09 - Hogwarts' Certified Dungeons

At five o'clock in the morning, a loud annoying sound rang through the first year girls' dormitory. It was Hermione Granger's clock, whose alarm had been scheduled to wake her up early. She didn't count on me throwing her a pillow, nor did she count on the fact that she'd spent the next minutes trying to wake me up. Or at least trying to get me to move.

It wasn't like I could just fall asleep though. Once I was awake, it was hard to fall back. So with a sigh, I rose and went to the showers.

I unpacked everything. My clothes, my underwear, my shoes – and saw with a start that I had nothing in comparison to Lavender Brown's trunk, which had been enchanted to be bigger on the inside. Even Hermione had brought a pile of books. What a letdown.

I searched for my uniform but it was nowhere in sight. I was going to ask the others where they found their when I spotted the wardrobe next to my bed. Its door was slightly ajar.

I stumbled. The towel had fallen from my hair and got tangled around my ankle. Cursing, I lifted my foot and watched the towel fall. Then I opened the wardrobe.

There it was. Hung up and ironed. But the uniform didn't look like the one I had bought. For starters, the lining inside the black robe had turned red. At the front – on the right side – was knitted the Gryffindor crest. My tie – which had been initially gray and black – was red and a dark yellow. When I moved, the color looked like gold. And my V-neck jumper had been colored with red on the cuffs and the waist line. The same happened with the sleeveless jumper.

I gently rubbed the crest's knitting. It was perfectly similar to the drawing down in the common room. How could it have changed when I had locked it in the trunk?

"This is seriously some magic," I muttered.


I had plenty of time left after eating breakfast. Hermione did, too, and nearly bouncing, she dragged me to the library, waving a napkin with a crudely drawn map of Hogwarts (courtesy of Percy Weasley).

It was a labyrinth. The shelves were so tall they almost touched the ceiling. Some students bearing the Ravenclaw crest were already crawling around, calling for books and grasping the ones that flew straight to them. There were sections of tables, each with two old-looking gas lamps on them, and others where students could work alone.

While I gaped, Hermione was running giddily down the aisles, somehow not making any noise. To my left, Madam Pince – the librarian – watched us with beady eyes.

Unlike Hermione, I did know where to search first. The Charms section was particularly full of flying books, some enchanted to have wings of different kinds. Origami animals flew around too, working as messengers while others just hovered over certain books.

I'd decided to take a nice-looking blue book when the cage caught my eye.

Well, not a cage. It was a cornered section of the library, nothing but a wall of bars with an old, padded lock on its door. The shelves behind this fence were considerably smaller; the books' spines were smooth of names. Some items were locked behind glass cases too.

I was trying to push my face through the bars when Madam Pince came barreling around the corner, nostrils flaring and the quill in her hand pointing straight at my eyes. I escaped before she could even think about using it at all.


After the first day, travelling through the castle became difficult. Hermione and I had been ignorant of one tiny detail: Hogwarts was alive. Literally.

Or as literally as 'everything here moves, walks or flies on its own' gets.

According to Hogwarts: A History, the castle had a hundred and forty-two staircases. Wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones. Some that led somewhere different on Tuesdays; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump on Mondays.

Then there were the doors. I'd thought we had gone the right way, but it didn't open. I knocked loudly for about a minute – until Peeves appeared through the door, grabbed my nose and screamed: "GOT YOUR CONK!"

I proved that day that poltergeists, unlike ghosts, were tangible but barely. After I punched him, Peeves' stomach had bounced back like a balloon.

Since then, Hermione decided it was better and safe to ask Percy the directions to each class. I didn't contradict her. As long as we didn't meet Peeves, or the caretaker, Argus Filch, and his cat Mrs. Norris, I would go to the end of the world with her.

And then there was Potter. The bane of our strategic attendance. No matter how many plans we made, we always somehow ended close to him – and his band of followers. Boy, did he have followers.

"There, look."

"Where?"

"See the Princess and her bushy-haired friend? A little behind them, next to the tall kid with the red hair."

