In Which New Beginnings Look Very Much Like Old Middles.
Dear Professor Lupin, Harry's letter began. He wrote carefully, if not gracefully, with the quill. Seamus Finnegan, who was half-blood like Harry, had lent him a primer on calligraphy, and they were practising together- well, not practising as such, but Harry did glance through it and made an effort to at least hold the long feather pen properly, and had learnt how not to scratch holes in his parchment or leave big splashes of ink everywhere. He was still rubbish at lines, even with the aid of a straight edge. His fist on the page hid the tick marks the primer advised him to make in his margins, and as there were no pencils in the Wizarding World, Harry couldn't draw a continuous line and erase it after. But he wasn't thinking so much about that, at the moment. He secured the tip of his tongue between his teeth and concentrated on legible words.
I have had my first week at Hogwarts and I am doing well I think the profesors here gave me a good report for my first classes which I have inclosed for you to see. The report was meant to be mailed- owled, as was- home to parents, but Harry hadn't any parents to receive it, sigh proudly, and hang his marks somewhere public where visitors would be invited to remark on it. Harry, in fact, would not have imagined that was a thing that happened at all, except that Draco Malfoy had raised a big fuss over the big fuss his parents would be raising, and no-one had seemed to disagree with his depiction of said events. Even Neville, whose first report was full of phrases like 'Expect he'll improve once his nerves settle, hopefully' seemed to expect some response from his Gran. Ron said his mum was sure to send sweets, and had already offered to share with Harry if he didn't get any.
Of course, Ron had said that because he imagined Harry's Muggle relatives wouldn't know how to use owl post, not because Harry's Muggle relatives would be appalled to receive a progress report for Harry's first week of magical schooling. Harry had declined to enlighten Ron otherwise.
It has been a very intresting first week and I have learnt lots of new things. Harry thought it best to open with that; Lupin was the sort to care about learning first and fun second. But the most important thing for you to know is that I was sorted into Gryffindor House and am very happy
Harry hesitated. If Professor Lupin had been a Hufflepuff, maybe he wouldn't like Harry to brag about Gryffindor. But, thinking about it again, he thought Lupin would just like to know that Harry was pleased with his placement, no matter what, so he affixed an end stop to that sentence and went on.
I have a friend his name is Ron Weasley and Ron has lots of brothers and a sister who isn't here yet, their names are Fred George Percy Charlie Bill and the girl is Ginny. Or well they call her Ginny Ron says, only her name is really Ginerla or something funny. I have noticed that Wizards seem to have funny names sometimes. Ron is
Harry paused again, and a fat drop of ink fell from his quill. He smeared it away before it could soak into the parchment. He wanted to say that Ron was fun, because he was, though Harry rather thought Professor Lupin would prefer to hear that Ron was studious, which Ron was not, or at the least bothered about his schoolwork, which Ron was not. In fact Ron had been late on his first assignment in Charms and short two inches in their essay for Potions, and shrugged off the teachers' warnings with the familiarity of long practise. Harry wrote, Ron makes funny faces and is really funny. He tells me what's normal and what's not and he always warns me when the older students are taking the mickey, I think his brothers do that a lot with him excepting Percy who is always after him to do extra, Harry thought resignedly, but did not write, classwork first and exploring or chess or whatever later. Oh and I have met Hagrid who is the grondskeeper and he is a giant I think but he is very nice and rememberes my parents and Professor Lupin did you know he took me on his flying motorbike when I was a baby? When I was little I was so sure motorbikes could fly but everyone said it was my overactive imaganation but I was right all along, they just didn't know it because they are Muggles. Lots of people at Hogwarts say nice things about my parents and Professor Mick Harry had no idea how to spell her name, having not yet seen it written down, and tried sounding it out. Gonical who teaches Trans Harry grabbed for his textbook to be sure of the spelling of this, at least- figuration and she is very nice too she took me to see a trophy my dad won for Quiditch playing when he was a student at Hogwarts and Ron says I should take a picture of the trophy to add it to your album which thanks for that, I have enjoyed having it very much.
The lines of his letter had started a rather dramatic rightward slant. He was off by a whole tick mark. Harry sighed.
I think my report says that I already had a detention but I don't think it was my fault. I don't know if you will beleve me but there is a Professor here who
Harry hesitated over that. If he wrote that he thought a Professor was being mean for no reason, Lupin wasn't likely to be very supportive. Of course there had been bad instructors at Crowhill, like Mr Thompkins who refused categorically to give anyone full marks no matter how smart they were and who was mean besides, but not the Head or any of the other teachers had ever stopped Mr Thompkins, either. And no-one had stopped Professor Snape, either, not even Professor McGonagall. Harry wanted to explain how he'd been disappointed that not all Wizards were wonderful, but that was silly, and anyway he'd known about Voldemort and the bad Wizards and he didn't very much like a lot of the Slytherins, who seemed to think that Houses were good enough reasons to be rude to people. Well, so did the Ravenclaws, who had their noses in the air about everyone but them being too stupid for words, but if Harry admitted to that he'd have to admit that Gryffindors weren't above it, either. In Harry's experience, people who went on about how much better they were than other people were usually not nearly as clever, brave, or noble as they said they were. At Crowhill you could get demerits for rudeness- Mr Thompkins liked to give those out, and so did Professor Lupin, who was very good at making you think about how you'd feel if someone had done that to you. Harry thought Professor Lupin's tactics would get a lot of use at Hogwarts.
who didn't like my dad much I think, he wrote, and sighed again from all the way down in his toes.
