Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world belong to J. K. Rowling

Chapter 21:

Harry stepped out of the floo into McGonagall's office, as arranged. McGonagall looked him up and down, severe. "No glasses?" she said.

"I can see well now, Professor McGonagall. I don't need them."

"Well, here is your timetable. Mr. Greaves assures me you are not too far behind, so off you go and find your friends."

"Yes, Professor. Professor, why are all those books stacked along your wall?"

McGonagall glanced at the piles of books, stacked high. "We are giving refunds on Lockhart's books. If you have any, bring them here, and you will be paid for them. Do you have the new Defence textbook?"

"Yes, Professor."

"Good. Off you go then. I'm very busy."

It wasn't much of a welcome, but Harry loved the old school, and only when he came to the entry to Gryffindor did he realise he didn't have the password. But then a girl came out, small, long blonde hair. She beamed at him and said, "You're Harry Potter." She turned to the open entry and said, "He's really here, Hermione."

Hermione came out. She looked older and somehow more sad. She stared at him, and then startled him by lunging at him and crying over him. Awkwardly, he patted her shoulder and said, "Everything's fine, Hermione. I told you I was coming back."

"Dumbledore told me we'd never see you again."

"And you believed him? Are you sure he was not working a bit of Mind Magic on you?"

"Mind Magic?"

"I sent you that book, remember?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes still running tears. "I never received a book from you."

The other girl said, "I told you the old man had put Nargles in your head."

Hermione laughed through her tears, and said, "Harry, this is Luna Lovegood. She's a first year."

Harry greeted her, but looked at his watch. "I have to find some textbooks. I've only just got the timetable."

He acknowledged the 'Welcome backs' he received when he went in to the Gryffindor common room, only saying he'd talk to them later. There were comments, half heard, 'Where's his glasses?' and 'His scar's gone,' and 'He's bigger, you can see it.' He ignored them. He had to hurry. But then Charlie grabbed him, shook his hand, hard, and said loudly, "Hello, new little brother. Nice to see you again."

Harry laughed. He liked Charlie, especially when Charlie whispered in his ear, "Ian wanted me to give you a great big smacking kiss, but I didn't."

Harry grinned, "Thanks for that," and he looked at the two 3rd Years close. Charlie said, "Bruce Steinway and Ian Randall. Bruce, Ian, this is Harry, sort-of brother now."

Harry greeted them, but said, "Talk to you later or I'll be late for first lesson."

His new trunk was next to his usual bed, but he hesitated before he opened it. An indicator was glowing red. It meant that someone had tried to open it. But there was no time to wonder who, he consulted his timetable, loaded his book bag, relocked his trunk, and joined the throng of students lining up to go through the portrait hole. Hermione was waiting for him, now joined by Ron and Neville, both of whom gave him the cheery greetings so notably absent from his Head of House, Professor McGonagall.

First on his timetable was a double period of Herbology, Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. Harry had done no study at all in Herbology aside from reading the book through, but it was a largely practical class in any case, and Professor Sprout was easy to get on with. She wouldn't give him a difficult time.

As it turned out, she gave him a rousing welcome, said how wonderful it was that his eyesight had been mended, and congratulated him on his smooth forehead. Admittedly, it was not totally smooth, he could still trace the slight indentation of the old zigzag scar, but it was almost invisible. She turned to the class then, and ordered them to don the smocks and gardening gloves, as was routine, but when she set them to planting out weird-looking plants called Abyssinian Shrivelfigs, she called Harry and started quizzing him, first about his new home, said that it had always been entirely unsuitable that he'd been raised by Muggles, and then spoke about Dumbledore - "They say he's on leave of absence - ill health, you know."

Harry nodded, "I heard that."

"He was always so interested in you," and she paused expectantly.

Harry said, "He was supposed to be my magical guardian. I didn't even know until a couple of months ago. Anyway, I have a far better home now than I ever did before."

"He was your magical guardian? I didn't know that."

