Heirs of the Founders
Author's Meanderings:
A big thanks for all the favorite and follow flags, I really appreciate the interest and find it encouraging—if only real life was more co-operative and stop getting in the way of writing. For all of you who took the time to write reviews—except for 'Guest' that is who seems to have nothing better to do in life but leave anonymous scathing reviews. (I don't know about him/her but I was interested in the opposite sex when I was eleven—not that I could do anything about it, then. Of course, publicly girls were still icky even though they were good kindling to fuel my prepubescent fantasies.) Be that as it may; constructive criticism will be welcomed, flames will be—mostly—ignored and/or plot/character suggestions will be taken under advisement. I also freely admit to the theft of a few verbatim quotes and paraphrasings from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone—I imagine they'll be pretty obvious to all you Harry Potter fans.
Thank you,
Animekitty2
Obligatory blah blah blah:
I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.
Chapter Three
Aboard an anachronistic steam train bound for a school of witchcraft and wizardry—no less, Hermione Granger raptly listened to her new friend Harry Potter. He had just told her that he had spent some 'quality' time with the goblins at Gringotts and that he had found them 'helpful'. Both ideas seemed strange to her, albeit limited, experience with the surly creatures.
Hermione and her family had encountered the keepers of Wizarding's wealth when Professor McGonagall had escorted them to Diagon Alley. The experience was a revelation—almost as big as being told Hermione was a witch, although that had explained a myriad of odd experiences when their daughter was either upset or excited—and educational, to say the least.
As dentists, her parents had thought they had a realistic grasp of reality; to find that behind the veneer of modern England lay a world of fantasy novels, like they had read in their youths, required some careful consideration on their part. Professor McGonagall, knowing that the young witch and her parents Dan and Emma had much to talk about had left after dropping and explaining this particular bombshell; she promised to return in a week and hear their decision then. As assured, the Deputy-headmistress returned and was greeted by a bushy-haired bundle of excitement named Hermione Granger; she didn't need to hear the girl's answer, it was obvious—hopefully her parents had agreed.
And so, once Professor McGonagall had secured Dan and Emma's signatures on the myriad of official documents covering secrecy, attendance until the completion of OWLs and assigning Hermione's magical guardianship to some guy named Albus Dumbledore the family and Deputy-headmistress left the Granger home for Diagon Alley. Arriving at The Leaky Cauldron—an almost normal yet grubby looking pub despite its oddly dressed patrons—the Granger Family took their first steps into the Wizarding World.
Leaving the tavern—and 'normal' behind—Professor McGonagall escorted them first to Gringotts. While there, Dan Granger paid Hermione's tuition, thankful that the goblins could directly debit his muggle bank account and exchanged some nice modern, lightweight Pound Sterling banknotes for some rather large anachronistic—shiny and heavy as only gold can be—coins of Wizarding issue called Galleons. Muttering about ruinous exchange rates and something that sounded a lot like 'Vogons', Dan and family left the wizards' bank feeling noticeable poorer and in possession of a heavy coin purse—purchased for a tidy sum from the same goblin who had been their teller—with questions about 'conflict of interest' ideas amongst goblins. Money in hand, the Granger's spent the rest of the day enjoying the wonders of Diagon Alley, buying Hermione's school supplies and a few extras that had peaked their daughter's interest. As the day closed; Minerva—having insisted that Dan and Emma call her by her first name—led the family back to muggle London before apparating away and a promise to visit again, before the start of Hermione's first year.
"Harry," Hermione began, "how much time did you spend with Gringott's goblins and why were they helpful, it seems very out of character from what I've read and experienced."
"I spent every weekday during August, in one form of intensive instruction or another, with them—preparing me for my return to the Wizarding World," Harry answered warily but Hermione noticed the absence of few significant points in his reply.
"Is that so?" Hermione prompted; Harry knew the hazel-eyed witch was suspicious, "I still wonder why the goblins were so accommodating?"
"That's easy," the young wizard responded nonchalantly, "Goblins are always accommodating—for the right price—besides they had a lot of respect for mom: she could manipulate their laws very profitably for her gains. Mind you, she did do it for my sake—just in case, you see—besides, goblins really appreciate being beaten at their own game; they say they learn from it. The other reason is that the Goblin Nation knows I'll represent a powerful block of votes in the Wizengamot, which could be turned to their benefit."
"It sounds like they want to use you," Hermione observed.
"I guess . . ." Harry said.
". . . You guess?" the young witch interjected, "You're okay with that?"
"Sure, why not," Harry countered. "They use me; I use them: we both get what we want; why should I care?"
"But . . . but you're being used," Hermione stated as if that was an argument in its self.
"Using and being used is the way of the world, both magical and non-magical alike, Hermione," Harry tried to soothe, "there is no shame in that and the sooner you understand that the sooner you'll be able to take your desired place in the world and use it to your ambitions and desires."
"Isn't that kinda sorta selfish?" Hermione queried.
"So?"
"Isn't that—I don't know—immoral or something?"
"Is it?" Harry replied, "I don't know, or really care—for what it's worth. I've spent most of my life used and abused; why shouldn't I be selfish? I've never had anyone looking out for me; if I don't, who will? It's not like I plan to walk over corpses—or anything like that—to get what I want but that doesn't mean I'll do nothing to protect myself or advance my ambitions."
