Miles Bletchley had never considered himself a 'follower' nor a 'leader'.

There were far too many risks in association with both titles.

He was the quintessential Slytherin, easily changing with the tide and never placing himself in a disadvantageous position. He had joined the school Quidditch team as Keeper in the second year and he played well, which meant that his safety within the House, at least, was guaranteed.

As the eldest son of a prestigious pureblood family, he was also able to maintain relatively good relationships with the other heirs and heiresses in Slytherin, Rosier being one of them.

Of course, he was careful not to get too close with anyone that held more sway than him, since commitment was dangerous in itself.

However, as he stood then and stared into that pair of horrifically green eyes and saw himself clearly reflected within, a part of him thought that perhaps being a 'follower' wasn't that bad, if the one he followed was him.

Harry Potter was born for greatness.

Miles couldn't believe how utterly blind everyone must have been to have pegged the boy for a Gryffindor. He had been shocked, then mockingly amused, along with the vast majority of the other Slytherins when the Sorting Hat had voiced its decision.

But now, he knew that there had never been a chance of the Potter heir being placed anywhere else. The other houses simply wouldn't be able to survive having him in their midst. Slytherins, however, were resilient and resourceful. They knew when to stand their ground and when to bow.

At that moment, Miles knew his only option was the latter.

"I can't believe he was practicing spell casting in the Common Room," he murmured. Potter raised an inquisitive brow. "Luckily it didn't hit anyone."

Potter gave a bark of laughter, shaking his head. "Ah, Bletchley, right?" His eyes were dancing with amusement. "That's fine, there's no need to lie. You can tell the others what really happened here." He glided closer and nudged Rosier's unconscious body with the tip of his shoe. "No one can pin anything on me anyway. He fired the spell himself. I'm sure they'll check."

Miles carefully studied the shorter boy. For a moment, he saw something insidious and terrible hidden beneath his cheerful smile.

"Alright, then," he finally assented, running a hand through his slicked back blonde hair, distinctively uncomfortable under Potter's expectant gaze.

"Well?" The green-eyed boy tilted his head, elbows leaning idly against the armchair behind him. "Shouldn't the Head of the House be informed?"

Miles jumped on the chance to escape. "I'll go right now."

"Good," Potter smiled, and Miles a warmth surge through him at the near praise.

It was only when he had one foot outside the Common Room before he realized that throughout the entire encounter, Potter never even had his wand out. He had stood empty-handed when he burnt the newspaper clipping with his bare fingers, and he had stood equally empty-handed when, by some miracle, Rosier's curse meant for him had spectacularly backfired.

A shudder ran through the Bletchley heir. His sudden epiphany barely brought a pause to his stride. He followed the winding stairs that lead up into Professor Snape's offices, over a dozen thoughts running amok through his mind.

Before he even reached the potion master's rooms, his decision had already been made. He knew that once he headed down this path, there was no return.

He raised a hand and gave three firm knocks on the dark wood door, easily rearranging his expression into one of distress.

Still, he wasn't worried. After all, he would have been forced to choose a side one day, and he would accept nothing but the best.

"Yes?" Snape groused as the door swung open.

"Professor Snape! Rosier tried to attack Potter, but something went wrong-we don't know what to do!"

The dark-haired wizard cursed under his breath. "Well?" He snapped. "Lead the way."

Miles complied. Once his back was turned to the professor, his harried expression melted away into a blank mask.

Yes. He was a Slytherin, so naturally, he prioritized his own survival over all else. If surviving meant following Potter, then so be it.

The infirmary was a quiet, organized room that carried too many white curtains and bad memories. The air smelled of Skele-Gro potions and Calming Draughts, and the mix brought a wave of nausea over the potions master.

Severus Snape had always hated the infirmary. In fact, he had first woken up in one of these white lined beds not a week into his first year at Hogwarts and had been a constant visitor since then thanks to James Potter and his little gang.

And now, one of Snape's best students laid there as well, as a result of none other than his son.

Ah, yes, Harry Potter the Slytherin.

Snape sneered at the thought but was pulled back when Madam Pomfrey began to speak.

"I'm afraid Mr. Rosier is suffering from a magical backlash," she frowned, wand twirling and casting one diagnostic spell after another. "The spell he was trying to cast was of the more obscure, darker kind. It would take immense willpower and concentration."

