A Lightning's Tale

by Riddle Master 101

Harry Potter is abruptly thrown into a different world upon receiving his letter from Hogwarts. Danger stalks him at every turn, light and dark are locked in a constant, eternal battle, and weaving it all together is this substance called magic...

3. Lie in the Shadows

A/N: POV changes are (hopefully) broken by line breaks. If not, please let me know.

"speech"

thoughts

~Parseltongue~

*Mindspeak*

---

Chapter 3

"There, look!"

"Where?'

"Over there, passing that group of Ravenclaws."

"Wearing the glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. Well, not quite. The Slytherins, as a whole, seemed to have temporarily decided to not communicate with him in any way, shape, or form unless absolutely necessary. For the most part, they treated him as someone they had sanctioned from contact and only stole quick, faint glances at him. Harry really didn't mind, as he was more than used to this treatment from his primary school days, and at least they were treating him like a person instead of a piece of furniture, or like he was invisible.

Or like I'm something exotic in a zoo to be gawked at… he thought darkly as he hurried past another group of students, in a somewhat vain attempt to get to class on time. He absolutely hated all the attention he was getting, as it inevitably drew more attention and distracted him from his current mission: memorizing the floor plan of Hogwarts by physical (walking) experience. Yes, this might be a slightly unrealistic goal, especially for the first day of classes, but it was going to take a while and he might as well start early.

Hogwarts: A History claimed that there were a hundred and forty-two staircases of all different shapes and sizes; however, it had failed to mention that most had some annoying side effects (unpredictably moving around, vanishing steps, growing steadily narrower the farther they went up…).

Then there were doors pretending to be solid walls, solid walls pretending to be doors, doors pretending to be walls pretending to be doors, walls pretending to be doors pretending to be walls pretending to be…; the portraits had an aggravating habit of going to visit each other, so that it was necessary to memorize the silhouette's location rather than the contents, and Harry would swear to anyone who would listen—at the moment nobody, as they were either too concerned with his fame, his placement in Slytherin, or currently not talking to him—that the walls the portraits were on moved as well.

There were windows where windows had no reason to be and random suits of armor which, again, moved unpredictably and could not be counted on to remain in the same corridor, let alone same spot. The classrooms—fortunately—stayed in relatively the same place on a day-to-day basis, and were 'guaranteed' to have at least one direct route to them that did not change; unfortunately, all other ways of getting to the class were not guaranteed the same sanity, and could change on an hourly basis.

Breakfast on that first morning had proved to be tedious and aggravating. Harry had followed the members of his House (who were ignoring him) up to the Great Hall, and sank into a spot at the end of the Slytherin table along with the other first years. He ate as quickly and neatly as possible, working hard to ignore the other students, 98 percent of which seemed to be staring at him. The staff, sadly enough, were following the students' example…thus making the very famous first year very nervous.

After he'd finished eating (a small amount of food, the attention ruined his appetite), he pulled out a textbook and began to read, having determined from various glances around the Great Hall that reading at the table was not considered rude. Then again, this observation was obtained from a quick-glance survey of the four house tables with the results averaged together. Considering that nearly everyone at Ravenclaw was reading versus everyone but one at Gryffindor wasn't reading, this consensus may not have been the most accurate; however, since no one at Slytherin yelled at him (or poisoned him, or something of the like), Harry assumed that reading was ok. Then again, the Slytherins weren't talking to him…

I think too much, he grumbled to himself, before jerking in surprise as a class schedule was slammed down onto the table in front of him. His eyes jerked up to the individual who had invaded his private space—and consequently, the first person to really interact with him (aside from Theo, who was now notably ignoring him along with the rest of the Slytherins) since he'd been sorted into Slytherin. However, the tall, dark, imposing man—who he correctly identified to be his Head-of-House—was already moving on, slamming down more class schedules.

Harry gazed after him for a moment, wondering what in the world had put the man in such a foul mood, before he shrugged and turned back to his class list. After a moment of consideration, he snickered. Who was the idiot who decided it would be a good idea to place the Slytherins and Gryffindors together for Potions?

---

The staff at Hogwarts was not having a good day, especially Severus Snape. Everyone had been up exceptionally late the previous night, gibbering away in the Headmaster's office about the completely unexpected and bewildering sorting of one Harry Potter (an event with had shocked and infuriated the potions master, as now he was now—horror of horrors—responsible for the brat).

The Headmaster had just sat there, twinkling away, as if he couldn't be more delighted with the way things had turned out. His omnipotent view on the entire situation had more than one staff member itching to hex him and hex him badly. Fortunately for him, no one was quite willing to curse their employer, not to mention the most powerful wizard of the age (well, except Severus, but he was too caught up in shock and sulking).

Minerva had been on the verge of having puppies, so sure was she that Potter would end up in her House. Not that anyone blamed her—everyone had expected Potter to be the perfect little Gryffindor and Golden Boy, and thus everyone was up in arms about his sorting, much to the Headmaster's phoenix and the Sorting Hat's amusement.

The Hat had refused any questions or demands, simply claiming that Harry Potter was just about as Slytherin as one could get, utterly infuriating, and if said brat ever decided to take it (the Hat) up on its offer and come up to the Headmaster's office to talk to it, the Headmaster would not do anything to hinder the child. This had caused even more confusion, for the Hat never wanted to talk to students before, but the Hat refused to say anything else, and thus the matter was reluctantly closed.

Unfortunately, this did not end the debate as to why Harry Potter had wound up in Slytherin, a debate which raged on for quite a few hours. It covered everything from being raised by muggles ("But why would that matter? Slytherins hate muggleborns." Pomona queried) to someone he had perhaps met on the train ("No, he came in with the newest Weasley, and they're as Gryffindor as you can get. Maybe he didn't like him?" asked Aurora) to his encounter with the Dark Lord all those years ago (here, Dumbledore had injected sternly "I firmly disagree. Being in Slytherin does not make one evil". That particular idea was then dropped).

Towards the end of the debate, Sydney, Leo, and Filius had gathered around Severus and the four of them—Severus reluctantly—had discussed the possible outcomes the sorting would have with the students. Severus assured them (grudgingly, as Slytherin was a very secretive House whose members took its secrets to the grave) that Potter would not have to worry about being harmed by the Slytherins; it was the rest of the school that he was worried about.

The staff, who by this point were listening to the 'protect the brat' discussion (as Severus mentally termed it), agreed that there wasn't much they could do until the next day, where they could see the students' reactions. The staff had split for the night (or rather, early morning by this point) and Severus had scowled all the way back to his rooms, annoyed with how many problem were arising from Potter not being predictable. And Merlin forbid if he actually does one of those blasted heroics we all believe he has in him, he grumbled to himself.

That morning had proved to start the avalanche of breaking perceptions about Potter, who had barely touched his food and read of all things throughout breakfast. Severus realized very quickly how his House had decided to handle Potter, and while he wasn't thrilled with their reaction, he supposed silence wasn't that bad (considering). The expressions on some of the students from other Houses worried him, though, and he resolved to keep a sharper eye on Potter incase anything came up. Blasted little horror is making my year miserable already, he groused, noting Potter's startled expression as he slammed the schedule down in front of him. Oh, yes. This was going to be a bad year.

---

The classes themselves, once Harry found them, were absolutely fascinating. They studied the night skies every Thursday at midnight, learning the position of the stars, the constellations, and the magic that resulted when certain ones lined up with others. Harry entertained himself by mentally comparing muggle astronomy to wizardry, and came to the realization that, while the muggles might not know the magic created by a-lined constellations, they were far more knowledgeable about how the universe worked and what it was made up of.

Three times a week, the Slytherins and Ravenclaws trekked out to the green houses and learned the properties and care of various bizarre plants and fungi from Professor Sprout. This class was one of Harry's easiest, as his extensive knowledge of gardening (courtesy of the Dursleys) was extremely useful. He'd also read the Herbology textbook so many times (in a vain preparation for Potions) that he could tell at a glance which plants were poisonous and which plants merely caused you to giggle for hours on end by breathing in their scent.

History of Magic—taught by a genuine ghost—was universally considered to be the most boring class in Hogwarts. Every student in every House struggled in vain to stay awake, struggled to stop their eyes from drooping lower, and lower…and lower…

Harry, on the other hand, was one of the very few students who didn't have a problem staying awake, though he could have easily slept if needed.

The instant he had sat down in that class for the first time and heard the ghost's monotonic drone—pitched at the perfect frequency to send even the most die-hard students to la-la land—Harry had realized that this class would call for drastic measures. He'd pulled out his History textbook (which was not boring at all and very entertaining to the muggle-raised student) and read for the entire period, focusing most of his attention on tuning out the ghost's drone so as to stop the sleep…sleep…sleep waves from hitting him. Thereupon, every History class Harry would spend reading and studying the magic world's history and culture.

Charms, with Professor Flitwick, was Harry's favorite class. The tiny professor thoroughly understood and loved his subject, and this enthusiasm bubbled over onto the students. Even the Slytherins, who didn't like anyone other than their Head-of-House, considered the professor 'decent'—a high compliment. Harry loved Charms; he could perform them with practiced ease and understood the theory and reasoning behind them. Furthermore, Flitwick (unlike all the other professors) treated him like any other student…with the exception of the first day of class, where the little wizard had been so excited by reading Harry's name on the roll call that he'd toppled off of his pile of books.