"I guess I can sorta understand that," Hermione replied, "it's just that—I don't know—it sounds kinda cynical to me; a little cold, too."
"Perhaps, but I've experienced very little of what you'd call warmth in my life so far nor have I seen much in the way of concern for my best interests to date. While I know that goblins only care about what they might achieve through my wealth or influence; I also know that they won't betray me as long as I remain true to their code of honor. It may not be a perfect or familial but it's a workable relationship that benefits us both in the long run and allows me to take the reins of my future. So, tell me Hermione, who hold the reins to your future; you or someone else?"
"Me of course," she replied earnestly.
"Would you willingly give it to another?" Harry asked.
"Of course not!" Hermione exclaimed. "Although I'd seek advice if I was uncertain from someone with more experience."
"Would you follow their advice without question?"
"Um . . . well . . . if they—I don't know—had more experience wouldn't it be wise? I mean someone in authority must have gotten there for a reason."
Harry turned a scornful gaze to Hermione and said, "How would you know they had your best interests at heart? You'll be living with yourself for the rest of your life, whom will you entrust your future to; other than the person most impacted by today's decisions? If you let others decide for you now, others will decide for you tomorrow and your future will no longer be yours; can you live a life charted by another? It reeks of destiny; personally, I don't like destiny: I want to think I control my future—for too long, my life was in the hands of others; I don't intend to give it back now that it's in mine."
"But Harry," Hermione began, her need for an authority figure anchor seeking fulfillment, "how can you pit your knowledge against those with more experience? How can you be certain?"
"I can't," Harry replied, "but I'd rather err on my judgment than the judgment of others—at least when I make a mistake I know who to blame; why suffer for another's bad judgment?"
Hermione thought about what Harry had said and could only say, "When I listen to you I don't hear an eleven year old."
Harry smiled and replied, "Like I said, I'm older than my age."
"I don't understand," Hermione plead.
"Hermione," Harry started, "I would love to explain but I don't think this is the time or place but as soon as I'm certain we won't be overheard I'll tell you everything I can."
"You make it sound like you're keeping some grandiose secret," Hermione said; hoping it came across as the playful banter she intended.
Harry chuckled and replied, "Perhaps not grandiose but I want the world to know as little about me as possible: surprise is a tactical and strategic advantage when backed into a corner."
"Are you expecting to get backed into a corner anytime soon?" The witch teased as she cocked an eyebrow.
Harry's tone and manner became deadly serious; he said, "Someone has tried to kill me once already—got my parents, remember; I will not be a lamb to slaughter for someone with an axe to grind or wanting a footnote in history."
"Who'd want that?" she asked. "You-Know-Who is dead and gone; all the history books agree."
"Is he? Tell me Hermione, what happened to Voldemort's body; where are his remains? I've read the same books as you; didn't you notice that wee oversight; it seemed sorta glossed over to me."
"I suppose so, but—I mean—it's magic and all; I bet all kinds of weird things happen all the time."
"Perhaps," Harry replied, "I won't deny that but still the killing curse, which scholars say is how my parents were killed, backfires when Voldemort uses it on me, a tad too pat and over-simplified answer: I'm not convinced—yet. Besides, it doesn't leave a mark nor known to disintegrate its target."
Hermione thoughtfully considered his words and said, "I understand—I think—but why would they print it if wasn't true?"
"Why indeed?" He answered. "Perhaps someone wanted to give people an end to the war they had been suffering through; alleviate the fear, the feelings of uncertainty and the sense of helplessness that is always there during dark times. Besides, happy and ignorant people are easier to shepherd than the fearful and angry; they don't ask nearly as many questions."
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "People aren't sheep; they're . . . they're people . . ."
". . . don't see much difference myself," Harry interjected; he garnered an angry glare from the witch beside him.
"You are so cynical, Harry," she stated. "I mean I kinda understand it a little from what you've told me about your life; I haven't had the best experiences either and my social skills are sorta weak but I've tried to remain positive and forgiving. Anyways, I want to think people are better than that; that I can find someone strong to trust and to take care of me and to know what's best for me."
"Hermione," Harry almost whispered, "do you really mean that?"
"Hermione, honey," the young witch remembered her mother saying the day before, "remember you're not a normal girl; that your needs—as precocious as they are—are echoes of my own and need a firm and loving hand to sate. You must remain guarded and not give of yourself too easily lest the wrong sort learns of your proclivity. Don't rush into anything; take the time to find a partner who'll treat you properly, like the gift you are deserves: like we have." "Where do I look," Hermione remembered asking, "You and Aunt Nancy have daddy; how do I find the person who'll know what I need and how to treat me right." "Perhaps," she remembered her mother's soothing tone, "you'll find the right someone at your new school; if you think you have but they lack experience daddy and I will gladly help them. We'll ensure they know their responsibilities towards our daughter and those inclined to be part of your lives—only the best for our little pet." "How will I know if they have no experience," the young witch almost begged. "Trust me honey, you'll know, we always know, when we meet our needed; it'll feel right and if it doesn't: run away!" Hermione remembered her mother had implored.
"Why do you ask?" Hermione cagily asked; thinking she may have given away more about herself than might be prudent.
