as propriety allowed, so they didn't suspect you were falling asleep.

Some of the commotion in the room was about him, he could tell even though he couldn't pick up the words used. After several minutes of this, a familiar face appeared over his left shoulder. "You, sitting alone in the front bench. Fancy that. Want company?" Hermione, the bushy-haired brunette from the train ride, sat next to him without waiting for a reply. Her backpack thudded heavily on the wooden table, educing a knowing look from Harry.

"Your backpack must be at least 40 pounds. I know a charm to lighten it, if you'd like." He used the charm frequently in his travels, it saved his back for the mission every time. Dead useful spell, and it wasn't even classified.

Hermione blinked, then nodded slowly. "I've been looking everywhere for one of those..." She sighed wistfully, accepting her fate as the pupil. She was so looking forward to teaching Harry all about being normal, she forgot that he probably exceeded her on every single academic level. Damn.

Harry extended his index finger and ran it down the leather seam of her backpack. Nodding, he folded his hands on the table and waited for class to begin.

Blinking again, Hermione started, "But you didn't-" Before she could put her foot in her mouth, she shut up. Yes, he could! And he just did! What was so hard to believe about silent wandless magic performed as carelessly as if you were stretching? Harry looked at her curiously. "Have I done something wrong?" He asked in his signature monotone.

"No, Harry. Nothing wrong at all. Thanks for the help." She smiled forcefully, but it got easier the longer she held it. He didn't even try to rub it in that he was light years ahead of her in practical charms... She got the feeling that they would get along famously.

Professor McGonagall strode into the classroom, effectively silencing every student with her presence. Apparently, talking was prohibited during class. Good. It had been a while since Harry had been the subject of a strict teacher. Truth be told, he rather missed it.

"Good morning, class. Today, we will be covering our class outline for the year. As this is the first day of your NEWT level Transfiguration class, things are going to get a lot more advanced and it starts right now. Before we get started, I'd like to introduce the newest addition to the class. Harry Potter will be joining us this year, I expect him to be treated as normally as possible. If I hear a single person ask for an autograph, I'm taking 10 points and I don't care who I take them from. Is that clear?" She asked in a tone that clearly meant it wasn't a question.

"Now, Mr. Potter. I have it on good authority that you are something of a prodigy in this field. Could you provide us with a small demonstration, perhaps?" She asked him much more politely than necessary. Harry was used to being yelled at, the only teachers that spoke softly were the ones that didn't need to yell to be heard. Those were the ones to be afraid of.

"Yes Professor McGonagall. What would you have me do?" Harry stood up rigidly, awaiting orders. Teachers at Hogwarts were classified for this mission as his superiors. They could command him to jump off of the Astronomy Tower if they wanted to, and he'd go just as soon as he got clearance. A little demonstration would be no problem at all.

"Well, I've heard rumors of your abilities in Transmutation. Perhaps you could give us a glimpse of what those abilities are?" She asked hopefully.

Harry was many things. A soldier, a teenager, a halfway decent Quidditch player, in some circles he was a legend. One thing he was not, was a show pony. He had no flashy tricks meant to wow crowds, no complicated but utterly useless bits of magic that could be used to impress. All he knew were things that could keep him alive on the battlefield. The kind of transmuting that he did was not meant for show. It was meant to kill people quickly and silently. On rare occasions, it wasn't very silent. And in other exceptionally rare occasions, it wasn't very quick.

Still, she had asked him for a demonstration, and asking was the same as ordering to Harry. "Certainly, Professor McGonagall. This classroom is a little too small, if I might move my demonstration out into the hall?" After receiving word that it was acceptable, he immediately exited the room and turned the corner. There was a 60' section of straight corridor with no rooms to interfere. Perfect.

Turning his head to the side, he took stock of what was behind him. "I advise you all to step back until you are at least 10 feet behind me. The magical backlash during transmutation is quite powerful. One of my instructors was burned badly when he stood too close."

Minerva McGonagall had heard rumors alright. Rumors of fifty foot tall waves of rock and metal crashing into groups of people and crushing them into dust. Rumors of manufacturing muggle firearms in less time than it took most people to blink. Rumors, boastful as they may be, that would confirm this man as the deadliest wizard alive today. Possibly the deadliest wizard period. She needed more than rumors, and a demonstration was perfect. It would also show her students why turning a rabbit into a hat can be useful sometimes.

Kneeling on the ground, Harry put his hand onto the cool granite and closed his eyes. The crowd couldn't see anything but his back, but they felt the hot blast of magical energy that emitted from the Gryffindor. It was a searing thunderclap of heat, pushing his classmates back and causing most of them to close their eyes. The change behind him was nothing compared to the change in front of him.

The corridor in front of him warped, thick granite spikes shot out from every angle. Coming down, from every side, and from the floor. You couldn't see more than 20 feet, there were too many spikes obstructing your vision. It was so silent, too. The granite had moved like liquid, without a sound. The corridor was empty one moment, then the next it was completely overrun with these cruel spikes. It was a nightmare. Professor McGonagall looked at the severe distortion with mixed feelings of both relief and impending disaster. She was very happy to see Voldemort dead, but if Harry was this powerful... if there were ever an incredibly foolish wizard who...