"I lived with my mother's sister and her husband, who never wanted me. I never knew there was a magical guardian as well. And I don't know why he put me with Muggles."

"It does seem an odd placement for a magical child."

Harry asked, "Have you heard whether he's coming back?"

"Do you know anything about it? They say he's just sick, but we've also been told to contact the aurors if we see him."

"He's just supposed to be on leave of absence, isn't he? That's what they said in the papers."

"There was a rumour it was something to do with your new placement?"

The teacher waited expectantly, but both Lyall and Brandon had told Harry to keep quiet about what had happened. 'Better not to make yourself a target. Half the wizarding world worships him.'

Harry said, "Shall I start work, Professor?"

"Oh, of course, Mr. Potter. Just plant them as if they are ordinary daisies or something. They're too young to hurt you."

"Yes, Professor," and he pulled on his smock, didn't bother with the gloves, but quickly discovered that the young plants might not hurt exactly, but they felt uncomfortably slimy on his hands. He thought he'd give up Herbology when he could; he'd far rather plant daisies and prune roses.

There was no chance in that class to ask Hermione about that missing book; there were far too many listening ears for a discussion that could cause an argument.

Transfiguration then, and McGonagall was her usual severe self. All the same, she was a good teacher, and it only took a few tries before the fluffy rabbits became cosy slippers. Only Hermione had done better. He was troubled, though, and his hesitant question to the teacher was answered with a brisk answer - they might have appeared to have been real rabbits, but they were conjured and would have disappeared in any case. "As the slippers will," she added, "no matter how well done."

Lunch, and again, there was no time or opportunity for private discussion unless he missed the meal. But Harry felt as if he was finally growing. He had no intention of missing any meals unless it was unavoidable.

Defence with Professor Trimble. Ron had said he was quite good, and he seemed to be. There were no stares; he hated it when strangers stared, even more when acquaintances stared. Instead Trimble gave him a courteous nod, and told him that he'd been assured he'd not been idle during his extended holiday, so no extra work would be provided unless it seemed needed. And then he was treated exactly the same as the others.

By the end of the lesson, Harry agreed with Ron. Trimble was good, so much more competent than the stammering Quirrell the previous year. Sonia had suggested discretion in that class, though he could come top if he chose. 'Just don't show more than can be expected of a second year,' she'd said. So Harry took care to do well, but not well enough to attract attention.

History of Magic was last. This had been the class for dozing off, or for quiet conversations since Binns never took much notice of what they did, just droning on about ancient wars that could have been exciting but never were.

But instead of Professor Binns, a stranger entered the room. "Professor Lupin," Hermione whispered to him.

Lupin wore an air of fatigue, but he proceeded to give an entertaining and informative lecture. And Harry was quite sure that he would notice if he talked to Hermione instead of paying attention.

Hermione's behaviour surprised him that evening. She'd given him that wonderful welcome, even cried over him, stayed with him for most of the day, but now she kept right away from him, every now and then casting suspicious glances his way, almost as if she thought he was somehow tricking her.

Both Ron and Neville made up for it, staying close and talking happily. Oliver Wood, who pounded Harry on the back and said Quidditch practice on Saturday afternoon, and congratulations on losing both glasses and scar. Charlie, who quietly reminded him that he was not to speak of all the lessons they'd had in the holidays, especially not the Defence lessons, and Harry assured him that he knew.

Charlie asked, "See any more of Bubsy in the last four weeks?"

"A fair bit. She grows more gorgeous every day. When I grow up, I want a wife who will oblige me with baby after baby, I think."

Charlie laughed, "Odd thoughts for a twelve-year-old!"

Harry grinned, "Aunt Adele says she's eight months old, and there's no-one on earth who doesn't fall for a baby of that particular age."

"Aunt Adele?"

Harry reddened, "She said to call her that."

"Just that she was still Mrs. Greaves just a few weeks ago."

"You don't mind?"

"Who am I to mind if she doesn't?"