"The idea of submission bothers me," Harry replied, "at least when it comes to me being the submissive one; I won't be a puppet to anyone, anymore—why should you? I intend to control my life and the things I do and own in a manner that most pleases and serves me. I vowed that to myself after learning I had a life beyond the Dursleys and number four Privet Drive—I will be my own man: the goblins said that—actually it was 'be your own goblin' but you get the general idea."
Harry smiled.
Once again, Hermione felt the tug on her blossoming maturity as this boy spoke, unknowingly, to her deepest and most intimate self. Have I found the one already? She asked herself. Am I this lucky—I hope—mommy and daddy will be so happy, if it's true—I need to be sure; it feels right.
"Harry," Hermione said almost breathlessly, "I'd like to be there with you—may I, if it pleases you?"
Harry heard her words but it was more than just a pretty girl wanting to be his friend: something more, something intimate and feral and the young wizard was confused when he looked at the beautiful young witch; unknown feelings and desires stirred deep within him.
"Um . . . I guess, if you really want that Mione I don't mind, really, it's nice to have a friend," Harry said.
Hermione's response was a hug like he had never felt before; it felt nice but made him feel funny—a good funny, but funny all the same: Harry liked it, a lot.
"Did the goblins teach you wandless magic?" Hermione asked, shifting their conversation away from thoughts too soon to contemplate; let alone speak of.
Her words returned Harry's wandering and questioning mind to the compartment; he replied, "It's not something you need to learn; it's something you need to remember—that's what they taught me, anyways."
"But magic needs a focus," she repeated what she had read.
"No," He replied, "magic needs focus; not 'a' focus. All witches and wizards do wandless magic—at least when they're young—the Ministry for Magic wants us to think we need wands: it's easier for them to monitor."
"Ministry of Magic," Hermione unconsciously corrected.
Harry cocked an eyebrow and asked, "Mione, what do you know about that Statute of Secrecy?"
"It's kinda like the wizards' Magna Carta, right?" she replied, secure in her knowledge.
"True," Harry agreed, "but to whom does it swear fealty?"
Hermione looked blankly at Harry.
"Have you ever read it," he asked, "the real document, that is; not the Ministry approved fiction that they pass off and most magical folk blindly accept with barely a bleated baa?"
Ignoring Harry's insultingly cynical slant, the young witch looked thoughtful and replied, "I've never seen it but I've read about it in 'The History of Magic in England, Scotland and Wales' so I know what it says: it separates Magical Britain from Muggle Britain and assures autonomy."
"It's more about practiced non-interference than autonomy," Harry told her.
"Practiced non-interference?"
"The Statute recognizes that 'due to the inherent differences between magicals and non-magicals The Crown establishes an austere house of loyal peerage to oversee, on behalf of His or Her Majesty, the preternatural and enforce The Crown's will through means only available to like kind'," he quoted.
"You're talking about the Wizengamot," Hermione realized.
"Good girl," her heart leapt at his praise as he continued his explanation. "From there it provides a framework of self-regulation and governance in exchange for the withdrawal of the small minority from normal government to avoid the undue influence that magic would naturally have: at least that was the intent."
"What do you mean 'intent'?" The young witch asked.
"The intent was to keep magicals sworn to the crown, but separated from non-magicals, so their abilities could be called upon in times of need but over time the two sides—magical and non-magical—drifted further and further apart. Eventually, the magicals forgot about fealty and their vows; they thought themselves a nation unto themselves: they are deluded."
"Deluded?"
Harry studied the pretty witch and replied, "While the Wizengamot and everyday magicals have forgotten that they are foresworn to The Crown, The Crown has not but allows this level of autonomy because people who don't think they're being watched will behave in their naturally non-inhibited manner and remain easier to monitor."
"I think I understand but, Harry, what can The Crown do if the magicals—I don't know—misbehave for lack of a better word."
With an amused emerald sparkle in his eyes the young wizard answered, "If The Crown decides that the magicals are 'misbehaving'—as you've so eloquently put it—Her Majesty can invoke the Clause of Interdiction."
"The what?" Hermione responded with curiosity, "I haven't heard of that in any of the books I've read?"
Harry smiled and said, "Not surprising, you're not supposed to know—knowledgeable people ask difficult questions and demand dangerous answers; the powers that be don't want anyone know that there is a superseding authority."
"But what could this 'superseding authority', which I take is The Crown, do—they don't have magic so how do they enforce the clause: how can they or it make a difference?"
"It interdicts wizards, who hold seats in The Wizengamot, of their ability to use magic until they present themselves to The Crown and reaffirm their Vow of Fealty to Her Majesty's satisfaction."
Hermione looked stunned; Professor McGonagall never mentioned any of this when she initially explained The Statute of Secrecy to the Grangers: from how she explained it the worlds of the magical and the mundane rarely crossed and when they did, it was usually accidental.
"Shall I hammer another nail into the coffin of what you've been told about the separation between magical and non-magical UK, Hermione?"
The young witch could only nod.
"You know that England used to be on the Gold Standard, right?"
Hermione nodded again.
"Did you ever wonder where all that gold was?"
She shook her head.
Harry reached into his pocket, pulled out a Galleon and flipped the gold coin in the air before deftly catching and handing it to Hermione; she looked at it with confusion.