Harry let the spikes sit for a few seconds, then with another blast of magic the corridor was empty once more. He removed his hand from the granite floor and stood rigidly once more. "I hope that was satisfactory, Professor."

McGonagall was still trying to find a way to tactfully say that it was both abhorrent and absolutely satisfying. One of the students voiced her concerns, "Have you ever used this on a real person, Mr. Potter?"

He replied immediately, "That information is classified."

The Transfiguration professor blinked twice, then had the good sense to usher the 6th years back into the classroom. So that was a yes. She repressed a shudder and shook her head slightly. "Alright children, back to class. Thank you for the demonstration, Harry. It was ... enlightening."

Harry nodded and class resumed at its usual pace. It was incredibly simple transfiguration, but his mission was clear. He was to attend these classes, no matter how much of his time they wasted. He was to do his homework and take tests. He was to eat chocolate frogs and stay up late. If today was any indication, he was also expected to disobey clearly posted directives, such as getting to class on time and not wandering around after hours. Hermione would prove an invaluable resource, no doubt. Hopefully he could persuade Ginny to teach him how to smile properly. For some reason, the thought twisted his insides uncomfortably. It wasn't painful, just ... odd.

He would give it his best shot, he decided as he once again transfigured his test mouse into a miniature poodle. In his entire life he had never failed a mission, he'd be damned if he failed the first mission he was given after the fall of Voldemort. He wasn't obsolete, not by a long shot, and one way or another he was going to prove it.


Upon entering the Potions classroom, the first thing Harry noticed was that it was exceptionally uniform. Every table was aligned perfectly with its respective row and column, each fire was perfectly placed in its respective table. The room smelled of cleaning charms and the unnamed yet incredibly distinctive smell of a cornucopia of potions ingredients. So this was Professor Snape's classroom...

As if summoned, Severus Snape burst through the door with his black cape billowing dramatically behind him. As the door swung shut, two sheepish-looking Gryffindors tried to sneak in before the door shut. Professor Snape didn't slow or turn, but somehow he knew.

"Five points from Gryffindor. If you haven't learned to be on time in the five unfortunate years I have had to waste on you, you'll never earn anything above a Troll in my NEWT level class. I can guarantee that." His voice was full of malice, as if these 6th year students were somehow causing him physical pain merely by being present in his sanctuary.

The Professor's black eyes scanned the nervous faces of the class. A twisted smile was on his face, causing it to warp unnaturally. This was obviously a man who did not smile often, even in a twisted fashion. "Despite what you may think, I despise teaching imbeciles. You know who you are, and you know you have been tolerated for half a decade due to the false and antiquated notion that everyone can be taught. Welcome to my NEWT-level class. I will only warn you once: there is no room for tolerance within the exacting art of Potions, either you possess the ability to follow my instructions or you are summarily dismissed from this class. If I can't teach you Potions, I will not allow you to waste another moment of my time. Have I made myself perfectly clear?" Snape sneered the last word, nearly spitting it in contempt from his mouth.

"Yes, Sir!" Harry responded immediately to the question, but nobody else spoke. Apparently, that was a question that was not supposed to be answered. Noncoms sure had a lot of ways to waste time, asking questions without answers... Before he could apologize for the breach of social contract, Professor Snape answered him. "I wasn't expecting an answer, Potter, but it's comforting to know that you are taking your studies seriously. Five points to Gryffindor."

The room was quiet before, but now it was dead. A full five seconds passed before a snobby Slytherin protested, "Professor Snape, have you gone mental? You just awarded Gryffindor house points! And to the Golden Wanker no less! The last thing that prat needs is a bigger head, if you ask me. If he could grow a decent beard, I swear they'd be calling him the next Merlin!"

Ron gritted his teeth, shoving his chair back loudly and getting ready to show that Slytherin exactly what it meant to insult a fellow Gryffindor in his presence. Harry put a hand on his shoulder and pushed down, putting the redhead firmly back in his seat.

Ron looked about ready to protest, but Harry silenced him with a silent shake of his head. He displayed no emotion, as if the comment didn't even reach his ears. "Let it go." Was all the green-eyed boy said, but even as quiet as it was nobody could mistake the intent in his voice. Ron nodded sullenly, clenching his fists tightly under the table and staring resolutely at a chipped section of the classroom wall.

Snape rounded on the smirking 6th year, eyes blazing. The smirk drained off of the boy's face like rain off an Autumn windowpane. "When you have saved me from a life of endless torture and an excruciatingly prolonged death, you might earn my good graces as well. For the moment, Mr. Zabini, you are not to speak again in my class. Ever. Not for a question, an answer, a cough or even a sneeze. If you feel the need to yawn, you will excuse yourself from class so as to not reveal to me your open mouth. No sound coming from your mouth in my class for the next two years, under pain of dismissal and 6 straight hours of detention every single night until you graduate!"

Pale and stricken, Mr. Zabini nodded and shrunk back into his chair. Nobody else said a word.