The first week was everything Harry could have dreamed it to be, except about a dozen times harder than he'd have liked.
Some things were just like Crowhill. They had a bell, though it didn't come over the public address system but rather magically rang everywhere at once. The bell rang on the hour and students were expected to be up and at breakfast by half seven. Their class schedules were handed out on the first day- to Ron's disappointment, first years didn't get to choose their curriculum- but they had one free period every day, although for the first week those periods weren't so much free as scheduled for things other than class. Their House Prefects divided them up the first day for tours, and the second day the Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and anyone raised Wizarding but who had an interest in the subject sat for a lecture on Integration led by Professor Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher. Hermione Granger, one of the Gryffindor first years, had so many questions that Professor Burbage in her excitement landed them with more work, forming a study group to meet weekly. Not even the new Ravenclaws looked thrilled about that. Harry saw the point in it, but Ron went on one of his rants about it. He didn't see why Harry needed more help than what Ron was already giving him; Percy lectured Ron for his attitude straight through their third free period, a lunchtime fete theoretically meant for them to get to know other members of their House, sign up for clubs, and meet the teaching staff. Their fourth and fifth day periods, Harry learnt at last, were set aside for the teachers to use to meet with them individually, and to test them.
'Test?' Harry asked tentatively, when Professor McGonagall informed him and the four other first years who had been summoned together in the Transfiguration classroom.
The stern old witch peered down at him over the golden rims of her spectacles. She had a tartan witch's hat, today, with a sprig of fir and a pinecone sticking out the brim like decorations on a fascinator, but it hardly lessened the weight of her stare. 'No, you needn't tense up, Mr Potter,' she replied, and only then did her gaze soften, just a little. She encompassed the first years seated in the row just before her desk with a gesture, and Terry Boot stopped squirming in his chair. 'All new students are assessed for a particular affinity within their first week. I have selected you five because you have shown a particular talent in your first class, because you have a wand which itself has a particular affinity for Transfiguration, or because your parents had a gift for my subject.'
Harry put up his hand again. Not all the teachers made you do it, but Harry had learnt from watching Hermione that it was more positively received if you waited for their attention. In fact, Hermione had her hand in the air now, bouncing slightly at her desk. McGonagall glanced between them, and nodded to Hermione first. She flushed with pleasure.
'Professor,' she said, and drew a big breath, which Harry had learnt presaged either a question of considerable length or a question of considerable daring. 'How are Muggle-borns' parents assessed?'
'They obviously would not be, Miss Granger,' McGonagall replied, though patiently. 'No one factor outweighs another, and I will eventually assess each new student, not merely those who displayed an immediate suitability. Mr Potter?'
'Oh.' Harry sat a little straighter under her attention. 'Ma'am. I only wondered, because the Sorting Hat doesn't judge the parentage?'
McGonagall had been tapping one finger against the length of her wand. She stopped abruptly. 'And how do you know that, Mr Potter?'
Harry had already figured out that students didn't generally engage in lengthy conversations with the Sorting Hat, if it talked to them at all- it hadn't talked to Ron, at least. But Harry couldn't very well claim he'd heard it elsewhere, since he'd been raised by Muggles.
'Because... then... everyone would only ever be in the Houses their parents were in, and the Muggle-borns wouldn't go into any House at all,' he said.
One steel-grey eyebrow arched. 'Very good,' McGonagall said. 'A point to Gryffindor for your very logical reasoning.' Hermione flashed Harry a look that mixed jealousy with pleasure for their House's gain. Justin Something-Something rolled his eyes. 'You are correct that the Sorting Hat does not determine your placement solely based on parentage, but we aren't discussing Sorting at the moment. Your magical affinity can be and often is inherited through the family line. For example, Mr Potter, your father was a natural at Transfiguration, and pursued the craft through his NEWTs and might well have gone on to-' She cut herself off. 'And, Miss Granger, Mr Finch-Fletchley, both you transformed your matchsticks within the first three tries, usually an indicator of the particular direction your abilities will grow. You may be tested in other courses, of course, and indeed your career here at Hogwarts may take any path to which you devote yourself in study and effort, but I state for the record I am well pleased to see a large crop of you here today. Now, you will direct your attention to the objects on my desk. In order of my left to my right you will attempt to Transfigure each with the incantation I have written on the board.'