"That my lovely friend," Harry's use of the word friend and lovely caused Hermione's heart to skip a beat, "is the physical form of Great Britain's gold reserves: the goblins take care of it."
Silence reigned for a moment before Hermione said, "Are you implying that The Crown and the goblins work together?"
"I'm not implying; they do and it's not just the goblins in cohorts with The Queen but many other sentient creatures as well. The Crown recognizes them in the same manner that they recognize us and The Wizengamot but due to the structure and wording of the Statute of Secrecy these races are under the auspices of The Ministry for Magic and The Crown cannot intervene—actively or surreptitiously—in matters of Wizengamot jurisprudence."
Surreptitiously? Jurisprudence? Hermione thought as she digested an answer unexpected from most adults, let alone a prepubescent schoolboy, and concluded: I've more to learn than just magic and I think Harry is saying more than he should; he should be careful and not come across too outspoken. On top of that, she thoughtfully asked: Who is this Harry Potter person? As soon as I can, I'll write mom and dad and find out what they think—Aunt Nancy too, she's pretty smart about this stuff and might have something useful to say; I'll just not mention magic.
"You're suddenly pensive, Hermione," Harry said with concern.
"Are you really only eleven, Harry?" She asked redundantly.
"Wanna see my birth certificate?"
His irreverent, off the cuff, remark cut through the thick atmosphere that had filled the compartment; both children laughed.
Pushing mirth aside, Hermione became serious and said, "Harry, I think you need to be careful with what you say out loud; I get the feeling that you could get into a lot of trouble if the wrong people hear you."
Harry chuckled and said, "The goblins keep telling me I lack discretion—even though they agree with me—but I feel I can talk freely with you and you wouldn't believe how good that makes me feel. Still, I guess my Slytherin ambitions will come to naught; after all, snakes are usual pretty good at the closed mouth thing—well, except for that Malfoy guy—they only speak when it's to their advantage."
"I thought you didn't know about house traits," Hermione pointed out.
"I said that just to play with that Weasel . . ."
". . . Weasley . . ."
". . . guy," Harry replied with a smirk."
"That wasn't very nice of you," Hermione sternly said.
"I'm not too concerned; he was almost as bad as that tosser Draco Malfoy," he said in his defense, "besides, I didn't connect to what he said at first—it had been a while since I read Hogwarts: A History.
"I don't think he was that bad," Hermione retorted in the boy's absence.
"Perhaps not," Harry considered, "but his manners were atrocious and I didn't like the way he lit up when I said I could buy three generations of Malfoys with vault interest."
"At least you said it would take a long time, once Draco left anyways," Hermione said.
"Actually, I said: 'I didn't say how many years of interest now did I'," Harry said, smiling, "I didn't attach any time to that, the young master Weasley just assumed."
"Still, you weren't really serious about buying Draco's family were you?" Hermione asked playfully.
"Naw," Harry replied, "what would I do with his family; still his family's assets might be worth a look-see."
"That wasn't really funny, you know," the young witch said.
"Who said I was trying to be funny?" He simply replied.
Unable to answer, Hermione found herself staring at the enigma named Harry Potter. Silence settled upon their compartment as both children withdrew into their private thoughts and considered the other. The steady rhythm of wheels against rail provided a gentle counterpoint to the quiet symphony of deliberation that neither child found uncomfortable or boring. To each, time became no more than numbers of a sixty base as their magics combined and wove a tapestry of connection that joined their complementary traits. It was into this loom of harmony that a gentle rap, on the compartment door, roused a snoozing owl.
"Hoot?"
Hedwig's voice drew the two children from their rapt contemplations with a start as another knock—a little more insistent this time—called for their attention.
"Come in," Harry replied but thought in trepidation, hope it's not Malfoy again.
The door slowly slid open as Harry and Hermione waited to see who was on the other side; each hoped for a worthwhile and pleasant encounter after the rather unsavory experience that Draco Malfoy had left in their mouths. After what felt like a mind numbingly long time, the door was opened by a chubby boy their; he oozed an air of apprehension and insecurity that Harry's aunt and uncle had failed to beat into their nephew.
"Um . . ." the boy struggled to say, his eyes unable to meet either Hermione's or Harry's.
"Can we help you?" Hermione asked in the gentlest tone she could muster.
He intently studied the floor and took a shallow breath before blurting out, "Haveyouseentrevor?"
Harry and Hermione exchanged puzzled glances before answering in unison, "Sorry?"
"My toad," he replied, remembering to space his words, "his name is Trevor; have you seen him?"
"No toads here mate, just an owl, sorry," Harry replied, his response garnering an indignant hoot from Hedwig. "Sorry Your Majesty, I didn't mean to impugn upon your nobility, please forgive your humble servant," he formally addressed his feathery friend.
Hermione smiled—as the timid newcomer looked at Harry as if he were barmy—and suggested, "Why don't you ask an older student or a prefect to summon him for you?"
"I-I n-never thought of that, thank you Miss . . ."
". . . Granger, Hermione Granger; just call me Hermione," she said with a sincere smile. "Hedwig's servant calls himself Harry."
"Hedwig?"
"My owl, mate, and I'm not her servant; Miss Granger's or Hedwig's grand allusions notwithstanding," Harry replied with a smile.
"HOO . . . HOOT!" Hedwig's tone sounded surprisingly piqued.