A sudden whimper escaped the boy's lips. Snape stared down at his student's trembling form, feeling a spike of dark anger. It was Potter, he knew it was! Alois Rosier would never make such an amateur mistake when casting a curse. How the boy had managed to push the entirety of the blame onto Rosier, he had no idea, but he was certain that Potter had a hand to play in this whole affair.

Potter. He ground his teeth. It was always Potter.

"Hesitation-driven miscasts only happen to beginners," Snape scowled. "Mr. Rosier is a skilled, controlled wizard who is above his peers in both the practical and theoretical aspects of classes. I highly doubt that-"

"Severus, are you questioning my abilities as a trained Healer?" Madam Pomfrey cut in sharply. Her tone left no room for further debate. "Besides, I said nothing about hesitation. There are numerous factors that could cause miscasts. For example, an internal conflict of interest, lack of self-confidence, or even fear. I am not undermining Mr. Rosier's abilities as a wizard," she added when Snape opened his mouth in protest. "I am merely saying that there are many variables that could have resulted in his mistake-but that is what this is. This is a case of erroneous spell casting. There is no foul play involved."

Snape swallowed his retort and took a deep breath. Once he was sure that he was in no danger of lashing out at the Hogwarts mediwitch again, he gestured towards the bed. "Will he be alright?"

Madam Pomfrey pursed her lips. She set down her wand and began to rummage through a drawer of bottled potions. For a moment, all that could be heard was the clinking of glassware.

"I could treat this as I would with any other case of malicious magic attacks. However, since Mr. Rosier's condition is self-inflicted, it would take much longer for his magic to settle and for him to regain consciousness."

That was better than what he had feared.

"And we're sure that there is only one curse that needs to be handled?"

"Severus, that's quite enough," Madam Pomfrey bit out. "I have already checked thrice, to your insistence! You yourself matched the spell that injured him to the one last cast by his own wand, which, mind you, I had to pry from his grasp when we finally brought him in!"

Snape fumbled, taken aback. But it seemed that the other witch wasn't finished yet.

"You are paranoid, unnecessarily suspicious, and projecting your own memories of James Potter onto his son, who is eleven! Don't you think for one moment that I don't know what you're implying. I can tell you right now, with full confidence, that Mr. Potter was not the cause of this. Mr. Bletchley himself swore that poor Harry was too stunned to even raise his wand in defence. Just how horrible do you think an eleven-year-old boy is capable of being?" Madam Pomfrey's voice sounded pained.

Snape remained silent for a long moment, before he tipped his head in a stiff nod. "I apologize for my behaviour. Please inform me if anything else happens. Thank you, Poppy."

With that, he turned and swept out into the halls. He was tensed and simmering with repressed anger. Of course, no one would ever think badly of the perfect saviour of wizarding Britain. That alone would be enough to blind them all from his faults, never mind the boy himself.

The least he could do for Rosier now is lessen his crimes. Slytherins could gossip all they want, but they were discrete enough to keep their secrets strictly within the House. But he still had to give a cover story to the rest of the school, students and professors included.

It must not be known that Rosier had been trying to attack Harry Potter, of all people.

He could only imagine the backlash that would arise if that was to ever got out. Despite the fact that this would wash Potter clean of his part in the whole incident, it was the best-and only-option if Rosier wanted to remain at Hogwarts.

So, a spell-practice mishap it was, then.

Remembering all the blood that had stained the Slytherin dormitories when he arrived was enough to make him see red.

Snape had seen how James Potter's spawn had affected his first year Slytherins throughout supper, Draco being one of them. The entire time, he had felt a growing, chilling fear. It only got worse when Potter was suddenly pulled into Draco's little group, and they had walked away together with Draco practically scampering behind him.

The looks with which other students had regarded him with almost reminded him of another time long ago when a group of masked witches and wizards had gazed upon one man at their helm with equal admiration and awe.

Goosebumps broke out across his skin as he drew the parallels.

But that was impossible. Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort were complete opposites. Potter, just like his father, was disgustingly Light.

Is he really? A small voice asked in the back of his mind. He was sorted into Slytherin, after all.

Snape swallowed, quickening his steps as if hoping to outrun that line of thought. No. As much as he hated to be reminded of the fact, Harry Potter was also the son of Lily Potter née Evans. And he refused to tarnish her memory by comparing her son with her murderer.