Harry only managed to wobble the goblet on its base, and to turn a grapefruit into a yellow shoe. Hermione looked devastated when she failed to turn a shirt into a blanket, moaning under her breath that it ought to have worked, being within the same classification of object. Justin Finch-Fletchley was the only one who got all six correct, and Susan Bones didn't get any at all, but McGonagall praised each of them the same, awarded each of them a point for trying, and sent them off without discussing their results, which had Hermione moaning to herself all over again.
After Harry understood the purpose of the tests, he approached the rest of them with interest. Professor Flitwick, who was shorter even than the first years and whose cheerful demeanor never wavered, shared with him that his mother had displayed an immediate affinity for Charms and could have been a Master, had she- Flitwick did what a lot of people seemed to do around Harry, failing to finish that sentence. Wizards, Harry thought, were awfully sensitive about saying things aloud, like names and bad news. Harry did much better at Flitwick's test, performing three charms, reading an aura accurately, and levitating a feather within the first try or two, better than any of the other three students who participated in his round. In the Herbology test he got a plant to croon a lullaby and a strand of ivy to curl lovingly about his wrist, though it left a little rash in its wake, and learnt that his father had once broken into the greenhouse for a prank and been sprayed in the face with Danderdillion Puffs and sneezed the entire Hallelujah Chorus. In Defence Against the Dark Arts, Harry found he could feel where a spell was in the air and dodge it- not that different from dodging at Crowhill, where balls, spitwads, and other projectiles were common- and could end a jinx with a flick of his wand and a firm Finite Incantatem, the only one to successfully do so. Ron was in that test with him, and couldn't free himself of a Jelly-Legs Jinx until Professor Quirrell stuttered it to and end for him. Ron went so red his freckles disappeared, and stomped away from the Defence classroom without waiting for Harry.
'Well d-d-done, Potter,' Quirrell congratulated him. 'B-b-bit of a natural.'
Harry nodded impatiently, and waited for the next part, sure a story about his parents would follow. He wasn't disappointed. Though Quirrell was one of the younger staff members, and wouldn't have been teaching when his parents were Harry's age, he said, 'Followed your parents' careers in the Aurors, b-b-big fan.'
His parents had been Aurors. Harry didn't know yet what an Auror was, but he floated high on that straight through to his next class.
Potions was a lab practical, and as such was held for a long period rather than multiple short ones throughout the week. Like many of their courses, two Houses of first years sat it together. Harry, arriving just before the bell, stared at the black backs of school robes searching for Ron's bright red hair, but found him at a table already fully occupied with Seamus and Neville to either side of him. Harry was disappointed to see that no-one he knew had kept an open seat, except for Hermione Granger, who had developed a reputation and had an entire table to herself and her massive rucksack and several books besides. Well, Harry supposed he could do worse than sit by someone who had probably already done all seven years' worth of reading. That, and she sat in the first row, which meant Harry would have a clear view of the board. Ron liked to sit in back, upping his chances of benign neglect from the teachers, but Harry couldn't see well from any distance, and he was already reluctantly working up toward begging Ron for a change.
A hand snagged his sleeve. Harry halted beside a table on the left side of the class, realising as he did that the Slytherins had all separated themselves into a big block. Draco Malfoy was at this table, his two big goons- Harry supposed it was hard to be friends with lumps as lumpy as Crabbe and Goyle- seated at the table behind him instead of beside. It was the girl next to him who'd caught Harry's attention. She was nearly as thickset as Malfoy's friends, her arms bulging even in the billowy sleeves of her robe, but she smiled at him, so Harry smiled back politely.
'You can sit with us, Potter,' she said.
'Oh.' Harry glanced to his right. The Gryffindors were all staring, several open-mouthed. Well, really. But Hermione had her head down and seemed to be organising several notebooks and three pots of varicoloured ink and had left only a sliver of space on the table. And the only other open seat was just being taken by two girls from Gryffindor. 'Right, thanks,' Harry said, and slid onto the stool at the aisle. He shook hands with the girl, and said, 'I'm Harry.'
She laughed once, incredulously. 'I know,' she retorted. Her thin lips screwed to the side. 'I'm Millicent. Millie.'
'Hi.' Harry nodded to Draco. They were already acquainted from Herbology and History of Magic, which was where Harry had discovered that many people had formed firm opinions of what Harry would be like. Draco Malfoy was one of those, and he seemed to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating Harry, always slightly puzzled by what he found. Malfoy might not believe Harry had been in America with Batman, but he did seem to think Harry had been somewhere special or got special treatment or been learning special spells the rest of the students weren't allowed to, and had engendered a glowering resentment of it. Harry had heard him snickering when Harry didn't know the answers to questions, but when he wasn't showing off for his friends he was all right. That was how most of the older boys at Crowhill had acted toward Harry, so he didn't much mind it.
The slam of the door startled everyone. One of the Gryffindor girls, Lavender Brown, shrieked a little, and was shushed by her tablemates. A shadow stalked up the side of the classroom, turned up the row precisely halfway, and then walked straight-backed to the large blackboard at the head of the room. The shadow whirled about with a swirl of midnight robes flaring wide about him, black hair swinging, and Professor Snape stood before them, arms crossed high on his chest, white fingers gripping a long ebony wand angled just so along the crook of his elbow.
