Chapter 3:

The Feast and the Thief

–HP–

Despite staying up late into the night, Harry woke up hours before he had to, and spent the time pacing and writing to Tom.

A few hours later his Uncle was unlocking the cupboard under the stairs, and loading his trunk and Hedwig's cage into the car. His Aunt Petunia glared at him as he retrieved his robes and ran upstairs to change into them, but he didn't care – he wasn't going to take any of Dudley's castoffs with him to Hogwarts if he could help it.

They reached King's Cross at half-past ten. His Aunt and Uncle steadfastly refused to leave the car and be seen next to him, so Harry wrestled his heavy trunk out on his own. The moment he closed the boot, they sped away from him without so much as a backwards glance – let alone a goodbye.

He watched them leave, before beginning the laborious task of dragging his trunk over to a trolley.

Tom had told him all he had to do was walk through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. But now that he was looking at it, Harry thought it seemed rather solid.

He stood there for a few minutes, hoping to see some other students go through before him. Soon the large clock hanging in the middle of the station had ticked over to quarter to eleven and he still hadn't seen any other wizards.

There was nothing for it, his robes were starting to attract funny looks from the guard, and so he steeled himself and began to walk towards the brick divider.

A passing businessman jostled him, and he sped up slightly. His trolley had a loose wheel – he was struggling to control it – before he knew what was happening he was running, desperately angling the trolley as best he could. The wall was ten feet away – five feet – Harry closed his eyes and braced for a crash.

But it never came. Harry opened his eyes, and his mouth fell open.

A brilliant scarlet steam engine was waiting next to the platform, which was filled with witches and wizards. Flowing robes of every colour filled his sight, and everywhere he looked he saw owls in cages and cats in baskets. Dozens of other students were chattering excitedly and saying goodbye to their parents.

He walked forward slowly, drinking in the incredible sight.

The train wasn't yet full, and more witches and wizards were arriving before his very eyes. Harry nearly leapt out of his skin as a wizarding family cracked into existence mid-stride, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The first few carriage's doors were crammed with students climbing on and off of the train. He pushed his trolley down the platform until he reached the fourth carriage, which looked like it had some empty compartments.

He carried Hedwig's cage on first, but when he went back for his trunk he found an older girl flourishing her wand at it. There was a badge on her cloak – a large silver 'P' emblazoned over the Hogwarts crest.

His trunk rose up into the air gently, and floated past him, followed swiftly by the prefect.

"You looked like you needed some help," she said briskly, not even looking at him.

"Yeah, thanks, I –" he started to reply, but she turned on her heel and walked off.

Several other students peered into his compartment, but they all left when they saw it was occupied. Half-hidden in his window seat, Harry passed the time people-watching. He goggled at an elderly woman with an entire stuffed vulture on her hat shuffled past, dragging a round-faced boy by the arm. Harry winced as a large toad leapt out of the boys pocket and disappeared into the crowd. Shortly before the train was due to leave, his attention was grabbed by a bustling family with flaming red hair. A plump witch with a kindly face was hurrying them down the platform, holding the hand of a small girl and looking a bit harassed.

"Ginny, come on now – Ron, keep up. Where is Percy?" she flustered. "Fred, George – help Ron with his trunk –"

"I'm fine, Mum!" the youngest boy protested.

"Don't worry Ronniekins," one of two twins said in a high voice, "we'll look after you."

They passed out of sight, still bickering, and Harry sat back in his chair. A shrill whistle startled him, and a gentle thrumming passed through the carriage. They must be leaving soon, he thought.

Sure enough, at the very instant the clock struck eleven, the train lurched suddenly and began to move. It rolled past the waving crowd and picked up unnatural speed; houses and offices flashed by the window. Muggle London soon disappeared over the horizon.

He'd never been anywhere more rural than the local park, and the winding country lanes seemed wild and untamed next to the orderliness of Little Whinging. Flutters of excitement ran through him – he was really going to Hogwarts. He pulled down his trunk just to retrieve his wand, marvelling at the warmth that rushed up his arm. It was magic, he knew, and it felt wonderful.

The morning passed quickly and without interruption, until at around half-past twelve, a trundling sound came from out in the corridor and then a smiling, dimpled woman slid back the door to reveal a trolley of garishly colourful sweets. Harry was rather hungry and leapt to his feet. The display was too good to resist, and he bought a little bit of everything. He ate his way through the pasties and chocolates happily. The chocolate frog cards were of particular interest to him, and he studied the tiny portrait of Dumbledore for several minutes, mentally comparing him with the younger version Tom had shown him.

The pleasant countryside had begun to shift into rolling hills and lush woodland when a round-faced boy opened the compartment door and came in.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "but have you seen a toad at all?"

Harry immediately remembered him from the platform – and how his toad had leapt from his pocket and made a break for it.

"Um – I think I saw one on the platform," he said, wincing. The boy nodded miserably.

"I found him before the train left, but now I've lost him again!" he wailed.

"You'll find him eventually," Harry said, "he can't have gone far."

"Well, if you see him . . ." the boy said, as he left.

The afternoon passed steadily then; Harry enjoyed trying Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans – until a sprout flavoured one put him off it – and finally getting to read his schoolbooks.

'The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection' was the most interesting, and might have been his favourite, except 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' had illustrations of brilliant creatures that actually moved! He was so absorbed that he failed to notice the setting sun and startled badly when a sudden shudder ran through the train. The train was beginning to slow down, he realised, and hastily threw everything into his trunk just as they pulled into the station.

