Disclaimer: Take a wild guess.

AN: 1. Ok, so normally, I HATE flashbacks – hate reading them, hate writing them, but that was really the only way I could get the timing to work…
2. I have no idea what a first year Ravenclaw timetable looks like, and even though with enough research and going over the books it might be possible to figure it out, there's no way I'm going to do that much work (save the research for essays, eh?)…so I'll be making a schedule and pairing the Ravenclaws with other houses as I see fit to further the plot.
3. There's a Greek word in this chapter – it is meant to be ancient Greek, but I am not very familiar with the language, so... yeah, I wish I could have used Latin, which I know, but it wouldn't have worked. Oh, and there's French too – I'm awful at French.
4. Oh, and thanks, once again, everybody, for reading my story; I'm feeling inspired, and Harry is happy with me. To be honest, I was going to wait a couple of days to post again – I mean, posting every day is a little obsessive (it's not like I'm even spending that much time writing, the story's just sort of writing itself). Couldn't stand to, so here you go.

Chapter 6: Of Classes and Conundrums

One, two, three, four times, the bird tapped on the window. Squinting as the earliest hints of the scarlet light of dawn crept through the royal blue curtains of Ravenclaw Tower, Harry finally relented, walking up to the window and shooing the annoying creature away. Sure, the Ravenclaw mascot was a bird, but that didn't mean he had to like the bloody beasts. Glancing out the window, he saw the Black Lake flickering with the early morning sunlight, the sun only barely peaking over the eastern horizon and painting the stony castle walls gold and crimson. Groaning, Harry stumbled back into his four poster bed, throwing the blue curtains shut, and snuggling back into the lusciously comfortable quilt and pillows, idly recalling the eventful night before:

(Flashback starts…now!)

At first, only a stunned silence followed as Professor McGonagall lifted the hat off of Harry's head – but as he rose to his feet and began to make his way over to the Ravenclaw table, a thunderous applause broke forth therefrom, causing Harry to grin ever so slightly as he sat down beside one of the boys who had been sorted into Ravenclaw only a few minutes earlier.

The sandy-haired boy smiled at him, holding out his hand. "Terry Boot."

Harry smiled back, taking the offered hand, "Harry Potter, at your service."

Another dark-haired boy across from them also nodded toward Harry, not bothering to smile. "Michael Corner."

"Don't mind him," Terry said, "He hasn't smiled since he got seated."

Harry smirked. "Maybe he's waiting until a girl gets sorted?"

Michael glared at him, though the glare held no real heat, whilst three cries of outrage broke out from further down the table. Harry blinked, noticing who he remembered to be Padma Patil, Sue Li, and Mandy Brocklehurst all looking rather put out. "Oh, right, there's already been three. Sorry ladies, you have my humblest apologies."

Padma and Mandy blushed profusely, while Sue just sniffed and turned her attention back to the sorting.

"And don't forget Anthony, over here," Terry added.

"Oi! I'm not a bloody girl!" a voice from beside Terry complained, and Harry looked over to the round-faced, blonde haired boy.

"And Entwhistle's the one beside Michael, and the one beside him's Cornfoot," Terry continued.

Harry recognized Entwhistle as "Entwhistle, Kevin," one of the students who had chuckled at his Deep Purple analogy.

At that moment a blur of dark hair and robes plopped itself between Michael and Kevin, the face of a petite, but lively girl darting between the other occupants of the table. "I'm Lisa Turpin, I was just sorted into Ravenclaw too."

"You don't say," Harry muttered, as Terry outright laughed and the scowl Michael was directing at the girl turned into a smirk.

"And you're Harry Potter!" she exclaimed. "I think it's wonderful that you were sorted into Ravenclaw."

Harry blanched. "Er…thanks."

The girl smiled widely at him, and Terry grinned between the two. "Aw…it's love at first sight!"

Harry scowled, but then glanced at the front of the Great Hall as "Zabini, Blaise," traipsed down to the Slytherin table.

At that moment, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, shimmering purple and gold robe billowing out as he opened his arms, beaming brilliantly at the student from behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Welcome," he announced in a happy, warm voice. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!" He clapped his hands, causing a scrumptious-looking feast to materialize on the long tables.