"Well, not all of the time," Harry amusingly backpedaled.
Harry's words brought a shy smile to the boy's face and a calmer mien to his manner as he said, "Sorry to bug you, I'll just go and find a prefect or something—thanks for the idea."
"When you find Trevor, why don't you come back and join me and Hermione?" Harry invited.
"C-Can I?"
"Up to you," Harry replied.
"Th-Thanks, by the way, I'm Neville."
"You're welcome, Neville," Hermione said with a smile that painted the chubby boy's cheeks faded pink.
In quest of a toad named Trevor, Neville turned from Hermione and Harry's chamber, slid the door shut and resumed his search.
"Think he'll find Trevor?" Harry asked.
"Maybe," Hermione answered, "as long as the toad is still on the train, there's a chance but it's hard to say. Still, it may have been stepped on or eaten by someone's pet; I'm sure Hedwig wouldn't mind the snack."
"Naw, Hedwig doesn't like French food, it upsets her tummy," Harry said with a grin, "she's a bacon bird: she's loves her bacon."
"Hoo!"
"See?" He said as he smiled at the owl.
"You and Hedwig seem very close," Hermione observed, "how long has she been your pet?"
"Hedwig's not a pet, she's my familiar," Harry corrected, "I've had her since my eleventh birthday; Hagrid bought her for me."
"Is there a difference," Hermione sounded puzzled, "you know . . . between pet and familiar?"
"Loads," he replied, "familiars and partners form a lifelong bonded link that can only be broken by the death of one or the other; that link affords all sorts of possibilities."
"What sort of possibilities?" The hazel-eyed witch was extremely curious.
"Well, for starters," Harry began, "Hedwig and I understand each other far better than if she were just a pet."
"You're not going to tell me you can talk to her I hope," Hermione teased.
"Not talk, per se; not like you and me anyways," he answered, "it's more an exchange of feelings and images. Animals, well owls anyhow, don't think in symbols or words or abstracts; it's really hard to explain to someone who hasn't experienced it first hand: it's like I feel like I know what she's telling me."
"Are you certain you're not just—I don't know—projecting what you think she's thinking?"
"I'm certain," Harry stated, "and it's not just that, Hermione, when I focus on the bond between us, if she isn't too far away, I catch glimpses of what she sees and hears; I was told it gets better over time and with practice."
Hermione glanced from Hedwig back to Harry and said, "That sounds so cool, I wish I could do that."
"I'm told only a few of any species can become true familiars and then only to certain witches or wizards; there is no certain way to—well—fudge the odds, I guess: sorry Hermione, I got lucky."
"That doesn't mean it can't happen for me," Hermione said, nibbling her bottom lip as she sulked.
"If I was a kneazel, I'd happily be your familiar, Hermione," Harry said trying to cheer her up.
Hermione smile and asked, "Why a kneazel?"
"Well, as a kneazel, I could snuggle into your lap and when you pet me I would nuzzle and lick you and purr," Harry turned beat red when he realized what he had said; a second later, Hermione was the same shade and then they burst with laughter. Into this cacophony of mirth, Neville returned, Trevor in hand and a redheaded prefect who looked somewhat familiar, in tow.
"We'll be getting to Hogsmeade in less than an hour," the redhead said; his voice dripped pretension, "I suggest you robe up."
"Yes sir, as you wish sir," Harry mocked playfully as he performed a sloppy salute.
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, "He's a prefect, you should be more respectful."
"You need to listen to the little girl—Harry was it?" The redheaded teen said with a glare at Harry, "If you want to be successful at Hogwarts—like me—you'd best learn some respect when speaking to your upperclassmen or teachers and if you'd been sorted I'd recommend that you lose your house points for that attitude of yours."
"I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again," Harry said in ersatz sincerity, the prefect never noticing Harry's sardonic smile or tone.
"That's better," the oblivious redhead said, "the little witch looks like she'll be prosperous at school and may well be a prefect—like me—someday; she's got the proper deferential attitude to be successful: you'd best be heeding the little girl's properness and emulate her, young man."
"I'll try," Harry replied without a hint of sincerity but the, thick as a brick, prefect didn't notice. The red-headed wizard turned from the compartment smugly thinking he had set a firsty on the proper path.
Neville and Trevor entered the compartment and—as soon as he slid the door shut—Hermione exploded, "Little girl! Why that pompous, good for nothing, pretentious . . ."
". . . prick," Harry offered, which encouraged a timid smile from Neville.
"Yeah!" Hermione agreed venomously, "he thinks he's so good being a Hogwarts prefect and all; all that makes him is an accomplished suck up with good grades!"
"But Mione, there goes the more experienced person you were talking about . . ."
Hermione glared at Harry and, by extension, Neville, who—unfortunately—was standing near Harry. She barked, "I'm changing into my robes, give me a few minutes."
Harry quickly rose, followed Neville out of the compartment with haste, and slid the door closed behind him. With the door closed, he noticed Hermione's glowering face as she closed the privacy blind.
"Is . . . Is she always like that?" a shell-shocked Neville asked.
"Don't know, mate, just met her but I hope not," Harry replied, "she's too pretty to harbor such ugliness.
Harry's answer drew a penetrative gaze from Neville before he replied, "I guess."
"So—Neville, wasn't it?—where did you leave your stuff?"