He had already betrayed her enough.

Nevertheless, he would have to keep a close eye on the Potter brat. Something about the boy just rubbed him the wrong way.

It was almost as if the moment he had sat down at the Slytherin tables, the gears that would trigger a chain of terrible events had begun to turn. Snape pushed down his entirely irrational fear at the notion and steeled his determination to closely watch the boy. If he sees any sign of trouble, he would nip it in the bud. He would not leave his students to the mercies of Harry Potter.

But Snape had an ominous premonition that he was already too late.

The following morning, Draco was sat at the Slytherin table along with the rest of his cohort, unusually subdued.

Bletchley had probably already spread the word of what had happened the previous night, and Draco could hardly believe it. But there was nothing in it for Bletchley if he lied, so that could only mean that Potter really was the one who had landed Rosier, a third year, into the Hospital Wing.

On the first day of school, no less.

Draco wasn't quite sure how he felt about the whole matter.

He had known the moment that Rosier spoke up the previous night that something was bound to happen. Their eventual clash was inevitable. But never for a moment had he thought that Potter would be the one to walk away victorious.

Sure, he had known that the half-blood wizard was powerful, but he hadn't realized just how powerful he really was. It said something that Potter, a first year who had yet to learn anything about magic, was able to wipe the floor with the most accomplished third-year in all of Slytherin.

Don't make him angry. That was what Bletchley had said. But Draco couldn't even begin to imagine what anger would look like on Potter's cheery, ever-smiling face.

"Do you think what they're saying is true?" Pansy asked, anxiously prodding at her food from across the table.

"Shh," Daphne hissed. "We're not supposed to talk about that beyond the Common Room, remember?"

"Come on," Pansy rolled her eyes. "As long as we're vague, who cares. But the important thing is…is it even the truth? I, for one, highly doubt that Potter is capable of anything of the sort."

Faced with several dubious stares, the Parkinson heiress groaned.

"What? The boy is soft. How could he possibly stand a chance against Rosier?"

"I don't believe it either," Theodore spoke up quietly. "But why would Bletchley lie?" He echoed Draco's thoughts.

"He wouldn't," Daphne drawled, setting her cup down with a solid thump. "I, for one, can see Potter doing exactly that. Let's be honest here, he let Rosier off with a mere slap on the wrist."

Pansy gapped. "A slap on the wrist!? Daphne, have you gone mental? It was a dark curse that rebounded. Rosier could be out for months!"

"And all that blood…" Blaise muttered, eyes downcast.

"Well, at least he's alive," Daphne waved off their remarks dismissively.

"Potter's eleven, for Merlin's sake," Draco cut in, speaking for the first time that morning. "He's not capable of killing anyone!"

Realizing the sudden rise in his voice, Draco glanced around. Only when he was sure that they had not attracted any unwanted attention did he relax.

"Isn't he?" Daphne leaned her chin into her palm, looking as if she hadn't a care in the world.

The group fell silent, a somber mood settling over them.

Draco felt a pickle of irritation. How could Daphne think so horribly of the Potter heir? Whatever he had done to Rosier had been done in self-defence. For some unknown reason, Daphne was acting as if she had expected something of the sort all along. In fact, she was the least affected of all of them when Bletchley's account of the happenings that night had reached their ears.

But before he could further argue, Blaise raised his head.

"Well, he's here, isn't he? Why don't we just ask him ourselves?" Blaise gestured towards the doors, which had swung open.

Harry strolled into the Great Halls with a skip to his step. Dozens of eyes snapped to him the moment he entered, mainly from the Slytherin table. He grinned as he caught the gaze of a few students.

"And risk getting killed?" Daphne scoffed. "No thanks."

"He's not a bloody murderer, Greengrass!" Draco slammed a hand down on the table, fed up with his childhood friend.

Daphne looked back almost pityingly.

But before their quarrel would escalate, the subject of their discussion made a sudden sharp turn.

Right before their very eyes, Harry Potter headed away from their group. Draco could hear the whispers steadily rise in volume as Potter walked to the other end of the room and plopped himself down at the Gryffindor table. It was as if a floodgate had suddenly broken when a fierce surge of whispers rose all at once.