Michael and Kevin were staring at the headmaster incredulously, whilst Lisa between them beamed back at him, seemingly star struck. Terry had burst into a fit of giggles, elbowing Anthony beside him, who simply stared back at Terry disapprovingly.

"Well that was…fascinating," Harry commented.

"Fascinating indeed," said Michael dryly.

"I wonder," Harry mused as he placed a small portion of carrots and chicken on his plate, "He's a little mad, isn't he?"

An older boy slightly down the table answered, "Perhaps, but he's amazing, one of the most powerful wizards in the world, they say!" exclaimed the boy, before adding, "Robert Hilliard, prefect."

Harry nodded. "Harry Potter. Not a prefect."

Terry rolled his eyes beside him. "He already knows that, the Harry Potter part."

Michael snorted. "Everyone does."

Harry sighed. "It's really quite disconcerting, you know."

Anthony leaned over to fetch some rolls for himself, glancing at Harry's plate. "Is that all you're going to eat, Harry?"

"I'm saving room for desert." He glanced around at his fellow first years. "Say, I've been meaning to ask someone, what's the Dark Lord's real name?"

The mouths of all the students in close proximity to Harry snapped shut.

"You mean, you don't know? You defeated him!" Lisa protested.

Harry scowled. "Not like I remember it. And besides, he hardly introduced himself beforehand. So, name?"

Terry leaned in close. "His name was…" his voice dropped to a near-silent whisper, "Voldemort."

"Voldemort?" Harry repeated, watching with amusement as all the students who heard him flinched. "As in vol de la mort? Flight of death?"

Terry blinked. "What's that?"

"Vol de la mort, like Voldemort, it's French for flight of death. The question is though, whether death flees from him, or he flees from death."

The other first years, along with Robert the prefect and another boy beside him were gaping at him with varying degrees of incredulity.

"But that wasn't what I was asking, you know. I wanted to know his real name. It's not like his mother gave birth to him and said, 'hey there little tyke, you're so cute, I think I'll call you Voldemort.'"

Michael and Terry snorted, but Stephen Cornfoot spoke up thoughtfully, "I'd never thought of it like that…" Several others nodded in agreement.

Harry sighed. "So no one knows his real name?" A collective shaking of heads. "Right then, splendid, more research for me."

(Flashback ends…now!)

Harry recalled that the rest of the feast had passed quite quietly, enjoying greatly the memory of stuffing himself to the brim with sweets he had never even heard of before. After the feast (and the Headmaster's warning to stay away from the third floor corridor, which apparently guaranteed a painful death), the students were escorted to their respective common rooms by the prefects of their houses. The Ravenclaw common room was high up in a tall, narrow tower, all the way up a long winding staircase, the sides of which were peppered with paintings (of dead people, apparently). A portrait was laid over the entrance, and it would only open if you answered whatever riddle it gave correctly. The prefects, once in the common room, had gone over a list of rules with the already sleepy first years, which Harry couldn't be bothered to remember. They were then pointed toward their respective dormitories, but while Michael, Terry, Anthony, Stephen, and Kevin raced up to their room, Harry stayed behind, approaching one of the prefects, a curly haired Penelope Clearwater, about a spell to make sure no one could hear what was being said in close proximity to it. When asked why he would need something like that, he made an excuse about nightmares. The kindly girl accepted that, and suggested a charm called muffliato, but said that it was quite difficult, and certainly not first year material. She showed him the wand movements nonetheless, saying that if any first year could learn it, it would be a Ravenclaw. Harry had shrugged and thanked her, heading up to the dormitory, finding the other boys already in bed. Harry had waited until he was sure they were already asleep before he changed into his night clothes, attempting the charm (he didn't think it had worked completely, but it sort of did) and retrieved the envelope from his pocket.

(Flashback begins…now!)

"Engorgio!" Harry pointed his wand at the tiny box he had dumped out of the envelope containing Jeans letter, and sure enough, it grew, right before his eyes, into a full sized trunk. Slightly worn around the edges, but still clearly carven with intricate, abstract patterns, the trunk was bound by heavy, iron fasteners and braces. Harry tried to open it, but to no avail, and suddenly recalled what the letter had said about a password.