"It's with Susan and Hannah, I was sitting with them before Trevor got away," Neville replied as he pointed to a compartment four doors from Harry and Hermione's.
"Who's Susan and Hannah, your girlfriends?" Harry teased.
"They're not my girlfriends! Susan's aunt, The Lady Bones, is a friend of my grans," Neville replied a little red faced, "I've known Susan since, like, forever and Hannah's her best friend but I don't really know her that good—her family is in a different social circle, we don't cross paths very much."
"Oh, I see, casual squeezes," Harry further ribbed to Neville's disdain before noticing how uncomfortable and red the shy boy had become, "Sorry mate, I'm being insensitive."
"It's okay," he replied bashfully as he began walking to the other compartment, Harry followed.
Reaching their destination, Neville tentatively knocked on the compartment door.
"Who is it?" a girl answered from inside.
"It's me," Neville answered.
"Who's me?"
"You know, Neville and Harry," the shy boy replied.
"Who's Harry?" a girl with long plaited red hair asked when the door slid open.
"I'm Harry," Harry smiled and, extending his arm, shook the hand of the girl at the door.
"Hi, I'm Susan," the girl replied as she returned the smile, "Susan Bones and that's Hannah Abbott over there. Did you find Trevor, Neville?"
"I did, a prefect helped me by summoning him," Neville answered, "I don't think Trevor liked it though."
Susan and Hannah giggled as Neville proudly presented his toad.
"We'll be at Hogsmeade soon, a prefect just told us," Susan said, "me and Hannah were about to put on our robes."
"That's why I'm here, my robe is in my carry-on," he replied, "I just need to get it and throw it over my clothes."
"Yucky," Hannah said, "how can boys do that; my mummy always says a proper girl only wears unmentionables under her robe and then only if it's cold."
At the mention of unmentionables, Harry and Neville grew a little pink and uncomfortable; the two girls noticed and began to giggle.
"What are you boys thinking," Hannah taunted as she handed Neville his bag from the overhead rack.
"Th-thanks Hannah, Susan; Harry and I will leave you t-two alone to ch-change," Neville managed as he took hold of his carry-on; Susan closed the door and drew the blind.
"Now what?" a flustered Neville turned to Harry and asked.
"I guess we go back, I hope Hermione isn't so prim—she's muggle born after all—and has just put her robes over her clothes; otherwise, we'll be waiting in the corridor," Harry said with a shrug.
The young wizards returned to Harry's compartment; without knocking or thought, Harry opened the door in time to see Hermione's school robe falling past and covering pink panties.
"Don't you know to knock!" Hermione yelled before turning around very red faced.
"S-Sorry Hermione, I wasn't thinking," Harry tried to appease the young and angry witch; only to put his foot in his mouth, "besides it's not like Neville or anyone else saw anything, just me."
"And that makes it okay!" Hermione's anger was undiminished.
"I-I said sorry, what more can I say," Harry stammered, "it's not like I meant to sneak a peek at your pink panties or cute tush."
The young wizard's response earned him a bright red hand-print on his cheek and a small and embarrassed smile from Neville; he received a wilting glare from the hazel eyed and angry—to the point of blue static dancing over brown tresses—witch.
"Mione, calm down," Harry implored, firmly, "you're magic is visibly manifesting, calm down; you may do something, which may bring grief to us all. You don't want to start your first term at Hogwarts as the witch who fried two fellow students: now, control yourself!"
Harry's firm words and tone reach the Hermione behind the anger and slowly the young witch calmed down.
"I'll forgive you this time, Harry, but you'd better knock before opening a door in future," she said as her anger cooled further.
"I will, I promise," Harry pacified.
"Do you really think I have a cute tush?" flabbergasted, Hermione slapped her hands over her mouth; as a wide-eyed Harry Potter cycled through various hues of pink before she recovered, "Don't answer that!"
"Um . . . okay, Mione," he promised.
"I'll step out and give you a chance to change," Hermione said.
"You don't got to do that," Harry informed.
"What," she began, "I don't intend to stay in a room when a boy's changing; what type of girl does that?"
"Honestly, it isn't necessary Hermione. I'm just putting my robe on over my clothes; it's too much hassle doing anything else today."
"I guess," the young witch conceded, "but I still need to step out for a bit."
"Why?" Harry asked innocently, "where do you need to go?"
Hermione's face flushed as she hastily exited the compartment and briskly walked away.
"What you suppose that was all about?" Neville asked naively clueless.
And I thought I didn't get girls, Harry thought before answering, "Not important mate, I'm sure she'll be back soon."
"You think?" Neville fumbled on. "I mean we kinda walked in on her changing, maybe she's too angry or embarrassed to want to sit with us?"
"Nah, she's not going nowhere; see, she left her book bag behind." Harry reassured as he stepped into the compartment he'd been sharing and sat.
"Take a seat, Neville," Harry invited as he pointed to the bench across from him.