Professor McGonagall was not a teacher to cross, as the two trailing Slytherin boys found out (Harry had, fortunately, made it to her class before the bell). She was very strict, but very fair, and laid out the rules for the year (and years to come) the moment they all sat down. She was also a cat animagus. This little detail, dropped when she transformed from a tabby cat on the desk into her usual wizarding self at the start of the class, seemed to pass right over his classmate's heads. The Slytherins were too busy analyzing her speech to see what they could get away with without being thrown out of the class, and the Hufflepuffs were too busy being terrified of the potential of being thrown out of class if they did something wrong.

Harry was neither of these: he had no intention of causing trouble, and he wasn't worried that he'd be thrown out. Rather, he was fascinated by the possibility of animal transformations, and resolved to look up any information as soon as possible. The class itself was very difficult, but Harry found it refreshingly challenging and thrived, though he made sure that Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zambi managed to transfigure their matchsticks into needles before he did.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, which he (and everyone else) had really been looking forward to, turned out to be a bit of a joke. The classroom smelled strongly of garlic and Professor Quirrell's stuttering proved almost impossible to translate. What Harry did manage to understand did not improve his opinion of the course, as it was almost recitation from the textbook or information that held little fact. He also intensely disliked the class as he left every time with a blinding migraine.

Harry had no real idea as to why this happened, but he'd cooked with garlic enough to know that is was not from the smell. This unexplainable problem left him very troubled, for—though he wasn't superstitious—he did believe that reoccurring things happened for a reason, and if he couldn't find the reason (especially when it was hurting him), well…his paranoid nature, ingrained to survive the Dursleys, was screaming warnings, and Harry paid attention. If anything else happened, he would do something about it.

Potions, at the end of the week, was by far the most confusing class, but also gave Harry the greatest sense of accomplishment. The accomplishment was easily explained: he didn't blow up his cauldron, brewed a good potion (though it wasn't perfect), and actually understood the connection between the ingredients that resulted in the final product (thanks to the extensive Herbology reading he'd been doing). This alone should have had him on a high that would have lasted the rest of the weekend, as he had been so convinced that he would epically fail. It probably would have, too, except for the sheer bewilderment that affected him every time Professor Snape spoke.

The class began with roll call, and Professor Snape paused at his name.

"Ah, yes," he murmured softly, "Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity." The class was filled with muffled silence: the Slytherins stifled their snickering in a misplaced show of House loyalty, and the Gryffindors were too bewildered at another reminder that Harry Potter was not in their House to react to this animosity.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," the professor began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. Harry wondered if the Slytherin prefects had learned this form of speech from their Head-of-House.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe that this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…" Oh, he really loves potions. However, I don't believe that his enthusiasm will spill over onto the students like Professor Flitwick's does. "I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this little speech. Harry observed the other students' reactions with internal amusement. The Gryffindors were gazing at the professor in pure terror—well, except for one brown haired girl (Granger, he remembered) who was perched on the edge of her seat in her eagerness to prove she was not a dunderhead. The Slytherins were snickering silently at the Gryffindors and trading smug glances—but Harry had a feeling that this class would be just as difficult for them.

"Potter!" the potions master snapped suddenly, "What would I get if I added powered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry blinked, and the Gryffindor girl's hand shot up in the air. Ok, think, you can do this. It's two ingredients, so that's Herbology. Asphodel, asphodel, asphodel, asph…right, it's generally associated with the underworld and afterlife. And wormwood…is a symbol of bitterness. So maybe a poison? But I doubt that they would teach us poisons in school, so something to make you appear like you're dead? Like that potion in 'Romeo and Juliet'?

"A sleeping potion that gives the appearance of death, sir," Harry answered firmly, remembering a less important survival rule.

Don't answer questions with questions.

The Slytherins turned around and stared at him in blank astonishment. The Gryffindors grumbled something about 'know-it-all' and 'teacher's pet', and the Granger put her hand down with a disappointed expression on her face. Wait, I got it right? The only sign of disbelief from the professor came in the form of a quick blink, but he fired off another question before Harry could analyze what this meant.

"Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

The Gryffindor girl nearly shot out of her chair in her desperation to answer the question. Right, I remember reading about this. Think of it as Herbology again. A bezoar is a stone used to cure poisons…but where is it found? Somehow I don't 'in your potions supply' is the right answer. Let's see…it was on that page with that picture…half way down the page, second paragraph…third sentence…'in the stomach of a goat'.

"In the stomach of a goat, sir."

Again, the surprised gaze from the Slytherins and the Gryffindor grumbles. Astonishment flared in the professor's piercing black eyes, but was gone in an instant.

"What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Ah, this one he knew.

"They're the same plant, sir." And it's also called aconite, he thought, but didn't add out loud. From the Slytherins' expressions, he had already answered questions that he should not have known the answer to; there was no point in drawing more attention to himself and his knowledge. It was a survival rule.

Better to be underestimated

The rest of the period passed in similar style. They were partnered to make a simple potion to cure boils. Harry's partner, Tracy Davis, sized him up, and then proceeded to ignore him save for when she needed an ingredient, at which point she resorted to hand-signals and glares. They made a rather good team: Harry dealt with the weighing of dried nettles and crushing snake fangs—and he got a slight twinge out of the last part, thinking of Sebastian—while Davis added the ingredients and made sure their potion didn't blow up.

The professor stalked around the room, peering over shoulders and constantly criticizing the Gryffindors. He didn't say a word against his snakes, but sent poisonous glares towards any whose potion was less than worthy. Surprisingly, Harry was not one of those people (probably due to Davis's efforts, though he did deal with the ingredients exactly as the book described) and he was just bottling the finished product when a loud hissing and billowing green acid filled the dungeon.

One of the Gryffindor boys had somehow managed to melt his and his partner's cauldron, and the concoction was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in everyone's shoes. Within seconds, the entire class was perched on their stools and desks, rather like terrified birds observing a cat, in Harry's opinion. Not that he wasn't doing the same. Self preservation ruled over image, after all.

"Idiot boy!" the professor snarled at the Gryffindor, who was covered in angry red boils. He cleaned up the spilled potion with a wave of his wand. I need to learn how to do that, Harry thought in awe. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire? Take him up to the hospital wing," he ordered sharply as boils began to pop out over the boy's nose.

The two boys left and the potions master snarled at the Gryffindors for not watching out for their classmate. He took a conspicuous amount of points—which garnered mumbled protests from some—and stalked back up to his desk. His dark glare had the students leaping off their desks like startled lizards who have been disturbed from their sun-soaked rock and they scurried back to bottling and cleaning.

Harry passed the bottled potion to Davis and she swept up to the front of the room to place it on the professor's desk. It wasn't that he couldn't perform the task himself, he simply believed that if Davis—a proper Slytherin who was supposed to be in Slytherin—carried it, there was less of a chance that an accident would occur (and boy, did he know about accidents. Walking to the front of the room when one is an outcast is similar to running the gauntlet: tripping over suddenly present feet, books, and legs; water bottles that just happen to be open and waiting for another student to accidentally spill just as he walked past—soaking him and, consequently, his homework; wads of paper being thrown; shoves, pushes, pinches, slaps…yes, he was more than familiar with accidents).

The class ended soon after, and the first years filed out of the room like frightened wildlife; Harry was rather impressed with the professor's intimidation tactics. No wonder everyone in the school is terrified of him, he thought, He starts when we're first years, and by the time we can actually fight back, he's ingrained that terror into us so we won't. Utterly brilliant! He had a feeling that this sentiment wasn't shared by any of his classmates, but he didn't care. It wasn't as if they were talking to him anyway, and he fully intended to take advantage of this opportunity to learn about crowd manipulation.

:~:

The weekend passed with relatively little to note. Hagrid had invited Harry down to his hut—an offer which he quickly accepted—and they spent a pleasant hour conversing about Harry's parents. Hagrid, in his enthusiasm to have a guest, had actually made rock cakes, and Harry soon determined that Hagrid's rock cakes were far more like the strata they were named after (in taste, consistency, and color) than the ones he'd made for Aunt Petunia's tea parties.

The direct result of this was Harry practicing an odd skill which he had thought he would never need: reverse slight-of-hand. Instead of flitching food, as he did with the Dursleys, this form was intended to get rid of food without Hagrid noticing. Thankfully, Hagrid wasn't a great observer by any stretch of the definition, and Harry had it down to an art by the end of the hour.

On his way out the door (pockets full of rock cakes), Harry noticed a newspaper clipping featuring a theft in Gringotts. He managed to snatch it off the floor while saying good-bye to Hagrid and Fang (Hagrid's enormous black boarhound who had spent Harry's entire visit drooling on his robes). Harry tucked the clipping into his pocket and waved to Hagrid, promising to return and talk more—a promise he fully intended to keep as Hagrid was the only person he'd spoken to outside of class since the first day.

He headed over to the lake where he proceeded to empty his pockets of rock cakes (figuring that the giant squid he'd read about might like them and the water may soften them enough to be digestible). Then, sinking down by a tree, he pulled out the clipping and read.

Gringotts Break-In Latest

Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

Harry blinked at the oddness of the article—mainly the vocabulary (spokesgoblin?). He made a mental note that Gringotts wasn't as safe as previously advertised and shoved the matter to the back of his mind, though not before deciding to order a newspaper.

That had been Friday, and by Saturday afternoon, Harry (though he couldn't believe he would think this) was bored out of his mind. He'd read all of his books, done all of his homework, practiced with his quill, tried to research spells which would allow his to talk to Sebastian without his classmates overhearing, etc.

He'd taken to exploring parts of the castle, being exceptionally cautious as many people were mad at his House arrangement and it would be a bad idea to be caught roaming alone without an escape route. Still, that was the point of roaming the castle—to find escape routes. So far, he'd discovered numerous secret passages (mainly in the dungeons); odd doors that led to no longer used classrooms; and the occasional staircase which went to a random turret which—due to the amount of dust—must not have been used for ages.