"Open sesame?" he tried feebly. No such luck. "Er…Jean? Jean Alliette? Alliette? Led Zeppelin? Robert Plant? John Bonham? Jimmy Page? John Paul Jones? Python? Pythia? Apollo? Thoth?" Harry sighed, scowling at the trunk. Those were all the obvious ones. "Brat?" He tried the trunk again – still locked.

What would Jean have set the password as? Harry was supposed to guess it on his own, so it must have been some piece of knowledge that both he and Jean shared – but they had only known each other for less than an hour. It was sort of ironic, Harry mused, that the person he had come to care for most was the one he'd known for the shortest time. He ran over their meeting in his head trying to pick out words that stuck out. They really hadn't talked about much outside of magic and divination. Thoughtfully, he tried all the names of the Major Arcana, but to no avail; the trunk remained locked.

But then it hit him – what had Harry and Jean shared that no one else did? Parseltongue! Harry's eyes lit up, and slowly, careful to pronounce slowly and smoothly, he tried, :Open?:

Sure enough, the locks on the trunk whirred and clicked, and Harry eagerly flung the lid open, eyes immediately coming to rest on the Led Zeppelin t-shirt laid over the top, smaller and cleaner than he remembered. Harry picked it up slowly, carefully, but then embraced it, burying his face in it. Jean's favourite t-shirt – images flooded Harry's mind of Jean wearing it everywhere, while he squatted in old abandoned buildings, performed divinations, flirted with girls, and ran from whatever local authorities he managed to piss off – it still smelt like him, faint industrial smoke, tobacco, cannabis, and various other dubious herbs.

"Well it's about time!"

Harry started at the voice, stiffening at its familiarity, and peering into the trunk. There, atop a pile of records, sat a small painting, barely the size of the palm of his hand, set in a frame that looked like it was made of scrap metal (complete with half-melted gears, springs, nuts, and bolts). The painting looked new, bright – but what caught Harry's eye was that fact that it bore the image of a scowling Jean Alliette.

"I've been waiting forever. And let me tell you, brat, sitting in a trunk for years, not fun."

Harry gaped, staring at the ranting painting in shock.

"Oh come on, close your mouth before wrackspurts fly in, you look like an idiot now. Don't make me regret making you my heir."

Harry snapped out of his daze, and, with trepidation, picked up the painting. "J-Jean?"

"No, Mick Jagger. What the hell, kid? You were much sharper two years ago."

Harry scowled at the painting. "What's got your knickers in a twist?"

"Need you ask? This is the longest I've ever gone without smokin' something!"

Harry snorted. "You're a painting, you're not going through withdrawals."

"Easy for you to say."

Harry suddenly sobered. "So you were at Gringotts, as a painting, all this time?"

The image in the painting nodded. "Had this done right before I died. So what do you think – am I hotter before death, or after death?"

Harry's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I missed you so much…"

"Woah, woah there kid, stop right now! I've never been good with crying ladies."

Harry scowled, fiercely wiping his eyes. "I'm not a girl!"

"Then grow some balls and stop crying."

Harry sniffed, glaring. "If you don't stop being such a git, I'll toss you in the trunk and forget about you!"

The painting stiffened. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Damn kid, the years have hardened your heart."

Harry smiled softly, laughing. "Thanks for the t-shirt."

"Well it's not like I could just leave a treasure like that unused - it's even signed on the back. Have you seen the other stuff?"

Harry shook his head, looking back into the trunk. He pulled out a pile of records, recognizing Led Zeppelin I-IV, Houses of the Holy, Physical Graffiti, Presence, In Through the Out Door, and Coda immediately.

"All of them?" Harry affirmed, grinning.

Painting-Jean stuck his nose in the air (or rather, negative space). "Of course."

Harry reached into the trunk again, pulling out an old, decrepit text labelled, Book of Thoth and another leather-bound text. He looked inside the cover, finding a title page with the original title, Omnium Divinatio, crossed out and another written boldly under it.

"'Jean's Guide to Awesomeness'?" Harry read, quirking an eyebrow at the painting.