"It's the one wearing the glasses?"

"Aah. Dad says most Potters wear them."

"No way. Have you seen his face? It's true he's got the scar?"

Harry Potter. The newest sensation. The boy who lived.

Natasha had been quick to answer. I hadn't expected it.

Twenty-two years ago, a wizard sought to be powerful. Because of this, there was a war. We all knew of him as Voldemort. (Fitting, don't you think?) His beliefs were that Muggles didn't deserve any kind of magic, and thus Muggleborns were 'dirty' to his eyes. There were people out there who believed the same as him; some of them joined him and created their own group. They were Death Eaters. In retaliation, there was another group formed: the Order of the Phoenix. Only those who joined it knew about its existence. As you have realized by now, we dealt closely with Voldemort's attacks.

James and Lily Potter were part of this group. After meeting him three times, the man grew into an obsession with them. When they had a son, they went into hiding. But there was a spy in our ranks. We didn't figure it out until it was too late.

In October 31st, 1980, Voldemort killed James and Lily Potter. And then he tried to kill Harry Potter. No one knows what really happened except for the thereafter. Harry Potter did not die but Voldemort vanished. The proof of his survival is the scar on his forehead.

You can imagine what came next. The world was obviously shocked. How could a one-year-old baby defeat this man when more powerful wizards tried and failed?

How could he, indeed. How could he.

The truth was that everything about Harry Potter floored me. His life, his atrocious sense of fashion, but most of all, himself.

Where had he been all these years? Rumours said he'd been raised in training against dark wizards; others believed he probably lived with a distant relative outside the country.

Neither explained his dressing. It was silly I kept coming back to that, but it nagged me that the saviour of the wizarding world dressed like a homeless person. No one had really noticed because it was obligatory we are in uniform at all times.

Ron Weasley probably knew. The two were joined at the hip. You saw one and the other was not far behind. And Potter always looked comfortable with the redhead, and the redhead always made sure to keep Harry away from the whispers. The ones that carried his parents' names and you-know-who's.

As a person who was used to being talked behind their back, I could tell he was running himself hoarse. Yelling at these people didn't work; they were too stubborn.

I glanced at their faces. They looked tired.

"HEY, DON'T YOU ALL HAVE CLASSES? YOU'RE WASTING SPACE!"

"Anya!" hissed Hermione in embarrassment, grabbing my backpack from behind and tugging on it. Pointless. Their gazes switched on us, but I didn't back down.

"Well?" I said loudly. A few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs scattered away, while the most stubborn ones stayed in their places. A few of the present Slytherin scowled or sneered as they walked past us. I glared at each one of them until it was only the four of us in the corridor. Only then did I relax into my regular frown.

"Err, thanks?" said Potter.

I shrugged.


Throughout the week, we had six different subjects: Astronomy, Herbology, Charms, Transfiguration, and DADA. I was extremely pleased to find out none of the classes were like the Muggle tricks back at home, but disappointed to not see any math or literature.

That isn't to say they weren't complicated at all. They were. Every wand work needed the precise movement of the wrist, the correct pronunciation of the spell, the right way to held oneself – and perhaps you'd be able to do magic.

I missed fighting. At least I broke windows back then.

The easiest of all subjects was Astronomy. All we had to do was to study the sky through a telescope at midnight when the stars were visible and easier to track. Relearning their names wasn't much of a hassle, considering I had a class similar to this one when I was seven.

On the other hand, there was Herbology.

Er… well.

Three times a week, we had to lock ourselves inside Greenhouse One, one of seven at the back of the castle. It was taught by Professor Sprout, a small, plump woman with dirty robes and dirt-stained hands. She was like those grandmas who were overly fond of their pets, but Sprout had replaced them with plants.

Plants that could move. Plants that looked like cousins of a mutant Venus Flytrap. Plants that apparently needed watering.

Each time Sprout showed us a different plant, I kept imagining the Greenhouse was a wizarding version of the Little Shop of Horrors. Even Neville was starting to look like that Seymour bloke, what with his ability to talk plants into letting him pet them. He'd really fared better than me: the first time I'd seen a leaf wiggle, I'd dropped a pot accidentally.