"I will not waste another moment of my time. Class has started. Who can tell me the name and natural location of an ingredient in the Draught of Living Death?"


Dinner that night was stressful for 6th and 7th year Gryffindors. Harry could see the strain on their faces as they inhaled their chicken and mashed potatoes. Everyone was talking about the sheer volume of homework they were expected to complete for their NEWT-level classes.

Hermione was the only one who didn't seem phased at all. "I've been telling you for years, Ron. If you want to keep up, you have to anticipate. I've already read my books, memorized the important parts, and completed this week's homework. Except for the 12 inches Professor Snape assigned us on the proper method for brewing the Draught of Living Death. That's going to take all night, the way he worded the questions is going to make them hard to answer less than 3 inches! He's really good at asking questions that require long answers, you see..." she rattled on for several minutes, ignorant of the fact that almost nobody else cared. Almost nobody, anyway.

Harry was taking furious mental notes. Hermione was a very studious individual, and he was sure she had a wealth of information on proper study techniques and how to write essays. Harry had never written an essay, per se. He'd written classified documents on advanced occlumency and methods of detecting and recognizing magical signatures. He had given a lecture on how to discover the direction and distance that a person has apparated through careful examination of those magical signatures. He'd even attempted to teach several adult wizards how to perform basic transmutation. But never in his 16 years had Harry Potter written 12 inches on brewing a potion, or anything else for that matter.

He was going to have to work on that. His writing skills were entirely geared towards more technical papers.


Another raucous party was going on in the Gryffindor Common Room, and strange bottles were being passed around. It was labeled simply 'butterbeer' and smelled strongly of butterscotch. Harry wrinkled his nose. How much sugar did these noncoms have to consume in a day, anyway? He didn't think he could stand much more of it.

Everyone was drinking it, so Harry surmised that it was a normal after-school activity. Ron urged him to take a drink, and the Boy who Lived obliged. He put the bottle to his lips and drained half of the ice-cold bottle.

It was very warm, he found. The kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the beverage, which was nothing short of arctic. No, this was the warmth that started in your throat and swirled around in your stomach, heating you all the way to your fingertips.

Harry took another drink, finishing the bottle and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's too sweet." He said plainly, tossing the bottle into a nearby receptacle. Ron snorted and took a long draw of his own butterbeer, only coming up for air after a good 20 seconds.

Ron's contented sigh caused Ginny Weasley to roll her eyes. Three empty butterbeers rested on the end table next to her, and a fourth was in her right hand. "Come on, Harry. Let's leave Ron to his mistress." She laughed good-naturedly, patting Ron on the cheek and leading Harry away to a quieter corner of the Common Room. She sat them down on the couch in front of the fireplace, enduring a moment of awkward silence. Clearing her throat suddenly, she asked, "So... er, How do you like school so far?" She absently played with a stray strand of hair, pointedly looking anywhere but at the Boy who Lived.

Harry replied immediately, "Classes are not what I expected. They are much less intensive than my usual courses, and they ask much less of me. Although I do not find them as challenging as I would like, they are very interesting. I've never had class with other students before, it was a positive experience." Harry tried once again to force the corners of his mouth to turn upwards. This was, perhaps, an opportune time to practice smiling.

Ginny giggled at his feeble attempt and tried to manually correct his poor performance. The smell of butterscotch was strong on her breath, but he could still make out hints of lavender and vanilla. Harry stiffened at the contact of her fingers on his face. Sirius and Remus were the only people who initiated physical contact with him, always in the form of a hug or a pat on the back. Never in his life had he felt something like this: her cold, smooth fingers brushed against his face as she pushed up on the corners of his mouth. Her fingers traced over his lower lip, seemingly on accident.

His stomach turned over inside of his abdomen. It was a most uncomfortable sensation. Ginny didn't notice, as she was entirely focused on his mouth at the moment. "No no, you've got it all wrong! Like this. No, relax your face muscle! It's all in the cheeks..." Her laughter was music compared to the roaring din around them.


In a much darker and quieter room in Hogwarts, a different kind of gathering was taking place. The 9 members of this particular gathering had black cloaks pulled up over their heads, concealing their identities even to each other. Their heads were bowed over a thick wooden table, pouring over detailed plans that had not yet been set in motion.

"Yes of course we can take her! I am fully confident that we can take her. That's hardly the question. The problem lies in where we can keep her!" A thin, reedy voice called out, clearly frustrated. "You know as well as I do that the Ministry will be doing everything in their power to find her! They're watching our properties, you know that. Anyone our families come in contact with is suspect, and they will be very thorough about it. We need someplace quiet and isolated, unplottable, and most of all far away from here. Keep your eyes and ears open. We move as soon as we have found a suitable place, not before."

As the cloaked people began to scoot their chairs back, a quiet and arrogant voice in the back said, "What if I told you that I have already found a suitable place? Would you be able to move your plan forward to, let's see... this Saturday?" Through the dark shadows obscuring the man's face, a lopsided smirk was visible. A pale, aristocratic nose peeked through the shadows, only to be enveloped again in shadow a moment later. "Because I've got JUST the place for our guest of honor." The cloaked man laughed darkly.