"Hell yeah. A historical guide to all sorts of divination, complete with my own helpful notes and tips."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head, and proceeded to unpack Les Propheties and Orus Apollo by Nostradamus, along with The Key of Solomon and the Book of Enoch.

"Isn't that from the Bible?" Harry asked incredulously.

"It's not canon." Jean grinned. "It'll be clear why once you read it. These are all direct transcripts of the originals, by the way – not the watered down copies you can find at a library."

Harry nodded and pulled out a few more journals, as well as a bag of rune tiles, one of gems, a few sets of cards, and a crystal ball. One of the journals, however, caught his eye – it was small, black, latched with a jewelled fastener; and written clearly, deeply over the cover were the letters, ΑΠΑΓΟΡΕΥΜΕΝΟΣ, and below it, just as stark, the English, FORBIDDEN.

"Well, that's ominous." He reached down toward the latch.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Harry dropped the book at Jean's sudden outburst, "Don't touch that!"

"Why?" Harry wondered, peering down suspiciously at the book. "Is it porn?"

Jean snorted. "Get your mind out of the gutter and look at the cover."

"And?"

"And," Jean drawled, "What does it say?"

"Forbidden. So?"

Jean let out an exasperated sigh. "You were sorted into Gryffindor, weren't you?"

"I'm a Ravenclaw!"

"Really? Ain't you got a bit too much spunk to fit in with the bookworms?"

Harry scowled. "The hat thought I'd kill all the Gryffindors in a week."

Jean nodded sagely. "Very true. To be honest, I was betting on Slytherin."

"But Malfoy, who's a real prat by the way, was sorted into Slytherin. Interesting bloke, but I don't think I could survive in the same dorm as him...I might go insane, or something..."

"More insane," Jean corrected airily.

Harry glared. "And the book?"

"Right, well...brat, you're in a world now were touching the wrong thing could get you killed – oh wait, muggles can do that too. Never mind. Anyway, it's not uncommon for curses and the like to be placed on things. When something says it's forbidden, it's probably for a reason."

Harry nodded slowly. "Is there a curse on the book, then?"

Jean only shrugged.

"Well…what's inside it?"

Jean shrugged again.

"Seriously, Jean, an ominous black book with the word 'forbidden' plastered over it in two languages, and you didn't even try to find out what's inside?"

Jean full-on glared at him. "I was told the same thing about it that every heir is told:

"The secret darkest
Begot in lack
Dwells deep within
The book of black

"To Pythia in
Good faith gifted,
From Apollo's
Bosom lifted

"Only for thy
Darkest hour,
Only when
Thy need is dour,

"For thither knowledge
Cannot be lost,
And he who's known it
Must pay the cost,

"Never forgotten,
The black book's toll,
For forbidden knowledge,
Thy eternal soul."

Harry sucked in a deep breath, his mind reeling as he attempted to fully process the meaning of the poem. So many meanings, he heard them weaving between the letters, tucked in between each line.

"Don't even try to figure a way out of it, Harry, I've tried. Hell, everyone's tried. And you know what, no one's been enough of an idiot to actually open the book."

Harry frowned. "So no one knows what's inside?"

Jean looked at Harry sharply. "When a magical contract – 'cause that's what this is, you know, a damn solid contract – says that something costs your eternal soul, you run the other way. Period. No questions asked."

"But I do have questions," grumbled Harry.

"Yeah, well forget them. Your job is to guard it, makes sure no one gets their hands on it."

"Then why don't I just, I don't know, burn it or something?"

"Tell me, Harry, did you ever lose your Tarot cards?"

"Uncle Vernon incinerated them once," Harry growled.

"Yeah? You remember what happened?"

Harry grimaced at the painful memory.

"Right, so, the book's the same, it won't be going anywhere. It's yours, and only yours, for the rest of your mortal life, unless someone willfully steals it from you, which would be very bad, by the way. And at the end of your life, it will be your job to find someone else to protect it."

"Like you did, by giving it to me?"

"Right."

"You're rather evil, Jean, you know that, right?"

"Not that I don't appreciate the compliment, but why would you say that?"

"Making me think you were giving me this huge gift, stupid kid I was, and then dumping all this on me in a letter and as a portrait, after you died! Manipulating a little kid - that's just cruel!"