And then a second. And a third. Professor Sprout had been near tears when Hermione ushered me out of Greenhouse One, hairs in disarray and gloves too big falling behind us.

Another of our classes was History of Magic. The teacher was a ghost and I'd expected great things from him, considering that the ones in the Great Hall told fascinating tales of courage and magic beyond belief.

I was wrong. Very, very wrong. So wrong I fell asleep five minutes into his monologue; Binns' droning had lulled me into relaxation until I began to feel my eyelids droop. I kept walking out of that classroom with a terrible ache in the neck; according to Hermione, it was because my head kept lolling when I fought dizziness and jerking awake for me was like snapping a bone.

It didn't help that the dead man kept mixing names up and never stopped to explain when someone asked. Had Hermione not pointed out the mixes, nobody would've turned in their homework for next class.

There was also Charms, my favorite subject so far. Professor Flitwick was just as Hermione had described him: in our first class, he had worn an orchestra suit and a bowtie, but in the next class, he'd arrived looking like a miniature version of Gandalf sans the staff. Apparently, he didn't like routine.

When he taught, he had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. Flitwick was also funny and took pleasure on the expressions of wonder on his students' faces when he revealed – with a flick of his wand – a huge banner that read 'WELCOME!' along with a small display of fireworks. The highlight of the week was the first time he took roll call: the moment he saw his name, Flitwick's eyes had widened; he squealed "Harry Potter!" and toppled out of sight. He also didn't seem to mind I asked him a lot about his class; he thrived in the questions, and had, in appreciation, showed me how to make cupcakes dance.

Transfiguration was where I saw Professor McGonagall again. Once we'd settled in her classroom, she began with a short, but effective speech.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again.

Transfiguration was hard. Not quite hard as math, but complicated as physics… which if you think about it, is basically the same. It involves practice and theory. We didn't start turning desks into animals right away, but the notes on the board were a tad difficult to understand. The logic of Transfiguration was even harder than Newton's theory of gravity.

I loved the challenge. It kept me awake.

Professor McGonagall handed us each a match. She told us we had to turn it into a needle. Twelve tries later, I got some results; they were not what I expected.

"It looks like a pick tooth," I complained to Hermione. I tapped it with my finger, wincing when a drop of blood dripped on my notebook.

"Well, at least yours works like a needle," Hermione said, inspecting her own match which had turned silver and pointy, but essentially remained a little piece of wood.

"Maybe, but yours doesn't have an identity crisis."

At the end of the class, Professor McGonagall showed all the class the result of our matches, lips twitching in our direction in what I called an 'almost smile'.

Lastly, there was DADA, which stood for Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was taught in a room that was definitely bigger than the Gryffindor common room and possessed many windows, all covered in dark drapes.

I had high hopes for this class, but they were all dashed when Professor Quirinus Quirrell stumbled into the room wearing – of all things – a turban. It wasn't that what bothered me – it was the fact that when he passed by me, it smelt a lot like garlic.

Fred and George Weasley claimed he'd been like this since their first year. A year before that, the man had travelled to Romania. During his stay, he'd met a vampire, and since then, he'd taken to smelling like garlic. They also said the turban had been given to him by an African Prince as a thank you gift for getting rid of a zombie problem.

"Professor," said Seamus Finnigan in curious awe, "How did you fight off the zombie? What did you do to get rid of him?"

Everyone waited for his answer. Quirrell's expression was blank for a moment – the next, he was turning to the windows. He moved the curtains aside, letting the light get in abruptly, blinding half the room.

Good thing I'd sat on the darkest side of the classroom.

In between classes, I ventured around the castle. There were many unused classrooms all over the place, as well as many cupboards and open balconies that overlooked the grounds around the building. The towers, I found, were incredibly dangerous in the sense that their railings were very delicate and in need of a change.

I also found out there was a particular bathroom I wouldn't step a foot in even if I was desperate, but that was quickly forgotten when I stumbled into the kitchens. The Hufflepuffs really had the coolest resources.