Potter didn't even seem to realize as he dove straight into a conversation with a brown haired boy Draco remembered as Seamus Finnigan, a half-blood.

"What is he trying to pull!?" Pansy near screeched. "Choosing Gryffindor over Slytherin, is he now?"

Draco's thoughts were headed towards the same direction, but within hours, he was proven wrong. Potter had joined them in Charms as if nothing had happened, but in Transfiguration he was once again seated with the lions between Finnigan and that muggleborn Dean Thomas. They seemed to be caught in a lively discussion over some Muggle show.

At lunch, Potter once again split off from their group and-

Draco's brows raised.

Potter sat down straight in the midst of the Ravenclaw table, completely at ease. The students around him seemed confused and skeptical at first, but somehow, within moments he had them wholly engaged in a loud debate. Several second years had even wandered over to join in.

At some point, Professor Flitwick had approached the group. Potter, after greeting him politely, then proceeded to say something that made the half-goblin practically vibrate with excitement. For next half-hour Professor Flitwick stood by their table, gushing on and on about some complicated magical theory that even Draco couldn't comprehend.

In fact, Potter seemed to be the only student whose eyes had yet to glaze over. Occasionally, he would slip in a sentence or two that would, if at all possible, further brighten the short professor's eyes and have him go off on another tangent.

"At least now we know he's not choosing anything over Slytherin," Draco said dully, in regards to Pansy's statement that morning. "I think Potter just doesn't understand the concept of separate Houses."

Blaise snorted. "He's really something, huh?"

Pansy huffed, but now, she seemed more exasperated than offended.

Daphne didn't say a word, but her expression seemed inappropriately solemn for their light-hearted banter.

"Almost seems as if he's collecting," Blaise leaned forward, peering around Theodore's hunched figure. "Can you imagine?" He held up his hand and began ticking down his fingers. "Slytherin, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw…guess we know where he'd be at dinner. The Puffs will welcome him with open arms, I wager. Then he'd have the whole set!" The half-Italian boy guffawed.

Daphne's head snapped up as she fixed upon Blaise a piercing stare. Draco started, subconsciously straightening despite not being on the receiving end of those eyes.

"Daph?" Blaise's smile faded.

Suddenly she stood, nearly toppling over her mug of hot tea. She mouthed something to herself that sounded suspiciously like 'collection'. Draco froze at the stricken and panicked glisten of her eyes. He had never before seen such an expression on the face of the normally prim heiress.

"Daph, what's wrong?" Pansy stood as well, reaching out a hand in placation.

"I-I've got to go."

"Wait-" Draco called out, moving to stand.

Before anyone of them could say another word, she was off, rushing past the tables out the Great Hall.

Draco slowly sat back down from his half arisen position, feeling entirety bewildered by her abrupt exit. "What just happened?" He demanded, turning to face his equally bemused friends.

"That's it," Blaise grumbled, dropping his fork and knife into his half-eaten plate of food. "All of Slytherin is going bonkers."

"She's probably still upset by what happened last night," Pansy said carefully. Draco nodded along with the others, but it was clear that none of them, not even Pansy herself, seemed entirely convinced.

"It was probably nothing," Draco set down his cutlery too, setting his bag over his shoulders and standing from the tables. "Come on. Let's get to Potions."

The rest of his group followed. Their trip down the narrow stairs and into the depths of the dungeons was passed in uncomfortable silence.

Harry entered the potions classroom at a breakneck pace, almost crashing headfirst into a sulking blonde.

"There you are, Potter," Draco sniffed condescendingly. "You're late. I'd almost thought you'd switched Houses."

"Me? Never. Why, I reckon I still have a good half-minute left," Harry laughed, good naturally swinging an arm around the Malfoy heir's shoulder. "What are you doing standing here? I nearly killed you."

Draco gave him a flat stare. "Waiting for my potions partner of course. Come on. Let's get seated before we're actually late and Sev-er, Professor Snape comes in."

Harry laughed but dutifully followed the blonde anyway to two empty seats at the very front of the class. Blaise and Theodore sat next to them, Parkinson sat with a chubby girl named Millicent Bulstrode at the table behind them, and Daphne was curiously absent.

They barely managed to settle into their seats before the classroom doors crashed open and the surliest man Harry had ever seen in his entire life strolled in. He ignored the wide-eyed students for the most part, but when he slunk past Harry, he fixed him with a glare that practically screamed 'I'm onto you'.