:~:

Harry's worry about being attacked in the corridors was not unsubstantiated, as he found out early Sunday morning. He had been walking along on the second floor enjoying the peace and quiet of the very early morning—as no student in their right mind would be up early on a Sunday. Thus, it was with a great deal of surprise that he heard three sets of footsteps walking down the corridor.

Whoever it was must have caught sight of him, for the sets of footsteps paused momentarily before continuing towards him in a heavier, determined pace. Harry continued walking, mentally running over possible scenarios, as he more than recognized the change in gait. It's exactly how Dudley and his gang would act when they caught sight of me. And I still have no clue how to defend against magic! He was interrupted from his thoughts by a voice calling his name.

"You, Potter!" Harry turned slowly and regarded his pursuers. Hmm, three tall guys…looks like they're six or seventh years…blond and two brunettes. Two Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw…just my luck, the Houses unite against me. Oh, and look. They now have me cornered against the wall. Why didn't I run when I had a chance?

"Can I help you?" Harry asked politely, as if he was completely unaware as to their reason of approaching him. The blond Gryffindor sneered and stalked forward.

"You're a miserable little traitor, aren't you Potter," he growled softly. Harry took a step away from the wall so he wouldn't be pressed against it and began looking for escape routes. If I could only get one of those two hulking idiots on the sides to move… "That's why you were sorted into Slytherin. You're planning on being You-Know-Who's greatest supporter." No, I don't know who…ok, focus, "I bet you like torturing muggleborns and the like. You're going to betray us all, so we're going to stop the problem before it can start."

He raised his wand, but Harry was already moving, dropping to the ground as fast as he could to avoid the red spell. Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough, and the diffindo curse caught him across the back, slicing open his robes and skin is a diagonal line from right shoulder to opposing hip. Harry ignored the sting as he rolled forward and bowled into his attacker's knees, sending his opponent sprawling to the ground. He sprang back up and glanced at the other two boys, both who were staring at their fallen comrade in shock—apparently, they hadn't expected him to fight back.

Harry took off sprinting down the corridor, a bright yellow curse whizzing past his head. He stumbled a bit as a second curse hit his back, causing angry boils to break over his body. He swore furiously in his mind, but kept running—dashing around bends, upstairs, down more corridors, all the while hearing his pursuers pound along behind him. Fortunately, Harry was very fast and thanks to all the practice from Dudley, he could outrun most people even when injured.

While he ran (with no particular destination in mind save to get away) he cataloged his options. Can't exactly go to the hospital wing as I have no idea where that is…honestly, why don't they give us a tour of the castle? Besides, if I went there, they'd want to know why I was hurt and there are charms to detect lying. I think people hate me now, how much worse will they hate a tattletale? And it's not like I know any healing charms myself. I could just try to bandage it, but…

He sped up another staircase and down the main corridor. Seeing a large set of double doors on the right side, he darted to them, slipped in, and closed the door quietly behind, leaning against it. He listened to his pursuers thunder past and let out a small sigh of relief. Then, he turned and observed the room he had entered, his mouth dropping open in shock and joy.

It was an ironic parallel to another time when Harry had been running from his cousin and seeking a hiding place, only to stumble into his own, unique form of paradise. Now, as then, he sent a silent thanks to the Gods of whatever religion which had thrown this into his path. He slowly stepped away from the door and began to wander through the ceiling-scraping shelves filled with books in Hogwarts' enormous library.

Dear God! I'm going to be occupied forever! How long is it going to take me to read every book in here? He wandered around is a state of bliss for a while, momentarily forgetting the cut and boils adorning his back—until he bumped into a shelf. Then, pain and the thought of Oh, I bet they have books on healing in here. That would solve my problem nicely! It was time to search.

From experience, Harry knew better than to ask the librarian for help. Not that the librarians were unhelpful, but when he was in this state of injury, they tended to ask uncomfortable questions and make life a great deal more difficult for him. Thus, Harry was left to figure out the organizing system on his own—a rather demanding task as he had no idea how wizards organized their books.

It was a good half hour before he finally found the healing charms he was looking for. He'd discovered the history section (definitely something he was going to look in to), the school books section (maybe he could research higher-year spells), transfiguration, biographies, potions (a must memorize every book section), charms, magical creatures, and languages.

He had only covered a small portion of the library, and desperately wanted to continue to roam around looking for more books, but he really needed to heal himself. He searched through the books on healing spells, took down a couple that looked promising, and carried them over to a small table completely hidden in a corner. He browsed through the spells—rather annoyed that wizards hadn't invented indexes yet—until he finally found one that could cure his cut problem.

Episkey—he read—heals and repairs damage. Good for using against slicing spells. WARNING: do not attempt to use on potion ingredients; the magical residue will be problematic to the potion. Make sure that nothing is touching the wound that you don't want in the final result. Harry quickly read the instructions and followed the pronunciation and wand movements. He then ripped a small piece of paper, pointed his wand at the rip and intoned "Episkey."

The paper caught on fire. Harry frowned, ripped another piece of parchment in half, and tried again. "Episkey."

This time, instead of just catching on fire, the paper exploded violently—though without a sound. If I could reproduce these effects…hold that thought, first I really need to get this spell to work. He tried it a few more times, resulting in the parchment being soaked with water, burned again, shredded into tiny bits, shooting upward and floating (this isn't a levitation spell!), etc.

Fed up, he scowled darkly at the parchment, grumbling under his breath. He pointed his wand at the two pieces of ripped paper and hissed—not in parseltongue— "Episkey!" glaring at the offending parchment and wishing with all his might that the bloody spell would work for the sake of grace!.

The two pieces of paper joined seamlessly together.

Harry ogled at the result for a long moment. Then, he ripped the paper in half and tried again. Same result. What in the world am I doing differently? he wondered in disbelief, ripping and seaming the parchment over and over again. Hmm…will look into this later. Let's try with a paper cut now. He slid his index finger along the edge of the book, resulting in a deep, rather painful paper cut—although due to the annoying pain in his back (boils and cut) he barely noticed it. Then, screwing up his face in courage (after all, the spell had set the paper on fire the first time), he pointed his wand at his finger and hissed "Episkey!"

The cut healed. It hurt—a lot—but the end result was a tiny line that looked as if he'd gotten the paper cut a week ago. Bloody wicked! I so wish I could have figured this out at the Dursley's. Ahh, well, now I just have to figure out how to do it wandlessly, and then I can use it next summer.

He gave himself another cut and healed it again. Then, with a glance around to make sure no one was anywhere near him, he slithered out of his ruined robe and shirt, shivering in the chill air. He glanced over his shoulder, craning his neck to observe the mess called his back and sighed. Hope I don't need to see it for the spell to work, he thought to himself, twisting his arm around his back and aiming his wand. "Episkey!".

Harry winced as pain flared along the cut, frowning a bit when he noticed that it healed, but not as well as the paper cut. Hmm, try again? "Episkey!" Again the pain, and he noticed that the cut was, at least, no longer bleeding. Taking this to be a sign of a job well done, Harry congratulated himself and turned to his ruined clothes. He was still covered in painful boils, but they were not life threatening, and he needed to put his shirt (and robes, as his shirt was white and covered in blood) back on.

Harry stretched out the ruined clothing on the table and drew his wand down the slash, intoning the spell yet again. The clothes stitched themselves together as if they had been well mended, a tiny seam forming where they'd been ripped—though if examined closely, this mending mark showed no sign of stitches. Harry donned the clothes again and went back to researching the spells in his books, looking for a cure for boils. Pity I didn't bottle any extra of that potion we made on Friday. It would have been a great deal of use right now. Thinking of which, I need to add finding a place to brew potions to my to-do list. Can't rely on a good partner to straighten me out every time.

His browsing through the healing books turned up no decent ways to heal boils besides the potion, much to his annoyance. What's the point of magic if it can't heal? Though, they might just not have it in these books…maybe it's a dark spell? But why would a healing spell be dark? According to the current ministry definition of dark magic…Stop, focus, must find healing spell.

Unfortunately, Harry's need for the spell did not seem to outweigh the fact that a boil-cure spell simply didn't exist. The best option he had found was the Finite Incantatem, which stopped current spell effects. The problem, though, was the boils might actually be boils by this time (as in they were really there, and not just a spell imitating their effects).

Still, after long deliberation, Harry decided to risk it. It was almost lunch by this point, and although the rest of the school didn't know how to act around him, he knew he would be missed if he didn't show up. And it would not be a good idea to turn up at lunch covered in boils. It would cause no end of chaos, as well as show a weakness in front of the Slytherin House. Furthermore, it would send the message to those who had attached him that he wouldn't speak up about it, and couldn't take care of the problems himself.

Pointing his wand at yet another scrap of paper, Harry murmured "Finite Incantatem."

The paper didn't change at all—not that Harry was expecting it to, as it had no current spells on it. However, it didn't blow up, and that was a hopeful sign.

Next, Harry tried the spell on a small piece of fabric, which produced the same hopeful signs of no change. He really wished he had an enchanted something to practice on, but this would have to do. Then, drawing a deep breath and screwing up his face in courage (just because the spell hadn't caught anything on fire yet didn't mean it wouldn't), Harry pointed his wand at the boil on the back of his left hand and intoned the spell, praying that nothing bad would happen and that the boil would go away.

Fiery pain lanced up his arm as the boil bubbled and oozed itself back into his hand, leaving unblemished skin in its wake. Harry took this as an encouraging sign, removed of his robes and shirt again, and whispered the spell, running his wand up his arm, across his shoulders (pointing down his back) and down his right arm. He doubled over a second later, biting his lip to prevent himself from making any noise.