But they were interrupted by Fred and George Weasley, who demanded to know the real story of what had happened to Dumbledore, who was officially on leave of absence due to illness and yet he'd heard he was in some sort of trouble with the Ministry. Percy Weasley was close, a few others, and there was a sudden expectant hush.

But Harry said that he had no idea, and distracted his questioners by asking whether the red-headed first-year was their sister. He could see her lurking in the corner, watching him.

"Yeah, that's Ginny," and one of them walked straight over and dragged her back to him. "See, Ginny? He's nothing like those stupid books that Mum used to read to you."

"Books?" Harry said, confused, and "Hello Ginny. Nice to meet you."

But Ginny was bright red and couldn't seem to say a word. The moment she was released, she scurried away. Harry turned to the twins and asked, "What books?"

Ron said, "You don't know? Lots of books of adventures you had when you were little. We boys realised they were just stories, but I don't think that Ginny did. She thinks you're a hero."

Harry was annoyed and asked who the idiot was who had used his name. Fred said, "The author was Bobby Brewster," and George said, "Probably not his real name."

Harry said thoughtfully, "I wonder if Dumbledore did it, maybe to make me more famous or something."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know, but he was my magical guardian, and that means he could have stopped it if he'd chosen."

"He was your magical guardian? You never said."

"I never knew. And he was very poor in that role, so I'm very glad I have different guardians now."

Ron said, "So you think it could have been Dumbledore?"

"He either did those books himself or turned a blind eye to the one who made money from them. And then there were all those silly stories so everyone stares at that bloody scar I used to have. He has not acted as a guardian should. And I don't think he can be trusted!"

Percy said curtly, "I am quite sure that Dumbledore only ever acts for the best. It is not for a pathetic twelve-year-old to be criticising him."

Harry shrugged and turned away, but he was thinking of Hagrid who'd responded to Vernon Dursley's criticism that time by pasting a tail on poor Dudley. How did a silly old goat like Dumbledore inspire such loyalty? Mind Magic? Mind Magic could do a lot, of course, but people had to be willing to believe.

Percy called after him, "Go and do your homework, Potter. You must be way behind."

Harry ignored him. Percy might be a prefect, but it was none of his business whether or not he did his homework. He didn't actually have much, only a short essay for History of Magic, but he did want to write to Perenelle again. He went to a table, pulled out books and set to work, even when there were frequent interruptions. He finished the essay, but not the letter to Perenelle - it had become Perenelle or even 'Perry' in his own mind even when he always respectfully addressed his letters to Mrs. Flamel. She had begun to write to him more frequently. And he wrote back almost weekly. He had not told anyone that he was on letter writing terms with the famous wife of the famous Nicholas Flamel.

He didn't see Hermione, and wondered where she was.

He was awake a long time that night, thinking about Hermione, thinking of the strangeness of being back again, listening to Ron's snore. He was sharing a room again. He grinned to himself as he thought of how some of the pampered princes of wealthy pure-bloods had to get accustomed to sharing a room. Even himself. He'd never minded before, but now he missed having his own room, a place where he could go when he needed privacy, a place where no-one tried to see what was in his trunk. He still didn't know who that had been, but he didn't like it. Ron? It had probably been Ron, but felt guilty for even thinking it

Dean and Seamus had been good, and the Weasley twins as well. Percy? But Percy had always been a worshipper of authority, the same as Hermione. Hermione. He didn't like being at odds with Hermione.

xxx

The next day went smoothly, only that Hermione was still avoiding him, not even appearing in the common room, and making sure to sit as far away from Harry as possible at meals. It was a hurt.

And then, Wednesday, there was Potions. Harry hadn't been looking forward to Potions. It was with the Slytherins, as usual, and Harry hoped that Malfoy and his sidekicks would not try and sabotage his potion as they had too often done in 1st year.

Snape sneered at Harry the moment he saw him, "Ah, I see we have the belated return of our celebrity. Well, don't expect any special consideration from me, Potter. You won't get any."