Harry raised a brow in bemusement but returned a smile, and took joy at the darkening of the grouchy professor's face.

"What did you do to him?" Draco murmured beside him, sounding mildly impressed. "I don't think I've ever seen that look on his face, and he's my godfather, so I would know."

"Beats me," Harry hid a shrug. "I've never seen him my entire life."

Their exchange was cut off when Professor Snape retrieved a scroll of parchment-the register, Harry realized a moment later-and began to call out names. Some point into the routine, he suddenly paused, lips twisting up viciously. "Ah, yes. Harry Potter. Our new celebrity."

If people hadn't been looking before, they certainly were now. Suddenly, Harry found the entire situation ridiculously funny. The owlish gawks of the first years juxtaposed with the derisive, narrow-eyed glower of the potions master brought about a bubbling laughter that threatened to tumble out of his lips. Harry lowered his head, shoulders trembling with suppressed glee. Draco and his friends looked at him as if he had finally cracked, which only made him shake harder.

Snape, however, was no longer paying him any mind. He had begun to drone on about the miraculousness of potions and his own prowess, which Harry thought was quite pointless consider the whole school knew of the man's hatred for the class.

"Harry? You alright?" Draco's genuine concern broke through the last vestige of his self-enforced silence.

Harry let out a sound that was a mix between a choked cough and a hysterical laugh, cutting off the end of Professor Snape's speech. A heavy silence suddenly descended upon the classroom.

"Think this class is a joke, do you now?" Snape strode across the aisle, quickly coming to stand right before their table. He towered over Harry, obsidian eyes completely blank.

After curbing his amusement with great difficulty, Harry tilted his head upwards and met the stare head-on, barely noting Snape's minute flinch. That was unusual. Harry could've sworn he even saw a flash of pain. But what was it about him that could incite such a reaction? He would have to look into it later.

"Of course not, sir," Harry articulated, his tone bordering on the sardonic. "Draco was being amusing. I was simply responding."

The black robed man swirled to face Draco, who looked slightly dazed. "Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes widened, frantically shifting between Professor Snape and Harry. Harry grinned, and that was all the motivation Draco needed to nod. "Sorry, sir. I hadn't-er-meant to disrupt the lesson."

For a moment the man looked surprised, then quickly the expression turned to one of bitterness, probably at the fact that his godson had chosen a stranger over him.

Harry wasn't sure whether to be smug or concerned that Draco would rather face the gloomy professor's wrath than his. Perhaps Bletchley was simply just that efficient at spreading gossip. Or maybe Severus Snape was only a paper tiger, at least to his dear Slytherins. His bias towards his own house was as obvious as a flashing beacon in the dead of night. Harry, for some reason, seemed to be excluded from that blatant favouritism.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again," Snape gritted out after a pause, turning on his heels and returning to the front of the class.

"What did you do that for?" Draco asked in a sharp whisper once the professor was out of hearing distance. "What if I had gotten detention!? Father would kill me!"

"Aw, Draco," Harry chuckled lightly. "Professor Snape won't be giving any Slytherins detention, least of all you. I, on the other hand, am an entirely different matter. Does he have something against 'celebrities'?" Harry echoed the professor's previous words.

Draco rolled his eyes, a surprisingly casual gesture from the usually upright heir. "Don't be narcissistic. He just hates your father."

"Ah," Harry huffed good-naturedly. "That's so much better."

For the rest of the lesson Professor Snape resolutely refused to so much as glance in their general direction, as if seeing Harry Potter seated right next to Draco brought him physical pain.

Instead, he took his anger out on the Gryffindor first years by asking unsuspecting students questions from upper year textbooks or obscure tomes. By the end of the lesson, Harry was almost certain that Gryffindor's points have long since plummeted into the negatives.

After a long-winded lecture on the most easily made mistakes when boiling the Forgetfulness Potion, Snape seemed to finally have had enough of tormenting the first years.

"Class dismissed," he said in his nasally voice and left the dungeons in a billow of dark robes.

What followed was a clamour of shuffling and mutters as the students packed up to leave.

"Crickey," Seamus Finnigan exclaimed as he came up to Harry's desk. "At least now I know which class I won't be taking for my N.E.W.T.s."

Draco wrinkled his nose contemptuously. "I think Potions is brilliant."