By Friday, I had a list of the closest bathrooms, respective classrooms, and the owlery. As for the library, there was no need to write it down; thanks to Hermione, I had the path memorized.

And it was there from where I was coming from, carrying a pile of books that were essentially Hermione's. I placed them on the table carefully, and took the one at the top. Madam Pince had almost taken my head off, thinking I was stealing the book, when it was mine in reality. "No book in this place looks as new as this one," I'd said automatically, regretting it instantly when the old woman's nostrils flared.

There was a hoot from above. I jumped to cover the books instinctively, closing my eyes as the Great Hall was flooded by owls of all kinds. It was a daily occurrence, but Ron Weasley's owl had almost crashed against my head the second day. So mail was not something to look forward to.

A tawny owl landed in front of Hermione and me, digging his claws on the table with practice. Of all the owls, it was perhaps the oldest and the most graceful when it came to landing. It was the same owl Natasha had used to send me letters past Wednesday. This time, it had nothing but a tiny piece of paper tied with a red ribbon around its leg.

"What's that?" asked Hermione. She gazed curiously into the owl's whiskey eyes. Of all the first years, she was the one to not panic that first day.

"Dunno. Better be important, though, if it came all the way from Surrey."

After I placed a bowl of water in front of the owl – Otto, according to Natasha –, I untied the ribbon. It was a torn piece of newspaper. An article that apparently was written two days or so ago. Poor bird.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

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

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

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

Frowning, I looked on the other side of the paper. There was an announcement of the newest potion to make hair grow. I re-read Natasha's letter again, trying to find something explaining the reason of this.

I found nothing.

"Hermione, what do you make of this?"

When she kept cooing over Otto, I waved the paper under her nose. The Gringotts headline was the first thing that caught her attention. She snatched the note from me.

After reading it to herself aloud, she looked at me once more.

"This is impossible."

I raised an eyebrow. Nothing seemed impossible against magic.

"Why?"

"Nobody, ever, has achieved to infiltrate Gringotts before," she said. "Not until now, of course. How did you get this?"

"Natasha sent it," I told her quietly, noticing Harry Potter was looking at us.

"Did she tell you why?" I shook my head. "That's odd."

"Not more than usual, believe me." I looked over at the owl; it looked like he was full. "You can go, Otto. If I need your help again, I'll visit you." Hooting, Otto stretched his wings and took flight.

Hermione checked her wrist watch. "We better get going. I heard Professor Snape is very strict in his class."

"Joy," I deadpanned. Today was the day we had Potions, and it was a double class with the Slytherins. If one of them so much as called me Princess (like the rest of the castle had taken to calling me, for some reason), I would blow up a cauldron.


Like any certified castle, Hogwarts had its own dungeons. They were dark, clammy, and humid, and the Slytherins lived down there. It made one wonder if they were planning to take over the world.

Potions was located next to the end of the stairs that lead down from the Great Hall. The transition from warm and light down to dark and cold was rather obvious to me when I climbed down.

The classroom was worse. All the windows were boarded with wood and covered by black curtains, not a single flicker of natural light entering the room. The chandelier barely gave us light, allowing us a glimpse of the jars at the shelves. Many of them had animal parts floating in dark water.

It looked like the set of Tales from the Crypt.

Despite my reluctance, I allowed Hermione to yank me to the front of the classroom. We settled our cauldrons beside our parchment and books before sitting down.

We didn't have wait for the teacher's arrival. Just as the last Slytherin took place at the back, the door swung open, and Professor Snape walked in. He was a tall man with sallow skin and a hooked nose, much like a crow's beak. His shoulder-length hair and clothes were dark, and his eyes were piercing as he glared at us. Then, with a sigh as dramatic as his entrance, he took a large, tattered book from the shelves and began to take roll call.

I was first on the list. I almost didn't answer, but Professor Snape's voice was so slow that I had the time regroup. He didn't comment on it, but his frown turned into a glare as he continued. When he reached Harry Potter's name, he paused.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new — celebrity." His lips curled.