Harry said the automatic, "Yes, Professor." It was just like his very first lesson. Snape's hatred was palpable. He'd hated him on first sight and maybe before, and totally without any reason that he knew. Could Snape have been influenced to hate him as well? And McGonagall. Busy or not, surely she could have been a little more welcoming. It was as if she blamed him for causing trouble. Just how many people had Dumbledore influenced? It was not his fault that he was labelled the 'Boy-Who-Lived' and all that. Probably it was Dumbledore who'd given him that label, plus organised those 'little Harry Potter' books he'd been told of. Maybe he'd even done something to make sure that the wound on his forehead had left the distinctive scar. He smiled with satisfaction. Well, that was gone.

Snape wheeled on him again, "And what are you smirking at, Potter? Here five minutes and you're already behind."

"Yes, sir," he said again, checked the instructions on the board and started his preparations for the allotted potion. It was one he'd done with Sonia, quite simple. But Snape hovered over him, looking for something to criticise. He wished that Inspector was still inspecting. Potion-making was a lot easier when he was not being harassed. The Mind Arts. He hadn't had enough time to really become proficient, but here was an opportunity to put in some practice. He had to be polite to Snape, refuse to be baited, and not allow his concentration to be disrupted. And he remembered Quirrell/Voldemort saying that Snape had been trying to save him that time his broomstick had been hexed, not kill him.

But he glanced to the front where Snape was prowling and surprised such a look of venomous hatred that, for a moment, he shrank back and an automatic flexing of the wrist brought his wand slipping into his hand ready for use. Could the attack come from Snape? How could he concentrate on making a decent potion if he had to be ready to defend himself against attack? He'd ask Brandon. Snape was a rotten teacher in any case. He should be sacked.

It was lucky that it was not a difficult potion. He managed to complete it satisfactorily, label it and hand it in without provoking any further nastiness from the teacher. And he had made a decision. If Snape gave him a Detention, he would not attend. He was afraid of him.

To his surprise, Draco Malfoy joined him as he left the room, remarking, "Snape was an absolute bastard to you in Potions today."

Harry turned to him in surprise, "Malfoy?"

"I'm sorry I sometimes treated you a touch unfairly last year. I won't do it again."

Harry stared at him, bewildered. Crabbe and Goyle were not close. He said uncertainly, "Well, thanks. I guess I won't treat you unfairly, either."

Draco extended a hand, "Truce?"

Harry shook it. "Truce," and smiled. It really was very wearing having enemies. A twelve-year-old might not be the danger that other enemies might be, of course, but one enemy less was a good thing.

There was more talk about Snape at dinner, Neville, Dean and Seamus all commenting on his sheer nastiness to Harry, and Harry asked how he'd reacted when there had been that Inspector.

Neville grinned, "He was furious, you could see. Every day he'd turn up at two or three Potions lessons, 1st year to 7th year, we heard. And in all that time, he wasn't game to pick on me, and he wasn't game to pick on Luna - he took one look at Luna and hated her, the same as you and I. One in third year, a Hufflepuff, Malcolm Preece. There's others. It's like he just loathes certain students - no reason, and then treats them like dirt."

The second years had been given a great deal of homework, but before even starting, Harry wrote to the Greaves. 'I think if you can, you should ask Mr. Perlkins if he can check other people for magical influence. Hermione Granger never received (or doesn't remember receiving) a book I sent her, and now she is treating me very oddly, even when she gave me a great welcome to begin with. Professor McGonagall was unusually offhand when I flooed in, though she may have simply been working too hard. But mostly, it is Professor Snape. He hates me so much, it is obvious. I am afraid of him. If he puts me on Detention (he never has needed a reason) I have decided not to go. Alone with a man who looks like he wants to kill me - no thanks. The thing is that I have never given him a reason for hating me, so I wonder if Dumbledore did it, the same as he influenced the Dursleys.

Against that theory is that he does it to other students, just singles them out for special nastiness. I asked Neville Longbottom (he agreed that I can tell you) - he's rotten at Potions, and he says it's because he's so terrified of Snape. So maybe he is just a very bad man. And maybe he can be inspected for Voldemort's mark. Neville could reel off a half dozen others, mostly Gryffindors, but also Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whom he singles out for special treatment.'