Now it was Seamus's turn to jeer. "Naturally you wouldn't, with that old bat right your father's back pocket and all. How much did you have to pay for that O, Malfoy?"

Draco's face contorted angrily. Before a scuffle can break out right in the middle of their potions class, Harry grabbed the elbows of both boys and started tugging them towards the doors.

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry laughed openly, head tilting back. "Everyone knows that the only courses Draco would need to buy his grades for are Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures."

The Malfoy heir sputtered indignantly. "Herbology!? How would you know? Besides, we don't have Care until the third year!"

Seamus, on the other hand, had no qualms about joining Harry in his laughter. Before they were a step out the hall, however, the half-blood was suddenly roughly shoved to a side, and another blonde took up his place at Harry's side.

"Potter," Bletchley gave a toothy grin. He paused before giving a nod to Draco as well. "Malfoy."

Seamus looked as if he was about to protest, but a glare from the third year was enough to have him turning and walking the other way.

"Bletchley," Draco said with considerable surprise. "What are you doing here? Don't the third years have History of Magic? That's all the way on the other side of the castle!"

Harry hummed cheerfully, knowing well the reasons behind the other's sudden appearance. It was no secret that Bletchley always tagged behind the Slytherin with the most power. He had shadowed Rosier the previous day, but once he had been bested, the blonde instantly jumped ship.

He didn't particularly care what the other did, as long as it didn't bring him any trouble. Besides, it might be useful to have the other boy as an ally, no matter how disloyal he was.

As for the whole affair with Rosier, it had been an impromptu decision on his part.

Harry rarely felt anger, but when he did, it was a cold, bubbling thing that would burst out from the darkest recesses of his mind and devour whatever, or whoever, that had been its cause. He didn't care that Rosier along with most of the other Slytherins clung to their elitist Pureblood beliefs, nor that they loathed all muggles and muggleborns with a vengeance. In truth, they weren't entirely wrong when they accused muggleborns of entering Hogwarts without having bothered with learning any of the traditions and customs with the wizarding world.

But as it stood, he had insulted Harry, and insinuated that he was inferior. It was something that he wouldn't stand for. So, he taught him a lesson.

Bletchley's presence then had been a blessing in disguise. It would be useful to establish his own position in Slytherin early on, and that was at the very top. This way, others would know better than to try to target him because of his blood status.

Harry wasn't been too worried about the head of House figuring out, either. Severus Snape was a Slytherin after all, and he knew that if Snape wanted to protect Rosier's reputation, he cannot implicate Harry.

It seemed that being famous did have some perks.

"It wouldn't be the first time I skipped," Bletchley shrugged, turning to Harry and bringing him out of his reverie. "What's your next class? I'll show you the fastest way."

"Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell," Draco answered instead, reading from his schedule. His eyes are narrowed suspiciously. "What's the catch? We both know you're not doing this out of the kindness of your heart."

Bletchley rolled his eyes, setting off at a fast pace once he was sure they were following along. "Consider it an investment, if you will."

"Investment?" Draco repeated incredulously.

They came to an empty hallway that appeared to be a dead end. Bletchley waved them onwards and to Harry's surprise, there was a narrow underpass hidden from sight at the very end. With a whispered lumos, Bletchley led them up the stairs.

"Yes. Going deaf, Malfoy?" Bletchley hissed. "You may not notice, but Potter here," he gestured smugly, "is a rising stock. So I figured, why not cast in my lot while there's still the chance?"

"Have you lost your mind?" Draco sneered. "And after hearing all that, you think he'd be so eager to become best chums with you?"

"Potter's too smart for our regular Slytherin games," Bletchley beamed proudly, as if someone had just complimented him. "Might as well just be honest from the start. After all, we both stand to benefit."

"'Rising stock?'" Harry echoed, a hilarious grin splitting his face. The third-year's acerbic words were strangely refreshing.

Bletchley, however, seemed to have mistaken his smile for something more sinister, since he stiffened nervously.

"Oh, loosen up," Harry cackled at the blonde's panicked expression. He patted the boy jovially across the back. "I don't bite."

The trio emerged from behind a painting into a well-ventilated hall with sunlight streaming through its numerous windows. Despite their short walk, it seemed as if they had already traversed half the school.

