Chapter Eleven - A King's Prerogative

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—∞·Chapter Summary·∞—

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How would Harry deal with his new life in the castle?

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A King's Prerogative

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"There, look."

"Where?"

"Next to the tall kid with the red hair."

"The raven-haired one with the specs?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he showed up in the Great Hall the next day. People lining up outside the classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring as if searching for his scar that is no longer there. He wished they wouldn't because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to his classes.

He had found out that there were a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts: wide, sweeping ones; narrow, rickety ones; some that led somewhere different on a Friday; some with a vanishing step halfway up that you had to remember to jump. Then there were doors that wouldn't open unless you asked politely, or tickled them in exactly the right place, and doors that weren't doors at all, but solid walls just pretending. It was also extremely hard to remember where everything was because it all seemed to move around a lot. The only consolation was that the castle managed to guide him to his desired place by means of hidden passages. There were also those armored plates in the corridors who never fail to bow their heads when he passes by and are more than willing to escort him to his classes.

Then there's Peeves, the poltergeist. Although most of the ghosts are willing to point the students in the right direction, the menace is worth two locked doors and a tricky staircase if you met him along the way. He would drop wastepaper baskets on your head, pull rugs from under your feet, pelt you with bits of chalk, or sneak up behind you, invisible, grab your nose, and screech, "GOT YOUR CONK!"

The bloody ghost learned it the hard way not to mess around with him when Harry managed to cast a spell, he learned in one of his family's grimoires turning him into gooey slime. The poltergeist failed to switch himself back to normal until after midnight.

Now, even worse than Peeves if that was possible, was the caretaker, Argus Filch. Ron and Neville had gotten on the wrong side of him on their very first morning. Filch found them trying to force their way through a door that unluckily turned out to be the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor on the third level. He wouldn't believe they were lost, was sure they were trying to break into it on purpose, and was threatening to lock them in the dungeons until they were rescued by Professor Quirrell, who was passing by at that time.

Filch owned a cat named, Mrs. Norris, a scrawny, dust-colored creature with bulging, lamp-like eyes just like her owner. She patrolled the corridors alone. Break a rule in front of her, put just one toe out of the line, and she'd whisk off for Filch, who'd appear, wheezing, two seconds later. He knew the secret passageways of the school better than anyone (Except, of course, Harry and perhaps the Weasley twins) and could pop up as suddenly as any of the ghosts. The students all hated him, and it was the dearest ambition of many to give his cat a good kick in her bum.

Now, another thing is the classes themselves. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out than waving your wand and saying a few funny words. Not that he's not enjoying it considering the numerous books he had managed to read in the past few months he had learned from Bill's tutoring.

They had to study the night skies through their telescopes every Wednesday at midnight and learn the names of different stars and the movements of the planets. Three times a week they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Herbology, with a dumpy little witch called Professor Sprout where they learned how to take care of all the strange plants and fungi and found out what they were used for. Easily, the most boring class was History of Magic, which was the only one taught by a ghost. Professor Binns would drone on and on while they scribbled down names and got Emetic the Evil and Uric the Oddball mixed up. Harry had had enough of it on the second week that he decided to take with him some of his own history books in his class while his classmates either listen with stupid looks on their faces or fall to sleep.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher, was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. At the start of their first class, he took the roll call, and when he reached Harry's name, he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

Professor McGonagall was again, different. She was very good at hiding her tender behavior by maintaining a hawklike façade. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

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

She gave them a good sample of her magic by changing her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be changing the furniture into animals for a long time. After taking a lot of complicated notes, they were each given a match and started trying to turn them into a needle. By the end of the lesson, only Harry and Hermione Granger had made any difference to their matches. His turned into what looked like a push pin while the bushy-haired girl's, looked more like a small nail. Professor McGonagall showed the class how it had gone all silver and pointy and gave them both a rare smile.

The class everyone had really been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd met in Romania and was afraid would be coming back to by an African Prince as a thank you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but they weren't sure they believed his story. For one thing, when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly to hear how Quirrell had fought the horrible creature off, Quirrell went pink and started talking about the weather; for another, they had noticed that a funny smell hung around the turban, and the Weasley twins insisted that it was stuffed full of garlic as well so that Quirrell was protected wherever he went.

Harry had also found out that he wasn't miles behind everyone else as far as their family upbringings are concerned. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, are still learning their place in the world of wizards and witches. There was so much to learn that even people who lived as wizards all their lives like Ron didn't have much of a head start.

Friday was an important day for Harry and Ron. The redheaded boy had finally stopped hounding him as to why his quarters is separate from the others.

"What have we got today?" The raven-haired young man asks his friend as he adds strawberries to his porridge.

"Double Potions with the Slytherins," says Ron. "Snape's the Head of that house. They say he always favors those serpents— we'll be able to see whether it's true or not."

"Wish McGonagall favored us," Harry says dreamily. As if his head of the house hadn't cut him enough slack these past few weeks. She must've charged compensation by giving them all a huge pile of homework the day before.

Just then, the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.

Hedwig hadn't brought Harry anything so far since most of their communication with Bill and Charlie was through the Blue Notebook, he handed him on the train in King's Cross. She would sometimes fly in to nibble his ear and have a bit of a toast before going off to sleep in the owlery or at the Hamlet where Bill had made a birdhouse especially for her on one of the branches of an apple tree.