Jean laughed briefly, and then sobered. "I couldn't trust anyone else. I knew right when I met you that you were the one - and you can't let me down now. Understand?"

"Yes," Harry groaned.

"Good brat," Jean grinned, "Now off to bed."

(Flashback ends…now!)

To see Jean again…had been surreal – Harry could barely wrap his head around the fact that the jerk of a portrait was sitting inside the trunk beside his bed. Harry blinked blearily; all the reminiscing had lulled his mind, and he thought, maybe, just maybe, he would be able to get a few more moments' sleep…

"Oi, anyone else up?"

Harry groaned when he heard Terry's loud voice.

He heard a softer voice, which belonged to Anthony. "Harry?"

"Yeah, that's Harry! Get up Harry!"

"Shut up you dolt!" Or at least, the growl seemed to form those words.

Ah, so Michael had just woken as well.

"I'll be right out," Harry grumbled, reaching for the robes he had draped over the edge of the bed and throwing them on, he emerged from behind the curtains covering his bed as he was tying his tie, seeing Terry and Anthony already dressed, Kevin as well, and Stephen blearily trying to slip his socks on. Apparently, Michael was still in bed.

"There he is!" cried Terry, "Now we can go get breakfast!"

"Finally," Kevin mumbled, "I'm starving."

"Just…wait...for me…socks…" groaned Stephen. Anthony sighed and went over to pull up his socks, glancing over at Harry.

"Do you need some help with your tie, Harry?"

Harry glanced down at the limp tie hanging over his robes, which he had given up on. It was one thing to tie a tie; it was another to tie it on a Monday morning. "Nah, I'm good."

"If you're sure."

"Right then," said Terry, "Let's get breakfast before our upperclassmen eat it all."

Harry looked over at Michael's bed. "What about him?"

Terry raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to try and wake him?"

Harry grimaced. "Not really, no."

"Then come on."

The five boys traipsed down into the common room, finding only a few fellow Ravenclaws lingering on the sofas. They made their way to the portrait hole, flying down the stairs, only sobering their pace at the enraged cries of the paintings, "No running down the stairs!"

They reached the Great Hall panting for air, scurrying gleefully toward the table at the sight of breakfast. Harry almost immediately began shovelling sausages, marmalade, and fruit pudding on his plate.

"What are you doing?"

Harry looked up to find Lisa Turpin glaring at his plate of…mush in disgust. He shrugged. "Making breakfast."

"What is that?"

"I like sausages, I like marmalade, and I like fruit pudding. Much better than dry toast."

The girl shivered and went back to her breakfast.

Suddenly, Harry got the feeling that someone was standing behind him, possibly glaring at him, but he ignored it in favour of his breakfast – his marmalade-sausage pudding was good.

"Er, Harry," he heard Terry say, "There's an angry beaver and a chipmunk behind you."

Harry blinked, and turned around to find Hermione and Neville staring at him. "Oh, hi."

Hermione scowled. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Tell you what?"

"Your name!"

"I did tell you my name, its Harry."

"Harry Potter," Hermione corrected.

"Yes well, that Draco kid made that pretty clear."

"We were kind of preoccupied at the moment, but never mind that, why didn't you tell us?"

Harry sighed. "Because here, Harry Potter is the kid who defeated Voldemort –" everyone flinched "- but Harry could be anyone. Being famous and practically worshiped is fine and dandy and all, but it's not the way to make friends."

Neville smiled at that, and beside him, Hermione blinked. "Oh, that's alright then. Here." She reached down and grabbed his tie, pursing her lips as she tied it tightly. "I'll see you later then, Harry." The two waved, and rushed back to the Gryffindor table.

"Well that was rather Hufflepuff-ish," Michael drawled as he sat down at the table.

Harry scowled at him. "Shut up."

Michael glowered back. "And why did you all leave without me?"

Stephen looked over at him. "Have you heard yourself in the mornings? Like a bloody troll, your growl."

Michael's scowl deepened, as he violently stabbed one of the sausages on his plate.

Transfiguration was their first class, taught by Professor McGonagall. Immediately after the last student had filed into the classroom, she began her lecture with a stern warning. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned," she announced, turning the neat desk she stood behind into a pig and back again, greatly impressing the first years.