On the table to our left, Draco Malfoy and his apes sniggered loudly. Snape ignored them and kept calling names. When Zabini brought down his hand, Snape looked up at the class.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making." His voice was merely a whisper; it was like listening to Professor McGonagall again, who transmitted her passion for her subject with her passionate but short speeches.

"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death— if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Dunderheads. At least I knew I learned something today, even if it was an insult.

"Potter!" snapped Snape suddenly, startling us all. I wasn't proud of having been caught by surprise. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

The what of what?

Hermione's hand was left hanging in the air as Snape waited for Harry Potter's answer.

"I don't know, sir," said Potter.

Snape's lips curled into a sneer.

"Tut, tut — fame clearly isn't everything. Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

No way. What?

"I don't know, sir."

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

Snape was still ignoring Hermione's quivering hand.

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

Simple answer. Uncommon question.

"I don't know," said Potter quietly. "I think Hermione does, though, why don't you try her?"

"Sit down," snapped Professor Snape.

I snorted. "Unbelievable."

"Would you like to add something to the class, Barton?" drawled Snape, his black eyes fixing furiously on me. I could hear the Slytherins sniggering. Did they ever stop? I took a deep breath.

"Well, sir, I'm dumbfounded by your knowledge" – here the Slytherins laughed – "and appalled by the approach you chose for this subject. Calling your students dunderheads is simply asking them to be stupid on purpose, you know." I studiously ignored Hermione as she tugged furiously at my sleeve. "You also took advantage of our ignorance to spring on us three questions – one which I'm sure won't come until the end of the course and the other not appearing at all. It makes me wonder if your actions were simply a mistake or if your judgment is this bad."

I glared at him stubbornly. All eyes in the dungeon were on me right now, burning through my skull, but Snape's gaze could've burned the whole place.

"And yet," he drawled, leaning forward; the class instinctively leaned back, "you seem to know the source of the curriculum."

I rolled my eyes. "Yes. I read."

"Why don't you tell us what, supposedly, isn't in the book then, Miss Barton?" he snapped.

He wanted to play it that way then.

"Advanced Potion-Making, Chapter 1: Asphodel and wormwood make a powerful sleeping potion known as the Draught of Living Death. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Chapter Nine: monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which goes by the name of aconite sometimes. And a bezoar comes from the stomach of a goat – it works as an antidote for most potions. That one came from a third year, by the way." I raised one eyebrow. "Do you want me to tell you whom?"

There were whispers. Those who had older siblings knew that Advanced Potion-Making was a book that wouldn't be introduced until sixth year. I only knew because it was the very same book I'd been accused of stealing this morning. An accidental purchase I'd been thinking of changing – until now.

Snape had gone so still I couldn't tell if he was breathing.

"Why are you all staring?" he snapped suddenly. "You should be writing this information down!"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape said, "A point shall be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter. And thirty points from Miss Barton, too, for questioning the way I teach."

"Nobody ever commented the way you dress, then?"

"Another ten points!"

Snape's attitude to us Gryffindors was making me regret my decision to come. What had Dumbledore been thinking when he hired this man? He lacked sympathy, and worse – he seemed to hate repeating himself. Two qualities any teacher should have. All Snape did was criticize the way we did things – and it was obvious we would fail; we were first years, thank you very much.

The situation turned worse when clouds of acid green smoke and loud hissing filled the dungeon.

Within seconds, the whole class had climbed on their stools and tables, watching as Neville moaned in pain when angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs. I was part of the unfortunate lot that got their shoes melted with Neville and Seamus's potion, so I had to take them off.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the spilled potion away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

"Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at Seamus. "You — Potter — why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he'd make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That's another point you've lost for Gryffindor."

The ridiculousness of the situation was so high I was about to retort, but Hermione dug her nails into my arm. She hissed, "Don't! You'll cost us more points!"

"Professor Snape is terrifying," I heard Dean Thomas whisper.

"That man terrifies anyone," I muttered bitterly. "More so his teaching skills."