He finished with a few other remarks, that mostly, it was great to be back, and he thanked them yet again for giving him a home 'and a good home.'

He went to the dormitory, opened the window, and said, not loudly, "Hedwig?"

Hedwig flew in, perched on his shoulder, and nuzzled his cheek. He petted her, spoke to her, and then fastened the letter to her leg. Only after that, did he set to work to do his homework, Potions first and done with most care. Snape should not have an excuse to put him on Detention. There was going to be an almighty row when he refused to be alone with the man, and he could expect no support from McGonagall, supposedly House Mistress, though she never had done much in that role. The next Potions lesson was to be Friday, another double period.

Draco Malfoy, that had been a surprise. He'd met his father at that welcome ceremony for Sirius. Had his father told him to remember that the Head of House Potter could be an important man one day? And he had to start allowing his hair to grow long. As the Head of his family, he should have long hair, and hair took a long time to grow long. Lyall had told him that, and also warned him that the hair-growing spell was risky and not to try it.

When he finally slept, it was to dream of a Quidditch match that evolved into himself being chased by a monster with the face of Hermione. And Draco was trying to save him, riding his own broomstick.

He jerked awake at that, but he remembered his dream. If Dumbledore had tried to influence Hermione to attack him, he would have failed, he was sure. Hermione would never attack him. Draco Malfoy had tried to save him in his dream. Draco, who'd been so utterly nasty to him for as long as he'd known him. For almost as long as he'd known him. He'd offered his friendship on the train that time, and he'd rebuffed him.

And perhaps some wizarding families were better than others. Maybe he had judged him too quickly, and, very quietly, he acknowledged to himself that Ron Weasley, his first and best friend, was just a little bit dim. Possibly not even honest. There had been no hint of returning those Lockhart books he'd sent him, and he presumed that it had been Ron who'd collected the refund. And twice more, he'd found his trunk with the indicator glowing red. It was why he made sure never to leave it carelessly unlocked, though he'd never bothered locking it before. Of course, he'd never had anything worth stealing before, aside from his invisibility cloak.

Mrs. Weasley was kind, though. How odd that she'd appeared just as he'd been trying to work out how to get onto the platform. And she'd been talking loudly about Muggles to give him the clue. If Hagrid had given him that essential information in the beginning, he might easily have made friends with Neville or Seamus or Dean instead of Ron. The Weasleys seemed very loyal to Dumbledore. Percy, who'd reacted angrily merely because he'd made that minor criticism, minor compared to what he really knew of the man. He guessed it was a good thing that he hadn't asked Ron if his father would help him find the Ministry of Magic. He might immediately have told Dumbledore and then he would still have been with the Dursleys, he would still need glasses, still have the scar that marked him. Things might have been very different.

He was feeling too unsettled to go back to sleep, so wandered downstairs, finding a house-elf cleaning the ashes of the fire-place, another picking up litter. It was the first time he'd ever seen any of the Hogwarts house-elves.

One of the elves looked up, and said, "Harry Potter, sir," and the other asked if he could get him something, and in a squeaky voice that still managed to sound motherly, "Hot chocolate, Harry Potter sir. It will help you sleep."

Harry smiled at the creature, "Could you? That would be very nice."

He made a warming charm and chose the biggest, softest armchair there was in the large, empty room.

"What's your name?" he asked the little elf who presented him with the hot drink, and she ducked and flattened her ears, as if overawed by his presence. "I is Vreya, Harry Potter sir."

"Thank you, Vreya."

He finished the drink, dreamily watching the elves work, and then put aside his drink and snuggled up in his chair until Vreya shook him gently and reminded him to go back to bed to sleep. "Not suitable here, Harry Potter."

So Harry returned to his bed in the quiet room, and slept more easily this time, no longer kept awake by racing thoughts.

xxx