Pain burned its way along his body, the boils disappearing but at the cost of agony. It wasn't by any means the worst pain he'd ever felt; however, it had the unusual aspect in that he'd done this to himself. Oh well…I hope that this isn't going to really mess up my body at some future point in time. With a sigh of relief, he rose and donned his clothes (for the second time, this is getting annoying) before replacing the books back on the shelf and making his way to the front of the library.

Unfortunately for Harry, he had been so occupied with finding healing spells (or rather, the healing section of the library) that he was completely lost in the winding, dark, bookshelves. The front of the library seemed to be organized in neat rows (or it had seemed so to him as he walked in), but the farther one went back, the more meandering, unorganized, and mazelike the arrangement of bookshelves became. Ten minutes later and thoroughly fed up, Harry was ready to admit defeat. He was in yet another tiny, enclosed dead end and he was convinced that overall, he was going deeper into the library, rather than out. With a deep sigh, he turned around and started to backtrack for the umpteenth time. Suddenly, a book snagged his attention, and he paused to pull it off the shelf.

The book was small (only about 200 pages thick) and bound in black, slightly frayed fabric (which is what had caught his eye, as almost all the other books in the library were bound with leather). Blowing off the grey dust, Harry blinked at the odd red symbol embossed on the front cover and, shaking his head, opened to the title page. What he read caused his mouth to fall open.

Wands, Words, Spells?

An Complet Studiare of Magyk Theoria

Bi

Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin

Wið healp fram

Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor

What the Hell!? Harry thought in utter disbelief. His eyes took in the names of the Founders and the Old English spelling, and he blinked in shock. The Founders never wrote any books! It says so in Hogwarts: A History. So why am I holding a book supposedly by them in my hand and why, if it really is by them (and he would know, he'd torn Flourish and Blots apart looking for anything by the Founders) doesn't anyone know about it? Dazed, he idly paged through the book, making a mental note to see if Hogwarts had an Old English to Modern English dictionary, as he didn't know a third of the words. Suddenly, he frowned.

For a book that looks to be only 200 pages, I've paged through a lot…he thought, glancing at the page number. 753…What! As the pages continued to flip past his thumb, he noticed that there seemed to be no end to them. What in the world…well, magic, obviously. As for why…I suppose paper was rather rare back in the 900's, so I guess conserving paper was the best idea. Goes to show how wizards have mirrored muggles, though. Both are terribly wasteful in this day and age…focus!

Cradling the book reverently to his chest, Harry slowly walked traced back his steps around two twisty curves and took a right (where he had previously turned left). Five steps and another turn and he froze.

No f—ing way! He stared at the straight rows of shelves, through which he could clearly see the front desk and the doors leading out. His mouth open in shock, Harry glanced over his shoulder back the way he had come, only to find a solid wall of books. What in the name of God… he blinked in complete disbelief, glancing down at the book in his arms and then back at the nonexistent passageway, swallowing hard.

It almost lends to the idea that the library wanted me to find this book…but that's ridiculous. Alright, alright…yes, magic exists, and thus anything is possible. Hogwarts: A History does discuss rumors that the castle is part sentient, but that book made it very clear that they were only rumors, and not true at all.

This though, this would imply that the castle was not only sentient, but doing something about it! A thinking, moving castle…but even if this it is sentient, why would it pick me of all people to show this treasure to? Aside from the absurd fact that I survived a killing curse, there's nothing special about me…yes, this idea is completely nonsense.

Still, on the off-chance that his assumption was correct, Harry decided it would be a bad idea to insult the castle and not show proper appreciation; so, very slowly (and after glancing around to make sure no one was watching), he bowed to the solid bookshelf and murmured a near silent "Thank you". The bookshelf twitched. Harry, completely freaked out by this point, bolted (in a dignified way) towards the checkout desk. He could swear he heard soft laughter echoing behind him.

Eyes wide and trying desperately to control his breathing, Harry slid the book over the counter to Madam Pince. To his astonishment, she didn't even glance at the book, just marking that he had checked it out before handing it back to him. It's almost as if she can't tell what its abo…no, stop that train of thought. I am not going to contemplate the weirdness of this situation anymore.

Gathering up his courage—the librarian was scary—Harry asked for an Old English-Modern English dictionary. With a sniff of distain, Madam Pince left to get one from the reference shelves, depositing it in his arms (and causing him to almost drop it, the thing was huge) with a dire threat to bring it back in pristine condition.

He quickly agreed, then asked her very, very carefully if she could possibly shrink it so he could carry it around easier. The librarian acquired an outraged expression at the thought of desecrating one of her precious books in such a way, but with great reluctance, she complied with his request. Harry sighed in relief and slipped the now palm-sized dictionary (which probably only held one definition per page) into his pocket. The Founders' Book was placed in a larger slot on the inside of his robe (which he had sewn there for precisely this purpose) and Harry slipped out of the library, memorizing the route so he could return there after lunch.

:~:

The second week of school passed in similar fashion as the first, though it included more fights, more healing spells, and Harry spending every free second of his time in the library. He was currently researching wards (as he found magical barriers were called). He needed to find some way to communicate with Sebastian without his housemates hearing him, and thus he spent hours upon hours looking up various way of creating silence wards.

His subsequent notes were highly detailed (he often got distracted by some fascinating spell, and the process probably took longer than it would have had he been completely focused) and the first non-class-related spell which he learned (aside from healing) was the same one that was on the Founders' Book: it expanded books without using more paper.

Harry had no real idea of how, exactly, this worked (it would have made more sense to simply have all the paper and then make the final product appear to use fewer sheets), but that was a research project for another day. As for the wards, he learned multiple spells which would achieve the effect he wanted, as well as mathematical diagrams, rune carvings, potions (this one he reluctantly set aside—there was no way he was that good with them yet), and a wide array of other forms of magic.

Aside from his research projects and the frequent bullying, the second week was marked on the calendars as it was the first years' flying lesson. Harry was greatly looking forward to flying (although he had been slightly amused to see that the same idiot who had scheduled Potions with Gryffindor and Slytherin had decided it was a good idea to do the same with flying—he couldn't wait to see the number of injuries resulting from this expenditure), as he had always wanted to fly; but he was slightly nervous about the increased risk of injury due to House rivalry.

Ron, the red-head he had met on the train, had not spoken to him since he had been sorted into Slytherin. Harry wasn't really expecting any differently, though it would have been nice to have a friend as well as see that wizards were more open and accepting than muggles. The young Gryffindor had taken to sending small, bewildered glances at him whenever they were in the same room together; glances which at first had been hurt, and then slowly evolved into a slightly calculating expression, as if Ron was trying to figure out why Harry had wound up in Slytherin.

Any other person would have taken this as a hopeful sign that perhaps Ron would accept them as a friend again, but Harry refused to allow himself to be hurt, and thus crushed that hope at the roots. Still, the Weasley was doing an admirable job of analyzing the situation, and maybe there was hope for him in the future.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon on a Thursday when the Gryffindors finally joined the already present Slytherins for their first flying lesson. Harry was thoroughly fed up with his housemates by this point (not that he would ever show it) as they had spent the entire week since the flying notice went up bragging about their supposed Quidditch feats. Harry hoped that this lesson would put a stop to the bragging until next year, when they would be trying out for Quidditch.

Madam Hooch arrived and the lesson began.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.

"Stick your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "And say UP!"

"Up," Harry murmured under his breath, while everyone else shouted. To his complete surprise, the broom jumped to his hand at once—one of the few that did. Harry winced at the speculative look Malfoy (one of the other successful ones) sent his way; had he known that the broom would leap to his hand on the first try (while everyone else's didn't), he would never have murmured that word.

So much for hiding in the shadows…now I really have to focus on down playing the situation. Reign in my excitement and make sure Malfoy and the others are way better.

Madam Hooch, after a while of walking around and helping everyone finally get their brooms up, showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end. She then walked up and down the rows correcting their grips (Harry did his best not to flinch when she grabbed his wrist. He'd been stalked again by the seventh years, and had a nasty burn that he hadn't figured out how to heal yet).

She informed Malfoy and most of the other purebloods in Slytherin that they'd been doing it wrong for years. Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of this, as when she walked away, Malfoy complained (quietly) to Zabini that she was narrow-minded and obviously didn't like other styles of Quidditch. The Gryffindors, though, appeared delighted with this insult.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—"

But one of the Gryffindors, who appeared to be more nervous and jumpy than the others, left the ground, pushing off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but the Gryffindor was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle—twelve feet—twenty feet. Harry saw his scared, white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and—

WHAM—a thud and a nasty crack and the boy lay face down on the grass in a heap. Harry winced in sympathy. Definitely broken bones in that fall. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the Forbidden Forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch was bending over the boy, her face as white as his. Not that Harry blamed her—teachers, after all, were supposed to prevent accidents such as these. Plus, if this place worked the same way as the muggle world, she'd have a nasty load of paperwork to do before things got cleared up.

"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter, "Come on, boy—it's alright, up you get." She turned to the rest of the class. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

The boy, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him. Harry stared after her in blank astonishment—had he been any less of a mask artist, he was sure his mouth would have been hanging open.

So let me get this straight. We have two groups of students who have been taught to hate each other's House from birth, not to mention that we're eleven years old and thus incapable of following the simplest instructions. And you, the only supervisor out here, just leave the rest of us standing with instruments that could very well cause serious injury and nearly dare us to fly on them?