The lecture was quite complex, as Harry had expected it to be – they were learning how to transform the very nature of something, after all. Nonetheless, whilst he jotted down notes, his mind began to wander, picking up on all the possibilities for the magnificent, diverse science that was transfiguration.

When Professor McGonagall paused to ask if there were any questions, Harry's hand immediately shot up.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Is it possible to transfigure humans? Like, say I wanted to transfigure Terry into a frog."

Terry blanched, and several other students chuckled.

"Human transfiguration is possible, Mr. Potter, but is extremely complex and dangerous, and will not be covered until your NEWT year. Now, anymore…"

Harry's hand shot up again, as Terry cast him an uneasy glance.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Can you transfigure humans into inanimate objects? Ooh, or what about elements? – like, what if I was in a fight, and I wanted to transfigure Terry into a fireball, or a ball of water, and use him to drown my opponent."

Terry inched away from him, a look of horror on his face.

Professor McGonagall sighed. "A better option, Mr. Potter, would simply be the use of an Incendio or Aguamenti charm."

"I know, but is it possible?"

"With extensive study, expertise, and skill in transfiguration, it may be possible," Professor McGonagall said sharply, "But certainly not wise, Mr. Potter."

Harry accepted the answer as a plea not to pry further, and waited patiently as Professor McGonagall explained their assignment of turning a match into a needle.

"What is that on the end of your needle, Mr. Potter?" she asked as she looked over Harry's and Terry's transfiguration attempts.

"It's a barb, Professor, to inflict maximum damage."

McGonagall sighed exasperatedly. "Five points to Ravenclaw, Mr. Potter, for the first successful transfiguration, but in the future, follow my instructions exactly. And transfigure that into a regular needle, preferably with the end dulled before you endanger yourself or your classmates."

Defence Against the Dark Arts followed – though Harry wasn't sure that Professor Quirrel could defend against anything, let alone the Dark Arts.

The classroom was filled with the unpleasant aroma of garlic, apparently to ward off a vampire that was tracking the skittish professor. It was very hard to follow the lecture through the strong smell and the professor's incessant stuttering (and, for Harry, the biting headache that wouldn't seem to leave him alone, sharpening in his scar every time Quirrel turned around), but the students managed to glean that they would be learning how to defend against offensive spells, like certain charms, jinxes, hexes, and curses, as well as against dark creatures. Half way through the class, Michael had spoken up and asked Professor Quirrel,

"What about offence? Will we be learning any curses?"

The professor went deathly white, and began to stutter incoherently.

"Oh!" Harry exclaimed, suddenly inspired, "What about creating our own curses?"

Both Michael and Kevin, and even Padma looked quite interested at that.

"Like the other night," Harry continued, "I was wondering if there was a curse that untangled a person's intestines inside their body, and then braided them. The person's insides would blow up then, wouldn't they?"

Professor Quirrel promptly fainted, and the first years (most looking a little green) got out of class early.

Lunch was a mostly eventless affair after which the ten first year Ravenclaws made their way to Herbology, which was held outside in a greenhouse.

Harry found the class reasonably enjoyable, as he had some experience with plants, and despite the fact that it was an item on his chore list, enjoyed gardening. The kindly, plump Professor Sprout had begun the class by warning the First Years to stay away from the other greenhouses, as some of them housed several plants which, though she euphemized the expression quite a bit, were, in short, man-eating.

Michael, however, seemed to pick up on the euphemism, and asked skeptically, "How would a plant manage to devour a human, a wizard at that?"

Before the professor could respond, Harry piped up in return. "That's easy. Even certain species of muggle plants can devour insects. I would imagine a much larger magical plant would similarly devour a human – using naturally secreted corrosive acids, the plant would first trap its prey, then melt the flesh, all the way down to the bone, digesting the dissolving nutrients. By the time the bones begin to bubble and ooze, the internal organs would rupture…" His rant was silenced when Professor Sprout slapped a hand over his mouth.

Mandy Brocklehurst promptly emptied her stomach of her lunch.

Ah, yes, Harry was making quite the impression at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

And that's that. If you cracked a smile, review.