'There will be no,' Snape said, and his voice was so low that half the class leant in to hear, and so dark that half the class leant away to escape, 'foolish wand waving in this class. No doubt- no doubt- you have been allowed to run wild in your other courses, swishing-' His wand cut the air so sharply Lavender gasped. 'Flicking.' A spark flew from the tip of Snape's wand. 'Flinging about you with no finesse or craft. Not in this class. Potions is an art requiring concentration, deliberation, and application. As you are eleven-' His lip curled a little. 'The first year, if not years, plural, will be wasted on you. I will seek to instill in you the basics of theory, a grasp of both the dangers and the delights to found in this unique field of study. You will learn if you are capable. If you are not, it will be no fault of mine.
'Potions-' He turned, his wand extended in a rigid point, and spiderly writing flew across the blackboard. Unlike Harry, he made perfectly level lines. 'Is required for nearly every career you may aspire to in the Wizarding World. Healers must craft many of their own remedies. Curse-breakers brew acids to eat away ancient hexes. Investigators enforce Ministry regulations of the darkest of poisons, the most dangerous components. Obliviators mediate the effects of multiple memory removals with soothing tinctures. Aurors make and use potions in the field to capture the darkest of dark wizards. Wand makers and metal charmers preserve their wares in patinas which enhance the durability and quality of spells. The dishwasher at The Leaky Cauldron must measure washing-up fluid proportionate to his task.' Snape faced them again, his head craning around so precisely Harry thought his neck must have clicked. 'And for those of you more concerned with attaining greatness, consider the higher rewards. With a cauldron and a stirring rod you can bottle fame. Brew glory. Perhaps even alchemise immortality. You can learn that here, if you are willing to drive yourself.'
Harry could not stop his eyes widening as he looked up. He had written quickly, so quickly he'd smeared his page, trying to keep up with the sonorous voice that had risen on a tide of excitement and crested on a throbbing whisper. Aurors captured dark wizards. His parents had been Aurors. If they had been good at Potions, Harry wanted nothing more.
He looked up, eager, and came eye to eye with Professor Snape, who stood before his table, directly in front of Harry. Harry swallowed.
'Mr Potter,' Snape said, so quietly the words fell dead between them. Harry felt Millie shiver. 'Our resident celebrity.'
Harry didn't know what to say to that. If he agreed, he was puffed up. If he denied it, he was lying. Everyone was looking at them. At him. His shoulders wanted to hunch. He tried not to let them.
'Mr Potter,' Snape said. 'Tell me. Where would I find a bezoar?'
'I don't-' Harry coughed. His throat was terribly dry. 'A bee- bee-shor?' He hadn't known how to say that word. Snape made it sound beautiful and exotic. 'It's, er, it's in the stomach of a goat.' That had been in the textbook. The illustration had been particularly gory, with instructions for cutting open the goat to get at it.
'Ah, we have ourselves an expert. Tell me, Mr Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?'
He couldn't remember any of that long glossary of potions components from the book. He mightn't know even if Snape wasn't trying to trip him up, like Mr Thompkins did in Religion class sometimes, though Mr Thompkins had never been half this intimidating. Harry didn't think he could look away from Snape's black eyes if he died on the spot. 'I don't know, sir.'
Malfoy cleared his throat. 'Professor Snape, they're the same thing. Monkshood is another name for-'
'I didn't ask you, Mr Malfoy.' Snape never even looked at him, though Malfoy shrank back with red cheeks. 'What would you get if you added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'
Hermione's hand was in the air. Of course. She was almost straining off her stool, vibrating with urgency. Snape kept his back to her.
'I don't know,' Harry said.
'Pity,' Snape said, very very softly. 'Clearly fame isn't everything.'
'Well I'm not famous for Potions,' Harry muttered.
He knew, he absolutely knew, that he'd just walked into a trap. Snape's black eyes gleamed with triumph and he didn't even hide his malicious grin. 'Six points, Potter, for cheeking a professor.'
Harry had earned exactly that many over the course of the week. He doubted that was an accident. Harry locked his tongue flat against the roof of his mouth and kept his face absolutely still. Bullies walked away if you didn't give them the reaction they wanted.
Sure enough, Snape sniffed in contempt and turned. 'Wands on desks where I can see them. You will touch nothing today but your textbooks, which you should already have out and open, Mr Weasley, not crumpled carelessly on the floor beneath those boats you call feet. Longbottom, no-one told you to gape like a cow. Close your mouth. Wands, I said, Finnega-' He stopped dead, and his eyes were rivetted to the wand Harry had just put on the edge of his table. 'Potter!'
Harry tensed. 'Sir?'
'That wand is not yours.'
Harry grabbed it back just before Snape could snatch it up. 'It's mine, Professor.'
'It is not yours, you vile little liar. Where did you get this? Tell me where you stole it from!'