Gods, at least Professor Snape had the sense to send some other student with the Gryffindor to the hospital wing—it wasn't like he left the classroom at any moment. And in that class, we were all so terrified of him it is doubtful we would have done anything if he had left. But now…

Here, Harry eyed Malfoy and Ron, who looked as if they were getting into an intense argument over something the Gryffindor boy had dropped. No, this definitely wasn't a good idea. I'm going to just sit down, take out my book, and ignore what is going on around me. Sure, flying would be fun—but I'm not going to risk having to go back to the Dursleys because of it!

Thus having decided, Harry sat down by his broom (which was at the very end of the line, making him all the easier to ignore), reached into his robe pocket, and pulled out the Founders' Book.

Ignoring the argument between Malfoy and Ron as it grew steadily louder (and somehow went from small glass objects to family insults, to Quidditch—not that Harry was surprised, he'd spent the better part of a whole train ride with these two), Harry flipped to the first chapter of the book, having finally finished the introduction the previous night. Tuning out his classmates, Harry began to slowly puzzle his way through the arcane language of the first paragraph.

The reading of the Founders' Book was proceeding at a glacial rate. After the first three days of spending all his free time reading it (firmly cementing his reputation as a bookworm in all of the Houses) Harry decided that he had to make up a schedule. He couldn't neglect his other classes (Potions in particular) and his research projects simply because he'd found something more interesting and far harder to read.

He devoted most of his evenings to studying for various classes and doing homework (the day it was assigned, not the day it was due), and his lunch and dinner times were for reading his Potions text, but all the rest was for his research—which, at the moment, was this book.

Unfortunately for Harry, while he'd learned the basics of French and German when in school, he'd never studied Old English (or anything remotely like it). Thus, the book was extremely difficult to read, as he had to rely on the dictionary not only for the vocabulary (of which he knew next to none, except for those words that remained the same up till now) but also for the small grammar notes. At least, he though with relief, the person who wrote it spelled things consistently and maintained the same form of grammar—it would make it so much harder if they hadn't.

Absorbed in his readings, Harry was more or less oblivious to the drama of the surrounding students and the fact that Ron and Malfoy were no longer on the ground, having decided to continue their argument in the air (both had long since forgotten about the glass object).

He missed Professor McGonagall storming out onto the lawn and screaming at the two boys to come down, and he disregarded her furious lecture, hauling both boys up to the castle by their ears and dismissing the rest of the class (though not before charming the brooms to remain on the ground). In fact, he only noticed the sudden change in the location of his classmates once the air quieted around him and he was suddenly able to focus better.

Harry glanced up and looked around in time to see the last of the Gryffindors slip into the castle. He blinked, wondering what he had missed as he stood up and pocketed his book, walking quietly back to the castle and letting himself in. Once inside (and having established that class was, in fact, canceled), he headed to the library. No need to waste a perfectly good day.

:~:

The weeks following the "not-flying-lesson" (as he'd decided to call it) allowed things to fall into place for Harry. He established a routine and guidelines for how to deal with Hogwarts and the wizarding world. He got up early (and was ignored by his housemates), read during breakfast (and was ignored by the school, as the novelty of the 'Boy-Who-Lived' being in Hogwarts—let alone Slytherin—wore off), went to classes and worked alone unless he absolutely needed a partner (at which point he usually paired with the last person available, usually Davis—they had worked silent communication into an art), read at various other meals, did homework, and, in every free second of time, went to the library.

Hogwarts (the students and staff, not the castle—that was a whole 'nother issue) had, after weeks of staring, decided to ignore him, as he never did anything interesting. There had been a couple grumblings about adopting him to be an honorary Ravenclaw after seeing him read at every meal, but by mid-October, no one cared to bother him any longer. He still got bullied and cursed in the hallways, but he was used to this from primary school and was able to compensate as needed. Furthermore, his continual injuries increased his healing skills exponentially, and if they made some form of healing potion it class, he was always sure to sneak an extra bottle. After all, 'desperation' and 'necessity' were the parents of 'mastering the material'.

His relationship with Professor Snape (if one could call it that) continued to evolve in bizarre and unexpected ways. The man had spent the first few weeks completely ignoring his existence and scowling whenever they happened to accidentally make eye contact.

Then, at the beginning of October, the potions master's attitude had changed. Although he still ignored him, Harry had caught the professor sending him odd glances when he (the professor) thought he (Harry) wasn't looking. Harry was convinced that the potions master knew he was sneaking the healing potions (which was illegal, no student was allowed to have potions that were brewed in class), yet the man never did anything about it. It was utterly puzzling, and led to the weird, second-glance relationship which they had gotten themselves into.

Harry's manipulation of his schoolwork was coming along nicely. When in primary school, Harry had made sure he always brought home a lower grade than Dudley, so as to save himself from pain. It was actually more difficult of a concept than it appeared to be, as it dealt with high math concepts—but again, desperation and necessity were the parents of mastery, and he had definitely mastered the technique.

He applied a similar style to his grades at Hogwarts: he made sure to hit that line of 'intelligent enough to not have to worry about' yet keep below the 'smart, intelligent, we-should-keep-an-eye-on-this-kid-as-he-could-go-far' region. This was a very tiny area to fit into, yet he managed it perfectly. The only class he didn't hold back it was Potions—Professor Snape would have known (Harry didn't know why, but he would have), and besides, the potions master was ignoring him, so there was no need to worry about attracting attention.

Hogwarts itself, though, was starting to cause Harry some problems. At first he firmly believed that he was going crazy, as whenever he was completely alone, he heard a whispering, indistinct voice swirl around him. Random corridors—when he was making his exploration rounds—shifted around on him and led him to one odd discovery after another.

It wasn't that they were exactly helpful discoveries (mostly abandoned classrooms and parts of the castle that, if one judged by the dust, hadn't seen movement in centuries), but he was sure the castle didn't do this with anyone else. By this point, he completely believed the rumor that Hogwarts was half-sentient. In fact, he'd improved on the idea, as he was convinced the castle was completely sentient and enjoyed annoying him.

Unfortunately for Harry, his frequent forays into the castle were continually interrupted by bullying. Harry, having learned long ago that complaining only made it worse, never said anything to the Slytherin prefects (not that they were talking to him anyway), and thus the problem didn't go away. Due to the necessity of healing himself after these encounters (and therefore finding the library), Harry made little progress in his explorations and mapping. It was this lack of results that led him to turn Slytherin dungeons (which extended far beyond the common room and the dorms, as he was beginning to discover) upside down looking for a way to sneak out after hours.

It was unofficial knowledge in Slytherin that Professor Snape had a monitoring charm on the common room door; this allowed him to catch students who went off to make 'midnight rendezvous' and assign them loads of detentions. Harry was determined to interact with the man as little as possible—thus, he couldn't get caught.

It wasn't until Harry mastered the silence ward to speak with Sebastian that he really began to make progress.

~Well, amigo,~ Sebastian hissed at him one night, ~This man who helped make your house, Salazar Slytherin, was a Parseltongue, right? And history claims he was paranoid, so he probably has a bunch of secret passages keyed to Parseltongue.~

~Ok, that makes sense,~ Harry agreed after a moment, ~But how am I going to discover these passages? It's not like I want to introduce to the world that I can speak Parseltongue.~

~So creep around at night like you have been doing and hiss at things,~ Sebastian suggested sleepily, ~I'll tag along for comfort. If we run into any big, nasty snakes, I'll protect you…~ he trailed off into a snore.

~Thanks.~ Harry replied dryly, rolling his eyes.

Seb's idea, though, was a good one, and Harry spent the next week investigating the Slytherin dungeons, looking for snakes. And once he started looking, he found them everywhere: on the furniture, engraved in the walls, patterned in the rugs, carved in portrait frames, painted in portraits, swirled in glass, etc. And they weren't just in the dungeons, either. He found them all over the school, as much as a part of the castle as the stonework.

Of course, this led to an entirely new problem.

Don't talk to snakes in public

It wasn't like Harry could wander around the school hissing at things, at least, not until he found a good way to sneak out after curfew without getting a detention. Thus, he was limited to checking the Slytherin common room and dorms after spelling his dorm mates' curtains with silence spells (to assure they didn't hear him).

Let's see, he thought to himself on that first night of exploration, Sebastian snoozing around his neck, I think I'll start with the snakes on the walls. I wonder if they can talk back?

This question was answered rather quickly. The snakes definitely talked back, though they vastly preferred to snicker at his weak attempts to find secret passages as opposed to helping him—that is, until he began to find the passages.

Much to his amusement, the first passage he found (in the corridor leading to the boys dorms) opened to a hissed "Open". Harry snuck inside. There wasn't much room, but his wand light revealed a long passage that mirrored the real corridor, with stairs leading up over the doors. Utterly fascinating, Harry thought with quiet awe. First thing first, though. He had to change that password.

Well, maybe just a little. He doubted that there were ever many muggleborns in Slytherin, and (aside from him) it was unlikely that, should any Parseltongue Slytherin be muggle raised, they would lower themselves to speaking in muggle terms. Hence, the new password.

~Open Sesame?~ the engraved snake guarding the passageway asked incredulously, ~Why, on Earth, would you want to change the password to that?!~

~Just think, no one will know it,~ Harry explained with a sigh, ~And I'll probably change it back to something that purebloods can guess before I leave. Just, for now, I'd like no one to be able to follow me.~

~Good enough,~ grumbled the snake, and thus the trend for the passwords around Slytherin was set. Harry had the oddest feeling that Hogwarts found this particularly amusing, but he couldn't understand how he had arrived at that conclusion.