The timid boy answered with a brief nod of his head before entering the compartment; he closed the door and took the indicated seat. As he settled, an air of shy discomfort also settled upon the boys within, as neither knew what now to say. Harry studied the other boy; reflected there was the image of the person his aunt and uncle had failed to make their nephew and it made him think. He's completely lacking any sort of confidence, Harry thought, and has absolutely no sense of self—who would do that to him? I'm admittedly shy and Hermione is obviously protecting herself after being hurt too often but we're both aware of our worth, to ourselves at least. It's like he's never been told he's done something well or trusted to make any decisions for himself—it's criminal, almost. Harry found himself mentally ranting. I may not've received any encouragement from Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon but I always knew I was better than Dudley at everything but being mean-spirited, eating copious amounts of whatever was placed in front of me or avoiding effort. I wonder if Neville even thinks he can do something right without second-guessing himself. Harry concluded with mental scowl and a silent vow to try to help the insecure boy before him.
"So Neville, where're y'from?" Harry asked; his not loud voice exploded from the awkward silence cloaking them.
With a bit of a start, he answered, "Longbottom Manor."
"Sorry, never heard of it," Harry said, "is it a small village? What's the nearest big town? I live in Little Whinging, that's in Surrey—you know, just outside of London."
"I've never heard of Surrey but Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic are in London, I think—as far as I know," Neville answered a now dumbstruck Harry Potter.
Confused, Harry asked, "You think? I'm not sure about the Ministry for Magic but Diagon Alley is definitely in London. Help me here; I'm trying to place Longbottom Manor on my mental map of England: what do you see when you're going somewhere?"
"The place I'm going to, what else?" Neville replied, as confused as Harry was.
"I mean, like when you and your family are driving somewhere; what places do you pass?"
"Driving?" Neville said thoughtfully, "oh, I get it now but the stables at Longbottom Manor have been empty for years—we a have some carriages but they haven't been used in ages, either."
"How do you go anywhere, then?" Harry asked, his head having a hard time wrapping around horses and carriages.
"You know, the usual ways: flooing, portkeys, sidelong apparition," he answered. "It all depends on where me and my grans are going I guess."
"Correct me if I'm wrong," a muddled muggle-raised wizard began, "but it sounds like you're telling me you've only ever traveled by magic."
"Well yeah, how else would we go anywhere?"
"Muggle raised mate," Harry replied, "I've never experienced any form of magical travel: other than the Knight Bus, that is. Don't take this the wrong way but it sounds like you don't know where you live."
"I told you; I live in Longbottom Manor," the baby-faced wizard began, actually sounding a little irritated, "oh, I get what you mean now, Harry, you're asking me where Longbottom Manor is."
"Yes."
"I don't rightly know; is it important? Come to think of it, I don't even know if I've even physically crossed the estate's ward boundaries; never felt the need or much reason to."
Unsure of what to say next, the two wizards were saved from another awkward silence by the return of Hermione. The returning young witch bathed in the warmth of Harry's smile and found herself drawn to sit at her first friend's side.
"So, what've you boys been talken 'bout?" she asked, no vestige of her earlier anger or awkwardness remained.
Harry smiled whimsically and said, "We've been talking about how Neville doesn't know where he lives."
Hermione was sure she had heard Harry correctly but found her usually lucid response reduced to, "Huh?"
"Harry's right, Hermione," Neville replied with slightly pink cheeks; he wasn't used to talking to people he hadn't known for a long time. "I've only ever traveled with magic, the actual location of my home was never important enough to know. I don't got the best memory anyways so if I was told, I don't remember."
It was to Harry's great relief when he felt the Hogwarts Express begin to slow, he didn't want to repeat the whole 'where do you live' thing with Hermione; his brain hurt enough, already. His eyes locked with Hermione's, briefly, before both children looked to the window with expectation; unfortunately, night had conspired with suspense to leave nothing more than a dark curtain beyond the glass. Still, even with their destination embraced by night, Harry and Hermione had to fight the urge to do 'the happy dance'; they were certain Neville wouldn't understand: after all, what normal kid looks forward to school?
"We're here!" Hermione squealed to her mortification, as the train jerked to a stop, and suddenly the floor was very interesting to her.
"Attention all students, please leave all carry-on items with your trunks—which have been arranged alphabetically on the platform—upon disembarking: your possessions will be transported to your assigned dorms and will be there by the completion of the Sorting and Welcoming feast," a disembodied voice boomed over the noise hundreds of unsupervised children could make.
"Sorry Hedwig, I guess that means the cage for now," Harry said in response to the snowy owl's baleful stare, which came with being confined to her wire prison again, "I promise I'll give you lots of snacks, later—maybe I'll even smuggle you something from dinner; if it's worthy of your distinguishing palate that is."
"Blimey mate," the less than welcome voice of Ron Weasley rose from the direction of the compartment door—he hadn't knocked again, "you're gonna spoil yer bird if ya keep that up."
"Too late now, she's already spoiled. Ron, wasn't it?" Harry said.
"I was sitting with Fred and George for a bit," Ron stated matter-of-factly, "but I didn't want to leave you feeling like I abandoned you—you two. Who are you?"
Knowing who was being addressed by the redhead's question the chubby, shy, young wizard answered, "I'm Neville—Neville Longbottom."
"Of the . . . the Noble and M-Most Ancient House?" Ron stammered, almost falling over himself to extend his hand to Neville.
With a touch of distaste, Neville glanced at the sweaty—I hope that's melted chocolate on his fingers. He thought with less certainty than was comforting—appendage offered by the redhead before shaking it, "Well yeah . . . I guess."