This was an entirely different thing than Snape trying to humiliate him a minute ago. Harry let go because Snape was so livid Harry thought Snape'd strike him if he didn't; there was spittle in the corners of Snape's mouth and he had such a hard grip on the other end of Harry's wand that he stumbled back a step when Harry released it. Snape rocked back to the table and leant over it, thrusting his seething face into Harry's. 'Tell me the truth,' Snape hissed, enunciating every syllable like a lightning strike.
'It's mine,' Harry told him flatly.
'Detention,' Snape hammered back at him, and gained thin control of himself on the next breath. 'For today's lesson you will sit facing the corner. I won't have you cheating off hardworking Slytherins to achieve whatever paltry marks you manage in your excruciating years here. There will be no coasting on a name and a scar in my class, boy, not here.' He stood to his full height, stroking a finger up and down the line of Harry's wand. He watched- everyone in the class watched- as Harry gathered his bag and his notebook and quill and ink and slid down from his stool. There were no desks in any of the corners, but by the time Harry had trudged his way to the back, Snape spoke a word of magic, and one slid scraping across the stone floor to stop right in front of him. Harry sat on it and swivelled to face the wall. The stool wobbled on one leg shorter than the others, and he couldn't balance his ink and his notes and textbook and write all at the same time, and the corner was dripping with musty-smelling moisture that made his eyes sting. Oh. That wasn't the fault of an allergen. He was dangerously close to tears. He bit his lip savagely, willing the urge to pass. He would die before he gave Snape the satisfaction of tears.
'On the subject of asphodel,' Snape said, somewhere behind him. 'For your first lesson, you and your tablemates will dissect and draw a flower, and draft a list of all methods by which those parts can be used in potions. I hope you work well together. These will be your laboratory partners for the year.'
He meant Harry to face the corner alone all year? And Hermione Granger, for that matter. Harry allowed himself to feel angry on her behalf. And a little hurt. It wasn't fair to make her work alone, just because no-one else had wanted to sit with her. It wasn't fair-
Well. Lots of things weren't fair. If this was the worst thing about Hogwarts, Harry could live with unfair.
It was as well he had the double period to practise that mantra. When the bell rang, Harry carried his scroll to Snape's desk in front. His drawing wasn't very good, since he'd had to do both the dissecting and the drawing on his lap, but he'd tried to write as many things about the components as he could find in the book to make up for it. Snape, however, barely glanced at his paper, tossing it aside with a grunt of 'Barely adequate, Potter,' and a dismissive snap of his fingers. 'Return tonight for your detention, and plan for the entire weekend, as well.'
Harry repeated it to himself. He could live with unfair. 'Yes, sir. Can I have my wand back?'
'Absolutely not.' Snape had it out in prominent place on his desk. He touched it with a fingertip now, rolling it just slightly back and forth. 'You have one final opportunity to redeem your despicable lies. How did you get this wand?'
'It's mine,' Harry said shortly, stubbornly, and scathingly. Obviously it was his, or he wouldn't have been able to use it.
'You are an arrogant creature,' Snape breathed. 'Are those the most familiar words of your paltry vocabulary? How like your father. Spoilt, spoilt and rotten. Not in my class, Potter.'
'Then in my other classes, sir. I need my wand for Transfiguration.'
'You should have thought of that.' Snape sat back regally in his chair, Harry's wand balanced delicately between his hands. 'Hurry, or you'll be late. You shouldn't strain what good will the other professors will have for you, at least until they begin to see your true colours.'
Harry only just restrained himself whilst the Potions classroom door was swinging shut. The moment the latch clicked, however, he was exploding. Rough stone scraped at his palms as he beat them against the wall, and a furious impact to his foot as he kicked resulted in a desperate twang of pain. He didn't care. He hit the wall again, so hard the sides of his fists went numb, and then he put his head to the cool stone and forced the tears back, forced them back, forced them back. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't.
'Harry?' It was Ron. He put a tentative hand on Harry's shoulder. 'It's okay.'
'He wouldn't give it back.' Harry could barely speak around the strangling ache. 'It's my mum's wand. It's my mum's and now it's mine and it's all I have-'
'I'm so sorry.' It was Hermione Granger. Her voice was unusually small, maybe a little afraid. Well, he was acting a proper prat. Like a spoilt child who'd had his toys taken away. Harry fumbled off his glasses and swiped hard at his eyes with his sleeve. His head was pounding, or at least his scar, the way it did when he got really upset. 'That was so cruel,' Hermione said in that tiny voice, but just hearing it made it better- the smallest little bit, anyway, and Harry could breathe again. 'I'm really sorry, Potter, he had it out for you, everyone could see that.'
'You should tell Professor McGonagall,' Ron said. 'She's our Head, she'll get it back from him. I bet she's even scarier than Snape, come to it.'
'We'll be late.' Harry wiped his face again, just to be sure, as Hermione picked up his rucksack- he hadn't even noticed dropping it. Hermione helped him put it on his shoulder, though he was fully capable. It was nice, though, and Harry forced himself to smile at her. She was nice, for a girl. Not that he had any to compare. 'It's Harry, though. Don't reckon I want anyone to call me "Potter" like that ever again.' Although, what Snape had said about him being like his father? Maybe he'd change his name to Potter so Snape would have to hear it every day for seven whole years. And he was so glad the Hat hadn't made him go to Slytherin. Seven years with Snape as his Head would have driven them both nutter.