:~:

By the end of October, Harry had established an intricate network of secret passages that would lead him anywhere in the dungeons. This allowed him to bypass Professor Snape (when he wasn't patrolling) and explore the castle by night. Filch and his cat were particularly difficult to avoid, but Harry hadn't been caught yet, and he was becoming apt at steering clear of the areas they patrolled.

Professor Snape was much less predictable, and Harry had had a few near misses with him; but he practiced his stealth skills to the max and whenever the man was around, something in the back of his mind warned him to hide—he had a feeling that this was Hogwarts, but the idea disturbed him too much to contemplate it.

It was on one of these late escapades that Harry found out why the third floor corridor was forbidden. He'd been wandering around, minding his own business, and trying to avoid Filch, Mrs. Norris, and Professor Snape. In one of his escape attempts, he found himself in the forbidden corridor, but—firmly believing that the danger ahead was less than the danger behind—he proceeded forward, though not without a little caution.

Finding a door which opened with a simple unlocking spell (that any dedicated first year could learn—and thus believing that this room couldn't be that dangerous, or they would have made it harder to get into), he slipped inside and slid down the wall, trying desperately to control his breathing.

He listened at the door, hearing Filch stalk past (grumbling about students) and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was only at this moment that he realized there was hot, moist breath buffeting his neck, and an enormous gob of drool sliding down his shoulder. Very, very slowly, he craned his neck up and around, glancing over his shoulder.

Oh, my GOD! Harry mentally shrieked, his firm conviction that everything existed in the magical world (and that Filch was an evil he didn't want to run into) the only thing preventing him from expressing this out loud. He and the giant three-headed dog—a Cerberus, he noted in the back of his mind—stared at each other for a long moment. Then, the Cerberus gave a low, threatening growl.

Harry tore out of that room like lightning, making sure to slam the door shut and put a considerably stronger locking spell on it (one he had learned for the sole purpose of keeping his curtains closed at night). He raced down the corridor as fast as he could while being silent, flew (not literally) up two flights of stairs and into one of his secret passages, sinking to the floor once he was safely locked away from the world.

Only then did he allow himself to have a minor heart attack.

What kind of idiot keeps a Cerberus in a school full of teenagers? With only a simple locking charm between it and the masses? It wasn't chained or anything! Though, Cerberus are known for guarding things, and it was standing on some kind of trapdoor…I wonder…NO. I'm leaving this were it is, and I will avoid all future interactions with that creature or the 'secret'! Unfortunately, three days later Harry's determination to leave the matter alone would be put to a much harder, much less easy to resist test.

:~:

Halloween dawned bright and clear—to Harry's disgust. He sat at the breakfast table (reading), trying to tune out the excited chatter of his fellow Slytherins. You would think that the 'oh so perfect purebloods' would be too dignified to be excited over a holiday, he groused to himself, But no, even the seventh years are giggling about the feast tonight. I think I'm going to skip.

There was a very good reason for Harry's sullen bad mood. He'd learned from a book (one of the numerous ones on him) that his parents had died on Halloween. Granted, so had Voldemort (You'd think that the Slytherins who supported him would therefore be depressed on a day like this), thus adding even more cheer and jubilation to the otherwise sugar-obsessed holiday.

Harry had always hated Halloween. It was the day when Dudley got to dress up in a fantastic costume (though never a wizard or magician, Harry now noted with a private amusement, a long held question finally answered), and lumbered his great bulk around the neighborhood, getting boatloads of candy while Aunt Petunia cooed at how adorable he was.

Harry had always prayed that one year Dudley would dress up like a 'cute adorable pig', though it was probably best that he never had; Harry wasn't sure he would have been able to keep from laughing at the living personification of what he often thought Dudley looked like. And that would have been bad. No, it was probably best that Dudley never dressed up like any 'cute' animals (whale, cow…oh, the list went on and on).

However, as much as Dudley loved the holiday (even more candy than normal), Harry hated it. He was never allowed to dress up (and woe betide that he ever got candy and cooed at by the neighbors). Harry would spend the entire time at the door, handing out the candy he was never allowed to eat, and making up a bazillion excuses (for the adults) as to why he was home instead of roaming the neighborhood. Harry hated Halloween with a passion, and finding out that his parents had died on this day really hadn't improved his outlook of the holiday.

Actually, it was probably a good thing that no one at Hogwarts was talking to him—he would undoubtedly have bitten their heads off by this point in the morning. He sent another nasty glare at his tablemates and sank deeper into depression. He felt the mental equivalent of a hug wrap around his mind, then retreat when he flinched away; he banished the feeling and his reaction to a dark corner of his mind (along with all the other bizarre stuff that happened to him, which he labeled as 'Hogwarts' and resolved think about later, when he was more capable of dealing with the insanity).

Harry, somehow, managed to get through his classes. His normal partner for Herbology (Tracy Davis, as usual) took one look at his scarily blank face and partnered with someone else, leaving Harry to struggle through that class alone. He didn't really mind (he wouldn't have partnered with himself either) and it was probably best that he wasn't around anyone at the moment; his tendency to snap at people when he was in this mood would probably alienate everyone from him for good. The rest of his classes passed in similar fashion.

At lunch, a rumor ran around the school that the youngest Weasley boy (Gryffindor) had insulted the Granger girl (Gryffindor who should have been in Ravenclaw) and that she was in a bathroom crying. The Slytherins were either indifferent to the matter, gossiped about the 'weak-minded girl', or sympathized.

Harry really didn't care. She'd either learn to deal with her classmates, or she'd flounder. Harsh, but he'd learned from experience that crying and being hurt didn't solve anything. Whether in school or at the Dursleys, it simply added to the pain and gave people a chance to humiliate him. The Granger girl was a lot like him (a loner), but unlike him, she hadn't accepted it as her lot in life.

Which is probably why she'll eventually make friends and I won't, he though. She'll be ok; someday, she'll meet someone like her who still has an optimistic view of life, and they'll get along fine. With that thought, he put the matter out of his mind.

Directly before the 'big-amazing-feast-that-the-whole-school-has-been-talking-about-all-day', Harry received a rather unpleasant shock. The Slytherin dorms and common room would be locked to students for the duration (probably in an attempt to make them go to the feast, or not sneak out of it—not that anyone aside from him wanted to skip). Thus, Harry had nowhere to go for his plan to mourn his parents and light a candle in their memory. With a sigh, he decided to wander the school until the dorms opened again.

Slipping away from his housemates as they headed up to the feast was ridiculously simple: they weren't paying any attention to him and chattered so loudly that a firework probably wouldn't have broken their conversations. Slinking behind a tapestry and hissing (under his breath) the password, he slipped into a small passage. It was one that simply connected two corridors (one on top of the other), and thus wasn't large, but it was perfect for his intent. He sank down onto a dusty stair and waited out the rush to the feast.

Five minutes—ten minutes—finally he deemed that everyone who was going to the feast was already there, and thus it was safe to walk the halls undetected. He left the dungeons and began to wander aimlessly, not really paying attention to where he was going. Sebastian (who, after one look at his gloomy face that morning had decided to accompany him for the day in the form of a (magically small) black mamba—though why was beyond Harry. It would be bad enough if he was caught with a snake, but a very poisonous snake?! Fortunately, he was much too out of it to care), struck up a conversation.

~You know, amigo, this mood really doesn't become you.~

~Sebastian, shut up.~

~I'm serious! You haven't absorbed a word you've read this entire day (which has to be a record) and you are really out of it. Not at all fun. Why don't you celebrate? I'm sure your parents wouldn't want you to mourn your life away. They'd probably rather you celebrate than sulk.~

~If I said 'shut up' in a different language, would you obey then?~

~Hmm, maybe I could tell you about the zoo. That ought to distract you. Where to begin…well, as you know, I was in the Reptile House with all the other reptiles. Bloody annoying they were, too. The snakes had no sense of humor and the lizards were afraid I was going to eat them. And then when you let me out, I got my own private tour attempting to leave the place. The big cats just sneered at me. Have you ever seen a cat sneer? They can do it like no other, I tell you. And then the Bird House. Nice, juicy meals flying around…pity I didn't stop to eat, but I was in a hurry. And then the chimpanzees! Those were annoying buggers! Why they…~

Harry listened to Sebastian rant on and on, describing the different delights and horrors of his escape from the zoo in an attempt to cheer him up. It didn't really work, but he appreciated the effort.

The two of them probably covered more of the school during that feast than they had on any other occasion. Harry simply walked without a purpose, going blindly through the corridors, trying to remember his parents. He didn't even know what they looked like (none of the books he'd read had any pictures of them), except for the comments from various teachers about how he 'had his mother's eyes' or 'he looked so much like James'. He sighed and sank deeper into gloom.

A commotion around one of the stairwells up ahead broke Harry from his depressing thoughts. What on Earth…the feast isn't supposed to be over yet! Hmm, well, I might as well head back to the common room. It was only then that he realized where he was.

Oops.

He raced out of the forbidden corridor, only to duck into a dark corner when Professor Quirrell (of all people!) rushed past him, towards the Cerberus's door. What in the…he dismissed the thought and hurried away again, not wanting to be caught.

Down a staircase and into the next corridor, though, he was forced to take cover once more. Harry watch in disbelief as Professor Snape stormed by, heading up the way he'd just come—also, apparently, going to the forbidden corridor. Why would they both…NO. I said no more investigating into this mess, and I'm going to leave it alone!

~What is going on, amigo?~ Sebastian, who had quieted when Quirrell passed, finally asked.

~I have no idea. We should probably get out of here. Head to the common room.~ Harry replied, taking off down the corridor again. He'd only gone ten paces, though, before Sebastian spoke.