"I'm really pleased to meet you, Neville," Ron replied with no sense of etiquette, "and if you need a hand with stuff; I'm more than willing to help since these muggle-born and raised know noth'n 'bout magic or the world."
Hermione and Harry knew the redhead wasn't being intentionally insulting, like Draco Malfoy had been, but they still glowered at him; meanwhile, Neville looked as if he wished to be anywhere but here or shaking Ron Weasley's sticky hand.
"Thanks, I guess," Neville responded with a sympathetic glance towards Harry and Hermione.
"Well," Harry began, "we'd best get moving . . . don't want to keep others waiting."
With his free hand, Harry took one of Hermione's and guided the young witch past Ron and out of the compartment. Together they made their way from the train and over to the neatly arranged student luggage rows where they found their trunks. They left their carry-ons—Hedwig included, much to the owl's distress—and found themselves wondering where they should go next. Their question was soon answered by the sound of a loud voice towards the end of the luggage line.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry? Who's y'friend?"
"Hi Hagrid, I'm good—this is Hermione Granger," Harry introduced the young witch, completely oblivious to that fact he was holding her hand: Hagrid, for all people might think him slow, wasn't oblivious and smiled a knowingly at the two preteens.
"Gla' ta see ya make'n friends there, Harry," Hagrid said with a smile, "nice ta meet ya Hermione."
"Thank you, nice to meet you too," Hermione replied—her shyness returning with vigor—as Hagrid's giant hand engulfed the proffered young witch's.
Somewhere behind Harry and Hermione a girl whispered loud enough to be heard, "Do you know who they are; are they boyfriend and girlfriend? Kinda young to be like that, don't ya think? Maybe it's a contract thing."
Furtively blushing, the young witch and wizard walked past Hagrid and waited for the remaining first year's to join them. Soon, Neville joined them—unfortunately, Ron Weasley was with him—as the last stragglers caught up.
With his big hairy face beaming over a sea of young heads; Hagrid called, "C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"
The body of first years followed Hagrid down a narrow—for the large man, that was; normal sized humans were fine, though—path. The group stepped cautiously in the meager light of their guide's bobbing lantern and from the shadows, every now and then; a displeased mutter suggested a student had stumbled.
Geez, what's with these magic folk; don't wizards even know about liability? Harry thought uncharitably as he stumbled and almost fell, thankfully he didn't: he would've taken Hermione with him if he had, her death clutch on his hand would've guarantied it. That's some grip there, Hermione, he silently concluded.
"Sorry Hermione," Harry whispered.
"I'm good, Harry. You?" She replied in kind.
"Never better," was his murmured response as he thought; I wonder what dear cousin Dudley would think if he saw me holding Hermione's hand, she's such a pretty girl? He probably still thinks girls are icky; I imagine it be something stupidly unpleasant knowing him, though.
"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called over his shoulder, 'jus' round this bend here."
True to Hagrid's word, Hermione and Harry rounded the bend and found themselves struck speechless and awed as the huge castle that was Hogwarts was revealed for the first time. Across a mirrored black expanse, their new school stood as a sentry overlooking a lake. Hogwarts' reflection—upon that still surface—created the surreal image of it floating in space: the castle and the cliff upon which it was perched began and ended in the sky. Above and below, a myriad of stars sparkled like gems—casually strewn across the curtain of night—stood in contrast to the many ordered windows dotting the castle's walls; those windows twinkled in warm invitation to children now shivering from anticipation and the night's chilled air.
"I hope they're not expecting us to swim," Harry quietly quipped, facetiously.
"Of course not, that'd be silly," Hermione countered, so enthralled by the visage that she didn't hear his droll tone, "they've boats for us, see."
Harry followed the line of Hermione's pointed finger and saw a small fleet of rowboats clustered at water's edge, waiting expectantly to ferry them across the last leg to new beginnings.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointlessly pointing at the little boats.
Harry and Hermione picked their way cautiously to the shore, stepped aboard an empty craft and took a seat. They were happy to see Neville joining them; unfortunately, Ron Weasley—having grafted himself to plump son of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom—was there too. The two boys boarded the boat and settled opposite of Hermione and Harry; they unknowingly harbored the same harsh thought: Could've been worse—might've been Malfoy instead of Weasley—thank heaven for minor mercies.
"Everyone in?" Boomed Hagrid, who had a boat to himself, "Right then—FORWARD!"
Like a waterborne caravan, the little boats queued themselves into a neat line and headed out across the lake. From the rear, Hagrid's ever-vigilant eyes monitored his charges and ensured all remained safe from happenstance and tomfoolery. Quiet reigned and the children remained transfixed on the castle, which grew with every passing second as they grew nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.
"Heads down!" yelled Hagrid, quite unnecessarily—he was the only one who really had to worry—as the first boats reached the cliff, passed through an ivy curtain and entered a dark tunnel, which had to have taken them under the castle.
At last, the boats moored at an underground harbor and excited students clambered ashore under Hagrid's watchful eyes. The large man led them up a passageway through the rock and onto a grassy apron abutting the castle walls. Under the shadow of Hogwarts, Hagrid led them to a flight of stone steps, which they climbed to a large landing in front of a huge oak door. Milling about expectantly, the young witches and wizards stood as Hagrid's gigantic fist knocked three times on the castle door.