'Mr Potter, where's your wand?' McGonagall asked him, as she broke the class into sets to practise Transfiguring matchsticks into lit flames.
Harry's sour mood hadn't passed, and his jagged shrug earned him a sharp look. Ron rescued him. 'It was Professor Snape, Professor, everyone saw.'
McGonagall's eyebrows began their march up her lined forehead. 'Professor Snape what, Mr Weasley?'
Hermione had sat behind Harry and Ron, since there wasn't room for three at their desks, though Neville looked a little hemmed in by her usual array of materials. Her hand had barely touched sky, though, before she jumped in, for once not waiting to be called on. 'Professor Snape took Harry's wand, Ma'am.'
'Why on earth-?' McGonagall frowned down at Harry, but the frown didn't appear to be for him. She sighed, from way down deep the way Lupin did sometimes. 'Well, it's no use dealing with it just now. Stay after class, Potter, and we'll go together. You may share with Longbottom. He has the incantation down, and you have finer motor control with the wand. Help each other. Miss Granger, demonstrate for me- yes, very nicely done. Mr Weasley? Oh, my. Well- keep working.' She inclined her head to them, and moved on to the row after them.
It was as well for Harry he was sharing with Neville, since his concentration was shot. Neville's wand was horrid hostile, too, to both of them, and Harry got an ashy sludge before he got the match to transform to flame. Neville thrashed the air with the wand and got nothing at all for it, and was glum by the close of class. He thanked Harry, though, with apparent sincerity, and didn't say anything all period about Snape or Harry's wand, and Harry was grateful for it. He regretted his outburst, especially as Ron and Hermione kept sneaking him worried glances. It was just that he was sure they would want to come with him to get his wand back, and he dreaded to think what Snape would say in front of them.
In the end, he'd worried for nothing. McGonagall summarily dismissed them, and to Harry's surprise she sat at the table next to him, though she turned her chair a bit to look at him directly. She had hands like Professor Lupin's father, with thin age-spotted skin and ropey veins over her fingers. She touched his knee, and left her fingers sitting there, and Harry had to bow his head or he thought his eyes would rebel. They were stinging again.
'I wish I could tell you it won't be this way again,' she said.
'He'll always be like that?'
'You can't be removed from Potions, Mr Potter. You need-'
'Every career needs Potions.' He recalled that quite clearly. 'He asked me questions about the book. I didn't know the answers. I knew one, I guess- I did read over the summer, I swear!'
'You are not meant to arrive an expert in any subject, Potter, or what would be the good of paying us to teach you?'
Harry hadn't thought about it like that. Just to be sure, he told her, 'I'm not stupid.'
'I didn't think you were. In fact, I'm quite sure you're not,' McGonagall told him briskly. 'You tested quite well in several subjects, including Transfiguration, though you seem determined to go about it the hard way. You have plenty of willpower, that's clear, but you need to work on channelling that will through the spell. You can force pure magic to do your bidding, but it will be shoddy work, and unsafe work, for that matter, if you can't learn to hone your magic with precision. I'd like to keep you with Mr Longbottom in Transfiguration, but you should find yourself well in advance of your peers in Defence and Charms.' She seemed reluctant, then, hesitating on her next words, but out they came anyway. 'You may have realised by now that we tested you rather more thoroughly than your fellow first years.'
Harry hadn't, particularly. 'Why?'
'Curiosity, for some. Necessity.' She gazed down at Harry with much calmer eyes than Professor Snape. 'To determine the difference between your parentage, as you called it, and yourself. There is no doubt in my mind that you are already a powerful Wizard. Based on this week's tests, I think it's entirely possible for you to become a very skilled one, as well.'
His heart began to climb out of his gut. 'Really? Could I be an Auror, d'you think?'
'An Auror? Decided on a career already?'
'Well... I heard my parents were Aurors.'
'Ah.' McGonagall smiled slightly. 'Yes, and bloody fine warriors. Well. I suppose I had my dreams when I was your age. That's as good a one as I'd want for you. Work hard, Mr Potter, and you could do many things to honour their memory.' She patted his knee, and rose. 'Now, let's get your wand.'
Harry approached the dungeons with considerable loathing. It was hard to believe he'd only been there for a few hours- it felt like forever and ever. McGonagall walked very swiftly for an old lady in big heavy robes, and Harry hadn't much time to think about it before she knocked- once, and once only- at the Potions classroom door, and let herself in as if the door had better open or else. Harry followed at her heels, of half a mind to try and hide behind her, just to spare himself a glimpse of Snape's nasty face.