~Umm, amigo? What's that smell?~

~What smell?~ Harry asked, a feeling of dread falling over him. His instincts were screaming and they'd never let him down before. Oh dear God, what is going on? The thud of heavy steps caught his attention and his eyes widened. Uhoh…whatever is heavy enough to make that sound isn't good for me...but what the Hell is it doing in the school. I'd wonder what it was, but in the name of self-preservation, I'd better run…

Still, the thing (he couldn't see it yet) was stomping in his direction—and the only other route was back the way he'd come…not an option, as that was the forbidden corridor. I knew I should have found some more secret passages! Just as the thing rounded the corridor and came into sight, Harry slipped into a tiny alcove. Exchanging a glance with Sebastian, who then slithered so his head was on top of Harry's, he peeked out.

Stomping down the corridor was a troll: an honest-to-goodness troll, all twelve feet, tiny head, and club. Harry gaped, but Sebastian was not limited to such minor actions.

~Mãe de DEUS!Que porraé queestá fazendo aqui?!

~Seb, I don't speak Portuguese!~ Harry managed to hiss back, having a fairly good idea of what the snake had said, but unable to latch his thoughts onto anything else.

As he watched in shock (and horror), the troll veered off the straight path down the corridor and into one of the side rooms. Girls' bathroom, Harry noted without really thinking about it, Now, if it will just stay in there, I can sneak past and run down to the common room…he edged slowly towards the wall opposite the door, focusing his entire mind on getting away without being caught.

A high, petrified scream—echoing out the open door and into the corridor—blew his plan to shreds. Unable to comprehend that anyone else was in the general vicinity, Harry (in what must have been a moment of minor stupidity) crept up to the door and peeked in. The Granger girl was pressed against the far wall, eyes fixed on the enormous troll bearing down on her. The troll was smashing sinks and stalls (and doing horrors to the plumbing, water was spraying everywhere), but it was clear that its target was the shrieking human.

~Porra!~ Seb hissed in horror, ~Amigo, we can't just leave her there!~

~I know, I know,~ Harry hissed back, shaking, ~What the Hell do we do?~

As he said this, the girl glanced away from the troll to the door (probably judging the distance to run) and saw him. Their eyes met with equal parts of pure terror, and Harry knew he had to act. Stumbling into the bathroom and feeling around (he wasn't going to take his eyes off the troll), he shouted "RUN" at the girl. Unfortunately, she seemed too frozen with terror to move.

Harry snagged a piece of rubble from the ground and hurled it (with surprising accuracy) at the back of the troll's head. The rock connected with a loud thump that made Harry wince in slight sympathy, even though he'd been the one to throw it and intended to do so again. That had to hurt. This action brought the troll around and it started to lumber towards Harry, club raised. Oh, this is not good. Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea… Harry thought frantically, trying to find somewhere to run.

In his search for ammunition, Harry had unknowingly backed himself into a corner. Shit! He thought in terror, as the troll came nearer. It halted abruptly a few feet from him, though, spinning around—the Granger girl had thrown a rather low-level Reducto spell which, although having absolutely no damage effect, had caught the troll's attention. As it turned back to her, Harry had a rare moment of insight and stupidity combined into one.

~Alright, Seb, the face and mouth of a creature is the weakest part, right? Well, let's get there…~ He took a running leap onto the troll's back.

Granger gaped at him, but kept throwing very weak Reducto curses at the troll's chest to keep it occupied. Harry dodged the enormous hand that reached up to throw him off and scrambled onto the troll's shoulders. He spun his wand around in front of the troll's face and aimed at its mouth, failing to notice Sebastian sliding down around the troll's neck. Squeezing his eyes shut and praying to all the Gods and to magic (who knows, it might help), he fired Incendio directly into the troll's face.

It wasn't a very good spell—Harry had just learned it the previous week—and it certainly wasn't that powerful, but it did burn the troll…or rather, the inside of the troll's mouth. The creature howled in pain; it's seeking hand connected with Harry and yanked him off, throwing him hard into a nearby wall.

He slid down to the floor, dazed and in intense pain, realizing only then that Sebastian wasn't with him.

Harry turned horrified eyes back to the troll in time to see his one and only friend (still in black mamba form) sink his fangs into the troll's jugular. Harry blinked. Now there was an idea he hadn't thought of. Of course, the venom might not kill the troll—as it took nearly 20 minutes to kill a human, and they were much smaller—but it would definitely give the troll something to think about. Sebastian, having accomplished his goal, raced down the troll's body and practically flew to Harry, hiding under his robes once more.

~Yuck!~ Seb hissed in his ear, ~Troll tastes absolutely disgusting. Now all we have to do is get out of here!~

The troll, still howling from being burned and now bitten, stomped (and swayed) it's way across the room towards Granger. She, at least, seemed somewhat intelligent in harmful situations and crawled along the wall towards Harry, her wand still pointed at the troll.

"Are you ok?" she gasped as she neared, "Oh, please be ok! We have to get out of here. Oh my God, oh my God, oh, my God…" This last bit was stuttered as the troll drew nearer and nearer.

Harry, still dizzy from hitting the wall, and fairly sure he'd broken a rib in the collision, looked around for something to slow the troll down, anything. Where the HELL are the professors!? We've been making more than enough noise to attract the attention of the entire f—ing castle! He spotted the pools of water on the floor (due to the spraying water—which was still squirting all over the place) and was struck with another idea, remembering a science lesson from elementary school.

"Heavy things fall hard," his teacher had said, "And it's really bad for heavy objects to fall. They get far more damaged in the impact than light things. Think of a plastic marble versus a solid glass marble. The glass one in more likely to chip or break than the plastic one."

Of course, there was more to the example than she had explained, but as the students were only eight, he'd forgiven her for leaving out important concepts—like malleability of the material, surface area, density, elasticity, etc. The point was, the idea was sound.

"The same concept applies to people," she had continued, "That's why adults are often hurt more when they fall than little kids. The heavier you are, the taller you are, the farther you have to fall and the worse you'll be hurt."

Time to apply basic science, thought Harry, aiming his wand at the water on the floor, Gravity, I love you.

"Glacialis," he croaked, praying with all his might that this spell would work and work well.

The water on the floor turned to ice.

The troll, not sensing the change in environment, took a stumbling step forward and slipped, falling heavily face first. It was unable to catch itself as it fell, whether due to the paralysis effect of the snake venom or lack of brains, and it implanted—face first—into the floor. It didn't get back up.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the girl. She gaped at the troll, adrenaline still pumping though her and keeping her in action mode. Once it wore off, she'd probably be in hysterics.

"Is it—dead" she asked in a hushed tone, as if any noise would make it move again.

"I don't think so," Harry managed to wheeze. Oh yes, definitely a broken rib. "I think it's just been knocked out." The girl turned toward him with a concerned look on her face.

"Are you alright? You hit the wall rather hard…" she trailed off worriedly, as if realizing that even if he was hurt, there really wasn't anything she could do about it. Harry could practically see the light bulb flick on in a sudden desire to research healing spells. Looked like he would have competition in that section of the library.

"I'm…" he gasped as he slowly maneuvered himself onto his hands and knees, rising to a kneeling position and leaning heavily on the wall for support, "…fine." And very, very dizzy, but he decided not to mention that. Probably had a concussion…stupid troll.

The thoughts of the creature made him look at it again, and he finally saw the effects of his ice spell. Hmm, maybe praying with all my might that the water would freeze wasn't the best idea in the world, he thought, as he surveyed the frozen bathroom.

Not only had the puddles on the floor turned to ice, but so had the water spraying out of the sinks and broken pipes, the water on the walls, on the ceiling, on the rubble…my, my, I've created an ice-world. Oh well, at least it stopped the leaks.

"Are you sure you're ok?" asked the Granger girl again, observing him with concentration. Well, he probably didn't present the perfect image of health, bruised and soaked to the bone as he was (though not solid ice—apparently the water on them didn't freeze, probably due to some unconscious knowledge that that effect would be bad).

She was undoubtedly paying more attention to him than normal in an attempt to not think about what had just happened, and the fact that there was a full-grown troll lying just a few feet from her. He really didn't mind that much. It was better to have her interrogating him than going into hysterics (which he couldn't deal with).

A sudden slamming and loud footsteps echoed in the hushed silence that had descended since the troll had fallen (not surprising, really: the ice spell stopped the gushing water sounds and they were both speaking quietly due to shock).

"Ahh, yes," Harry groaned, "The authority figures finally arrive to deal with the situation, long after any more action is necessary."

Had he been in his right state of mind he would never have uttered this out loud; however, he was exhausted, concussed, injured, overdosed on adrenaline, and more than a little annoyed with the staff. The Granger girl frowned at him, but it was clear that she felt the same way.

A moment later, Professor McGonagall came bursting into the room, followed closely by Professor Snape, with Quirrell bringing up the rear. Quirrell took one look at the troll, let out a faint whimper, and sat quickly down on the one intact toilet, clutching his heart. Some DADA teacher, Harry thought sourly, standing slowly. No matter how much it hurt (or how close he was to fainting, he was gripping the groves in the wall hard), he didn't want to face this situation on his knees.

Professor Snape crouched down by the troll, apparently checking to see if it really was unconscious. Smart idea. Harry noticed that his pant leg, sticking out from under his robes when he knelt down, was torn open, the flesh under it mangled, as if he'd been bitten by a dog…

Hmm, well that's interesting.

Professor McGonagall turned from the sight of the unconscious troll to Harry and the girl. He'd never seen her looking so angry; her lips were white. She can't seriously be mad at us? We're still alive, aren't we?