Harry felt a brief thrill run through him. He peered back at the exit and committed it to memory. He wondered how many other hidden passageways the school held, undiscovered by both the students and the professors.

"Wait…" Draco suddenly stumbled. He blinked as if suddenly recalling a half-forgotten thought. He turned to Harry. "Then…what Bletchley had been saying all day about Rosier…is it true?"

"Rosier?" Harry asked while Bletchley shot his fellow Pureblood a sharp glare in warning. "Oh, I didn't do a thing, if that's what you mean. He tried to curse me. Obviously, he still needs some practice."

Draco groaned. The tension didn't drain from his shoulders. "Almost get hexed, and you still have time for sarcasm."

They finally came to a stop in front of a large set of door. Judging by the view of the Forbidden Forest from the open windows, Harry guessed they were somewhere near, if not in, the Ravenclaw Tower.

"Well, here we are," Bletchley announced, gesturing lazily.

"He's lucky the spell didn't actually fire," Harry commented cheerily. "Thanks, Bletchley." He waved and pushed through the doors.

"I don't doubt it for a second," Draco muttered, following close behind.

As they entered the classroom, a sudden odour of garlic and mold washed over them. Draco, naturally, was already beginning to loudly voice his complaints. However, it all faded to white noise for Harry when he looked up and found himself staring across the room into a pair of searing red eyes.

Unprecedented pain burst through his head, and before he was even aware of the motion, his hand had flown up and was clutching at his throbbing scar. Harry blinked the spots away from his vision, letting out a shaky breath.

When his gaze returned to the teacher, he was faced with a jittery, turbaned, timid seeming man with muddy brown eyes who looked as if he hoped nothing more than for the earth to open up and swallow him where he stood. The sudden change was almost staggering.

How strange, Harry thought, a slow smirk growing at the corner of his lips. That's never happened before.

Grabbing his companion by the arm, Harry dragged Draco along until they were seated somewhere in the first row. Draco grumbled about his choice, but Harry paid him no mind. He had a certain feeling that the professor was more than he seemed, and as of then, he had no idea whether it was good or bad.

Either way, Defence Against the Dark Arts was bound to be interesting.

The Owlery stood atop the West Tower, overlooking the Hogwarts grounds. It was a damp and murky place, even in the full bright of day. There was only one window through which light could filter through. Everywhere else was cast in soft shadows.

Quiet hoots, clucks and occasional trills echoed throughout the circular room. It was an originally soothing place, meant for quiet letter writing or contemplation. But at the moment, Daphne was anything but soothed.

She was kneeling in the far corners of the room with a clear view of the door, huddled over a long strip of parchment. She dipped her quill in a jar of ink, hands shaking as she penned the last few lines of her letter.

Whenever a clunk or a thud sounded, her head would snap up, eyed wide and alert, before finally shifting away once she was sure that she was in no danger of being intruded upon.

Finally, she pushed herself up and stood on unsteady legs. Her eyes glistened in the dim light as she blew on the drying ink. She quickly scanned through its contents once more before rolling up the parchment.

A distinctively beautiful owl with dark teal feathers landed before her, stretching out its leg.

"I'm afraid not this time, Avis," her voice, despite being hardly a whisper, seemed deafeningly loud in the small space.

Daphne gave her family owl a quick scratch beneath the wings, before turning towards one of the more nondescript Hogwarts barn owls. Avis gave an offended hoot before it took off and returned to its original perch.

Daphne folded her letter and slipped it into a marked envelope. She clutched it tight in her hands for a long minute, before moving to tie it to the leg of the speckled brown owl with trembling fingers. There was a hard, steely set to her eyes and her lips were thinly pressed in a weary line. The owl hopped nimbly to the windowsill and looked towards her questioningly.

"Greenhouse residence. For Lady Greengrass," she told it. The owl chirped its agreement and set off, wings flapping in a flurry of brown and black as it took to the skies.

Daphne watched anxiously as the owl rose higher and higher, before finally fading into a small speck in the horizon. Slowly, she sank down to the straw layered ground, uncaring of the owl droppings and grime. Her eyes fluttered closed as if in silent prayer.

When she finally stood again, the lessons for the day were almost over. She patted the debris from her robes, and after ensuring that no evidence remained of her visit to the Owlery, she pushed through the door to the room and quietly descended the West Tower.