But Snape wasn't wearing a nasty face. In fact, he looked nearly pleasant. 'Minerva,' he greeted her politely, looking up from his desk where he sat marking parchments in red ink. 'The first week already over. My feet ache worse every year. I'll be at the lounge with the Muscle Relaxing Balm this evening, if you'd like your portion.' He glanced at Harry, hovering behind McGonagall, and went back to his marking as if Harry's presence were entirely unremarkable.
Harry understood at once, of course. Snape would make Harry out to be a blubbering crybaby who sought attention for every imagined slight. He could do anything and it would be Harry's word against his, and the calmer Snape looked the worse Harry would seem. Like an arrogant, spoilt boy, just as Snape had accused him. Harry did the only thing he could. He kept his face blank of all expression, his hands clasped behind his back so they wouldn't shake. 'Sir,' Harry said, just as politely as Snape had to McGonagall, and nothing more.
McGonagall was frowning at them. After a moment, she said, 'Wands may not be necessary tools in beginner's Potionmaking, Severus, but they are quite useful for the rest of his classes. He'll need it back.'
'Of course.' Snape opened a drawer at his knee, and removed Harry's wand. He had it wrapped in a bit of cloth, and laid it out on the desktop. 'I held it back as a precaution. But I sense no malevolent enchantments, no curses.'
'Curses?' McGonagall had been reaching for it. She stopped mid-air. 'Why on earth would you suspect such a thing?'
'Because,' Snape said. 'This is Lily Potter's wand. And as it is Lily Potter's wand, the last place it would have been was Godric's Hollow, in the possession of the Wizard who murdered her.'
Harry didn't hear much after that. His head had gone swimmy, and there was a distant roar in his ears, like a drum beating far away. Voldemort had had his mother's wand. Voldemort had killed his mum and taken his mother's wand, even if it was just for a little while, a minute or maybe not even a minute before he'd tried to kill Harry next. Snape and McGonagall were talking, and a word or two came through to Harry, 'master', and 'wards', and 'ancient magicks', and 'black', but he couldn't make himself listen. Harry was just thinking, over and over again, about the nightmare he'd had his whole life, the nightmare of the woman screaming, and the green light, and how he knew now in a way he'd never truly known before that that was his mum, and she was dead because Voldemort had killed her.
The world snapped back into motion. McGonagall said, 'Dumbledore.'
Harry took a trembling breath. He jabbed out a hand for the wand, and both the teachers reacted like he'd tried to put his hand in a live fire. But Harry was faster, and he had the wand tight in his fist, and this time he wouldn't let go unless they killed him, too.
'It's mine,' he said fiercely. 'You can't have it.'
Snape let go first. Like Harry's wrist had burnt him. There was loathing in his face, burning hatred. Harry didn't care. He gave it right back.
McGonagall let go, too, but only to shift her hold to Harry's shoulder. 'Accompany me, Mr Potter,' she said. 'And you too, Severus. I think we had best resolve this matter with haste.'
And that was how Harry found himself in the Headmaster's office for the first time. McGonagall seemed to think Harry might dash off if she let him go, and Snape stayed just behind him, never quite in his line of vision, so that Harry had to keep turning his head to keep the professor in sight, but he forgot to watch when they reached Dumbledore's office. It was guarded by a looming gargoyle (McGonagall covered his ears with her hands so he couldn't hear the password) and they rode a sort of spiralling stone escalator as if they were at an especially posh shopping mall, but the office itself was the most wondrous thing about Hogwarts yet. Harry, having grown up in a Boys' Home and having earned his share of rapped knuckles, touched with his eyes only, keeping his hands in his pockets, which at least helped him maintain a determined grip on his mother's wand. There were dozens, hundreds, of fantastical instruments so strange he couldn't even imagine what they measured, and a big telescope aimed out the window, and a grandfather clock with big brass tubes like a church organ, and lots of moving portraits which were mostly empty, except for one where all the people from the portraits seemed to have gathered around a table for dinner and card games, and there was a mirrored hutch standing open to show a stone bowl in the cabinet, swirling with a strange essence that was half light and half liquid, and there was a bird, the most beautiful bird sitting on a perch, and it crooned at Harry, and he didn't even realise he'd crossed the room til he was standing nose-to-beak with the bird. He didn't touch it- he truly didn't, didn't even remove his hands from his pockets- but the bird nuzzled up against Harry's cheek sweetly, and then bit the stem of Harry's glasses. Harry laughed, startled, and the bird hopped from its perch onto Harry's shoulder, the better to nibble at his frames.
Harry turned, and found a roomful of adults staring at him like he'd turned into a three-headed dog.
Headmaster Dumbledore recovered first. The twinkle in his faint blue eyes winked harder than ever. He said, 'I see Fawkes has taken to you, Harry. You know a phoenix is a fine judge of character.'
'Sir.' Harry straightened his specs as the bird- Fawkes- tugged them askew. 'What's a phoenix?'
'A sun bird. An immortal bird. He was born of ash, will die of flame, and be reborn again, endlessly. There's a little plate of treats there, if he would let you feed him. Ah, he will. Yes, quite a good judge of character.'