"What on earth were you thinking of?" She snapped, cold fury in her voice. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in your dormitory?"

This was rattled off with the conviction that they had been in this situation deliberately, almost as if they had gone looking for the troll…and suddenly, Harry was furious.

He was cold, wet, hurt, and for the sake of grace, the only thing he'd wanted to do all night was grieve for his parents! His teacher was regarding him the same way his relatives did when they blamed him for something Dudley had done, and he nearly screamed at the unfairness of the situation (well, and in pain, but he was ignoring it at the moment).

He just wanted to mourn, he hadn't expected to have to save his classmate's life or take on a creature that shouldn't have been on the school grounds to begin with. Some safe world this wizarding one was. He blanked his face and stared impassively over McGonagall's shoulder—the exact same way he did when he received lectures from his relatives. He missed the piercing look his Head-of-House sent him.

A small, shaking voice (adrenaline's wearing off, here come the hysterics) interrupted the silence.

"Please, Professor McGonagall, he saved my life." Now all the professors stared at Harry. He ignored them, looking down at his chest and feeling with a shaking hand along his ribs (Oh, there's the broken one) and being careful to fold his torn robes over to hide Sebastian, who held very still.

"And why, Miss Granger, would saving you have been necessary?" McGonagall asked in a tone that implied she believed Harry had gotten her Gryffindor into this situation to begin with. Harry pressed his lips together and remained looking away, ignoring the world.

The Granger girl drew a deep breath. Harry realized what she was about to do and felt slightly impressed. It wasn't easy to inform teachers that your classmates had been picking on you, especially when you're used to having your comments dismissed—which Harry was sure hers had been in the past. His anger at the situation died away, and suddenly, he was very, very exhausted.

"I wasn't at the feast." Hermione began, not looking at McGonagall either, "I was in here. Ronald Weasley said something really mean to me today in class and I…was in no shape to be at the feast," which everyone in the room interpreted correctly to mean she had been crying. "Suddenly, this, this troll entered and started smashing things. I screamed, and he" she gestured to Harry, "came running in."

Well, not really running, more like slinking, but he didn't blame her for getting verbs wrong at the moment. The hysterics were coming on fast, and he had no doubt she would break down when the story was over.

"It—the troll—almost smashed me, but he distracted it by throwing a rock at its head. So it went towards him, and he couldn't get away…he was cornered…so I hit it with a Reducto curse—"

"You did what?!" Professor Snape hissed in a piercing whisper. The girl glanced at him in fright.

"I knew it wouldn't have any effect…trolls are resistant to magic, it says so in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them."

McGonagall rolled her eyes upward at this deviation from the story and Professor Snape sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Clearly, they're used to Granger's class work and explanations. The girl hurried back to the tale.

"So the troll turned back to me…apparently, it could feel the spell even if it didn't work, and he," another faint gesture at Harry, "Jumped on its back and cast an Incendio in its mouth."

Now all the professors stared in disbelief at Harry. McGonagall's expression was one of 'he did WHAT?!' but no one said anything and Granger continued.

"It didn't really do much, just burned the inside of its mouth, but the troll got really mad and threw him into the wall really hard. Then it kept coming towards me and he cast this spell to turn all the water into ice—" apparently, she hadn't seen Sebastian's part in all of this, "—and it slipped and went crashing down and you know how heavy things fall hard," She must be muggleborn; she'd of had the same lesson in primary school too, "And now…" she trailed off, glancing at the unconscious troll and swallowing, looking as if she were about to burst into tears.

Utter silence. Harry glanced up from his investigation of his side to find all the teachers staring off in one direction or another. McGonagall, her expression softening, was looking at the Granger girl with sympathy. Professor Snape was staring at Harry, just staring at him, with a perfectly blank face. Harry aimed one right back at him, though made sure not to meet his eyes. He'd read something about mind reading and he hadn't looked directly at anyone ever since. Quirrell was back to watching the troll and whimpering.

"Well," McGonagall said at last with a deep breath, "That was extremely brave and extremely foolish of you both. You should have run away, not tried to deal with the troll." Harry arched an eyebrow at her. Hello, trapped… "Miss Granger, no don't cry, it'll be alright. Quirinus, would you please escort Miss Granger to the hospital wing for a calming draught?"

The now sobbing girl made her way across the ice to the DADA professor and the two of them left—though Harry wasn't sure which one of the two of them would benefit more from the calming draught. DADA teacher afraid of trolls, honestly. He made to leave as well, venturing carefully from the wall and listening to very quiet encouragement hissed by Seb, but was stopped at the door by the sight of Professor Flitwickand the Headmaster. They'd apparently heard most of the story, for they didn't look that shocked at the scene in the bathroom, though their eyes were wider than normal.

"Not you, Mr. Potter," McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip behind him, "We still haven't learned why you were absent from the feast. No one else, aside from Miss Granger—who had a perfectly legitimate excuse—was missing. What's your reason for not wanting to celebrate?" It was clear she though he'd gone looking for the troll.

And suddenly, Harry was furious again. Could he not be left in peace and quiet for one moment tonight? All he wanted to do was mourn his dead parents on the correct date for the first time in his life. Was it really too much to ask?

Harry exited the bathroom and turned to head towards the right, down the corridor that led to the dungeons. Hanging onto the doorframe to steady himself—he was not going to make a trip to the hospital wing due to 'shaking', he hadn't healed from his latest bully-induced injuries yet—he turned back to regard McGonagall and his Head-of-House, both of who were glaring at him.

"It is the anniversary of my parents' death," he said in a soft, cold tone which shook slightly; he recognized the odd pinching feeling around his nose and wondered why he felt like crying (honestly, he hadn't cried in years and he'd handled much worse situations than this), "I am not in the mood to celebrate."

He turned and headed down the corridor, his steps quick and even—through a ton of effort, it was all he could do to walk straight—leaving his suddenly horrified teachers behind him.

~Ssshusssh, amigo,~ Seb hissed comfortingly to him, ~It'll be alright. It'll be alright.~

---

The silence that blanketed the bathroom after Potter's statement had yet to be broken, even five minutes after his departure. Severus sighed and looked down at the troll again, impre—no, surprised that his student had demonstrated quick, logical thinking in a stressful situation. His father wouldn't have—he cut that thought off abruptly.

Minerva was still staring after the brat, her hand pressed to her mouth in horrified grief. He sneered at her; she'd certainly deserved that cut down, after asking a question like that. Actually, we all deserved those cutting words, he thought darkly, his eyes shifting the Headmaster, who was gazing after the boy sadly, After all, none of us made the connection between celebrating the defeat of the dark lord and the death of Potter's parents.

"Well," Filius began. Trust the charms professor to try and pick up the ruined situation. First-years battling a troll, of all things. What is this world coming to? "I think we could have handled that situation a little better. Are we even sure that Mr. Potter is alright?" And that question brought everyone's head whipping in his direction. "Miss Granger did say that he'd been thrown into the wall."

"If he can walk away like that, he's fine," Severus sneered, though he made a mental note to check on the brat later—preferably without said brat knowing. He wanted to think that Potter didn't possess the acting skills to walk off being thrown into a wall by a troll, and thus believe that Miss Granger was exaggerating the situation.

However, just this last Friday he thought he'd seen Potter get badly burned by his potion. Potter had jerked back a bit at the time, but otherwise hadn't reacted; the sleeve of his robe had slipped back down over his wrist, making it impossible for Severus to see the damage—thus, Severus had dismissed the injury as less harmful that he'd initially thought. But in light of recent events…

Where would Potter gain the ability to hide injuries so well? Never mind that, why would the brat hide injuries at all? He's spoilt rotten, surely he'd run to the hospital wing at first chance. But there had been no record of Potter ever going to the hospital wing.

Severus shoved the matter to the back of his mind, resolving to pay even more attention to the brat-who-appeared-to-have-no-friends. Now that was another issue entirely. He had thought his House's "speaking ban" would have worn off by now…

"Severus," the Headmaster addressed him, jerking him from his thoughts, "Is the troll…"

"It's unconscious, but—" the potions master looked down at the fallen creature with a frown, "It really should have woken back up by now. Trolls have unusually hard skulls. A fall like that wouldn't put it out for more than a few minutes and according to Miss Granger, Potter didn't hurt it that badly." He knelt down again, examining the troll's head as the Headmaster made his way across the ice.

"I believe we will have to congratulate Mr. Potter on his freezing spell," Dumbledore announced, glancing around, "It is a truly remarkable piece of magic. The power that must have gone into freezing all the water in the room…Filius, I didn't think you taught freezing charms until third year," he added suddenly.

"I don't," the charms professor murmured, also examining the ice. Everyone paused at the implications of this statement, before turning back to the troll's unusually long unconsciousness.

What in the…Severus thought, noticing for the first time a dark liquid seeping from the troll's neck. "Albus, it appears as if the troll were bitten by—a snake," he said quietly, noting the puncture wounds on the neck.

The Headmaster, peering over his shoulder, cast a quick charm to determine the venom and type of snake, and they both sat backward, reeling with the implications of the results.

Minerva, speaking for the first time, grief and pain still heavy in her voice, asked in disbelief.

"Am I reading this right, Albus? We've managed to subdue the troll, but now we have a black mamba roaming around the school?!"

---

Notes:

SO...that's all for the moment.

Harry's a bit of a loner. He's not going to be friends with any of the students in this story. That includes Draco, Theo (who he talked to last chapter), Ron, or Hermione. There will also be no relationships, het or slash. This is a GEN fic.

You'll notice that Severus is slowly catching on to Harry's home life. It will take him a while-he's very stubborn-but in the end, it will all work out ok.