This morning, however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the strawberry bowl dropping a note onto Harry's plate along with a thick parcel. He tore the note open when Ron wasn't looking and read Bill's familiar scrawl:

Dear Little Lord,

Mum sent homemade fudge yesterday as a treat. Charlie and I had finally shown up in our house to announce my new assignment and she burst into tears when she found out. As expected, she was asking too many questions, so I was forced to weave down a few lies for a coverup. I told her that I work for a big client in London and will stay in England for a long while which matters to her the most. Charlie is scheduled to return to work after this weekend, so we are planning for a great dinner with you here in the Hamlet on Sunday.

How are Ron and the twins? I hope they're not giving you too much headache or worse, being a bad influence. You don't need to respond to this letter as I know you will be tapping me tonight through the notebook anyway.

Charlie sends his warmest regards, who is fighting over the pen to add his own note in the postscript.

Enjoy your classes, young master!

Bill

Harry rolled his eyes after reading his guardian's missive with a smile. He hates it being called a 'young master' by anyone except for the house-elves and Bill is having a good time teasing him about it.

He looks at the small package carefully wrapped up in a parcel and calls for a house-elf to take it to his quarters.

"What was that?" a curious Ron blatantly asks.

"Fudge." He said in a dismissive manner. He's not keen to the idea of his friend recognizing anything his mother had made and end up coming up with a horrible explanation for it.

It was lucky that he had something to nibble to look forward to later because the Potions lessons if not because of the advanced reading and tutoring sessions he had gotten from Bill would've turned out to be the worst thing that could've had happened to him.

At the start-of-term banquet, Harry had gotten the idea that Professor Snape disliked him. But by the end of the first lesson with the greasy-haired man, he knew he'd been wrong. Snape didn't dislike him— he hated him.

Potions took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like the little man, he paused upon coming across Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he seethed in a cold air of tone that could make anybody's spine inside that room tingle. "Harry Potter. Our new— celebrity."

Draco Malfoy and his friends are obviously sniggering behind their hands. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid's, but they had none of the gentle giant's warmth. They were cold and empty that would make you think of dark tunnels.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word that he said. Like Professor McGonagall, he had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe that 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, even stopper death— if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed his little speech. Harry and Ron exchanged looks with raised brows. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat looking desperate to start proving she wasn't a dunderhead.

"Potter!" Barked Snape all of a sudden. "What would I get if I added powdered root of Asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air.

"Err… I wish I could try making one, but I heard it's called the Draught of the Living Death." He had come across it while reading on her mum's old books with her own handwriting scribbled on some of the notes.

Snape looked taken aback by his answer. Wait, was he expecting him not to know and put him to shame?

"Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

"Oh, I know that one." He chirped, remembering an argument with Charlie about different magical objects they could obtain from certain animals. "It can be taken from a stomach of a goat."

"What is it for?"

"Well, if I am to create a poison, I will make sure to keep one as a precaution."

The atmosphere has gotten colder inside the dungeon. Even Malfoy and his goons had turned serious looking at the student and teacher glaring at each other.

"Impressive. Now, how about this one? State the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

At this, Hermione stood up, her hand stretching almost toward the dungeon ceiling.

"Sit down." Snape snapped at her. He was waiting for Harry to answer.

"I would say those two are the same thing which also goes by the name of aconite. Their roots are commonly used as poisons, even a bezoar may have a hard time saving you if you come across this plant."

The Potions Master gaped at him as if he had grown two more heads but kept a blank face after a few minutes. "Mister Potter had gotten all those questions correct but I don't see why you all aren't copying that down?"

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment in the background. Over the noise, Snape says, "and a point will be taken from Gryffindor House for your cheek, Potter."

The man's arrogance ruined Harry's mood for the rest of the class. Things didn't improve for the house of the Lions as their Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple solution to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. Harry thought he made the right decision to do the mixing of the ingredients and have Neville do the slicing and crushing because a few moments later, there was a crash of broken glassware next to him after the boy accidentally toppled it with his hand.

Harry muttered a silent, reparo with a swish of his wand, and the shattered glass went back to normal as if it didn't crash. Snape rushed to assess the situation and was miffed to see an apologetic Harry helping Neville get up to his feet.

"What are you two doing?"

It was Harry who spoke up for the two of them. "There was a minor accident, but we got it managed." Says the boy deviously.

"Careful not to cause an explosion or you're out of this class." He hissed.

"Yes, sir." Both boys replied together.

As they climbed the steps out of the dungeon an hour later, Harry felt a hand caught his arm. He looked up and saw the Longbottom boy, looking grateful.

"I couldn't thank you enough for what you did." Says Neville smilingly. "I just realized, if it was me who did the mixing, things could've been worse. And Snape is horrible."

"Don't worry about it. Let's just all be thankful nothing like that happened at all."

"Seriously, that guy was so unfair." Seamus who was paired with Ron at that time, saw the whole thing. He made sure they were back to the upper floors before saying anything.

"Don't push it." Says Ron, "I've heard Snape can turn very nasty at some point. He loves taking points off Fred and George and more than one incident penalizing them with no reasons at all."

"Right," Harry sighed. He joined the rest of his housemates in the common room where everyone seems to be taking a break. He decided to hang around with them for a bit before retiring to his quarters.

"You still haven't told me where your room is." Ron starts complaining about his friend's little secret.

"Yeah, Harry. Why is it you're not sharing rooms with us?" says Dean Thomas who heard the redhead's rants.

"Because I snore loudly in bed and that I tend to hug whoever the closest person in the room I am sharing with." The boy warns them in such a menacing way that their faces all went pale.

Ron is not buying his reasons anyway.

Thus, rolling his eyes, Harry sighed, "fine. I'll take you there one of these days but no more than a three in every visit. The portrait hole in my room has a mad axman in it who brandishes his weapon at anyone who dares to get inside."

Everyone seems up for the challenge.

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—∞·To be continued in the next chapter·∞—

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