Harry couldn't help himself. He flung a look of challenge at Snape. Snape looked like he'd sucked a lemon. Fawkes nipped Harry's ear, and Harry hurried to get another cracker for him.
Dumbledore held a chair for Professor McGonagall, and seated himself behind the enormous desk. Snape didn't sit, taking up stance with his arms crossed between Harry and the door. 'Minerva and I have made a startling discovery,' Snape said.
Harry scowled. That wasn't at all what had happened, and it made it sound as if Snape hadn't grabbed his wand off him in class.
McGonagall didn't dispute it, though. 'Albus,' she said, 'Harry here carries his mother's wand.'
Dumbledore's twinkle was a full-blown shine now. 'Does he indeed?'
'This is no smiling matter,' Snape snapped. 'You know as well as anyone that the Wizard who defeats a wand's owner can become the wand's new master.'
'Can,' Dumbledore repeated, emphasising it not at all, and perforce underlining it in red and glitter besides. 'Harry has been using it without complaint or difficulty?'
'All week,' Harry said. 'And when I found it, it felt perfect.'
'Found it.' Snape came two narrow-eyed steps toward Harry, even with McGonagall's chair. 'Found it where?'
'In my vault.' Harry hesitated. If they asked him who had taken him to his vault, it would get sticky. He didn't want anyone to know about Lupin, or Crowhill, or that the Dursleys might as well never have been, for how involved they were.
Though he couldn't quite help resenting it, just a little, that Dumbledore didn't know, didn't care, and didn't question it now. 'But of course,' the Headmaster was saying, quite satisfied. 'His parents' vault. It's not unheard of for a parent to pass a wand to their magical heir. I believe we have another first year with his father's wand?'
'Mr Longbottom is having considerable trouble with his wand,' McGonagall answered. 'Parents leave wands as family artefacts all the time, but they rarely pass generation to generation without skipping.'
'Perhaps,' Dumbledore said, folding his hands before him on the desk, 'we should perform a few cautionary tests on Mr Longbottom's wand. After all, it's possible to interpret what happened to his father as defeat.'
Snape went pale at that. McGonagall put her hand to her throat. 'We may have a wand in this castle loyal to Bellatrix Lestrange?' she whispered.
'We would know,' Snape told her, but he didn't seem to believe it. 'And that would not be loyalty. It would be corruption. That wand would reek of her.'
'As Harry's wand would reek of the Wizard who conquered it,' Dumbledore concluded genially. 'If such were the case. As it does not, I believe we have proved our worry sensible, but ultimately unneeded. To be certain- Severus, you noticed nothing in your examination of Lily's wand?'
'Nothing,' Snape said, with great reluctance. He put his pointy chin in the air. 'It would be wise to perform lengthier tests, however. Send samples of the core to experts. At the very least, Potter should not be wielding it near innocents.'
'You know as well as anyone that tampering with a wand destroys its magic!' McGonagall shot to her feet, forestalling Harry's screech of protest. Fawkes made an odd sussurating sound in Harry's ear, and stroked his beak against Harry's cheek. It calmed him immensely, and he watched without worry as McGonagall and Snape began an argument with histrionics and raised voices. Dumbledore didn't listen to them at all. He was watching Harry.
It ended with a growl. 'Fine!' Snape declared, waving his hands like bats in McGonagall's face. 'Don't blame me when he's possessed by latent sorcery. He'll murder us all in our beds with that thing-'
'I think not, Severus,' Dumbledore said, only mildly reproving, but Snape shut up immediately, his jaws clenched so hard Harry could hear him grinding his teeth.
Then, 'The boy owes me a detention.'
'For?' McGonagall demanded.
'Cheek. Lying. He wouldn't tell me where he got her wand.'
'He didn't owe you an explanation!' McGonagall cried, and Harry felt a sudden burst of affection for her.
'Albus,' Snape appealed. 'What infractions occur in my domain are mine to punish, and as I see fit-'
Dumbledore posed a hand in the air. 'Peace, peace. As you see fit, Severus, which I'm sure is a place of utmost reasonableness and justification. Besides, it will give you and Harry a chance to get to know one another, and overcome any lingering unpleasantness resulting from this misunderstanding.'
Harry stared. That was insane. And silly besides. Snape looked fit to eat Harry alive, and there was no misunderstanding! Not on Harry's part, anyway. He understood Snape perfectly well. Down to the triumphant glare he cast at Harry now, gloating over his win.
'Excellent,' Dumbledore said brightly, and that was that.
Professor MacGoniggle gave me fifteen points though for saying Good Morning, though. Percy says she usually finds ways to make it up to you when things go bad which is what you want in a Head, I think. Did you have her as a teacher when you were here? I like her. I'm not sure I like some of the other professors or the headmaster.
Harry stared down at his letter. Slowly, carefully, he lined out the last three words. Then the whole sentence.
I get to learn to fly on Monday, he wrote instead, and filled the rest of the page with pleasant chat, well wishes, and a promise to study hard so he could be a great Auror one day.
Just like his mum and dad, and Potions be damned.