Poking his head out into the corridor, Harry saw that everyone else was leaving their trunks behind. He followed suit, pulling his cloak tighter about him and stepping out in the cold night air. A familiar voice called out loudly, "Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here! Firs'-years follow me!"

Harry moved towards the large lamp held high in an equally large hand, giving Hagrid a wave through the crowd.

"All right there, Harry?" he called back loudly. "C'mon, follow me then, firs'-years. Mind yer step, now! Firs'-years this way!"

The path Hagrid lead them on was steep and treacherous, and the single lamp – bright as it was – did little to illuminate the gloom. Everyone was quiet and nervous and concentrating on not stumbling.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," Hagrid called from the front. "It's jus' round this bend here."

The boy in front of Harry stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into him. Ahead of them, the path opened up to the edge of the Black Lake. It stretched, glittering and shining, across to a high cliff in the distance. Atop the rock face perched the grand towers, halls and bridges of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, as they approached a small fleet of boats on the shore. Harry clambered into one with three other boys that he didn't know.

At a cry from Hagrid, the boats launched into the water smoothly and glided towards the castle almost silently. They were aiming straight for the cliff underneath the vast castle, and Harry was just beginning to think they were going to crash straight into it when a curtain of ivy emerged from the gloom. Ducking and pushing aside the vines they passed into a dim tunnel lit by flicking torches, which emerged at an underground beach of pebbles and rocks.

They clambered out, and Harry heard the round-faced boy they'd met earlier cry out – he'd found his toad, Trevor.

A massive staircase was carved right into the rock, and they followed Hagrid up it until they reached a walled grass courtyard, and a massive oak door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got your toad?" Hagrid asked.

Then he raised a giant fist and pounded the door three times. One of the doors swung open, revealing a witch in crisply-folded robes of emerald green. She was tall and imposing and her black hair was tied in a bun as tight as her expression.

"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," Professor McGonagall said.

She opened the vast double doors fully, revealing a grand entrance hall. The room was lit with huge brass braziers; the walls were decorated with reliefs and niched statues. On Harry's right, through a set of gleaming golden doors, hundreds of voices rose and fell. The rest of the school must be in there, he thought.

Professor McGonagall led them through a different archway into a small antechamber. They crowded closer as she explained the four houses – he still wasn't sure which he liked the sound of best.

Then she left them and Harry was left to wonder for the thousandth time how they would be sorted – Tom had refused to say. Apparently, it was tradition to keep it a secret. As the minutes ticked by he felt his nerves straining – his hands were getting clammy. A bushy-haired girl next to him was reeling off spells as if her life depended on it.

Then again, Harry thought nervous, maybe it did.

When half of the other first-years suddenly screamed loudly, Harry leapt about a foot into the air. A score of ghosts had flown into the hallway and were now streaming straight through the wall as if it wasn't even there. Two of them – a fat little monk and another who looked he had just walked off the stage of a Shakespearian play – stopped to talk for a short while, before Professor McGonagall came back and moved them along.

Falling in line, Harry followed the bushy-haired girl back through the entrance chamber into the Great Hall.

Though the entrance hall was grand, it looked like Harry's cupboard compared to the splendour in front of him. The Great Hall was truly enormous – four immense oak tables ran its entire length, decorated with embroidered tablecloth and covered in gold plates and goblets – and the cavernous ceiling seemed to just open into the night sky. In addition to the stars, the hall was lit by thousands upon thousands of floating candles, which hung from nothing and drifted gently, as though caught in a breeze.

Harry tried very hard to pretend that no one was looking at them, with dubious success.

The first-years came to a stop in front of a more intricately carved table at the end of the hall and watched in confusion as Professor McGonagall placed a scruffy wizard's hat on a stool. Harry tried to think what on Earth it was supposed to do, but all he could think about was what his Aunt would do if he came home wearing it – throw him out on the spot, he reckoned. The hat twitched slightly, and then suddenly a rip opened wide and Harry's mouth fell open as it began to sing. As the hat concluded its song, Harry felt his nerves fade away. All they had to do was wear a hat, that wasn't so bad.

He still didn't understand why they had to do it with everyone watching, however.

Professor McGonagall unfurled a roll of parchment and spoke in a loud and clear voice, "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted: Abbott, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right over her eyes, and sat down.

Just a few seconds later the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!" and she ran off to join a cheering and clapping table of students on Harry's left. He peered at them – they seemed quite a friendly bunch.

Several more students were sorted into either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, whose table was watching carefully but calmly, before Lavender Brown went to Gryffindor. The far-left table instantly erupted into wild revelry. Harry spotted the redheaded twins from the platform clapping madly.

That meant the table on the far right must be Slytherin, and sure enough, Millicent Bulstrode was sent to join them a moment later. They had an intense look about them, Harry thought, and cheered just as loudly as the Gryffindors had.

Harry noticed the hat took different lengths of time to sort each student – Neville Longbottom, the teary boy with the toad, had spent several minutes under the hat before it finally declared him a Gryffindor; whereas Draco Malfoy had hardly put the hat on before it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"

There were very few people left before Harry now. They seemed to be sorted in a flash, and suddenly Professor McGonagall was calling out his name.

He steeled himself and walked forward, steadfastly refusing to look at the hall which had exploded with whispers.

"Potter, did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

As he lifted the hat over his head, he had one last view of hundreds of pale faces in front of him – a few ghosts smattered in between them – before it fell over his eyes and he only saw blackness. There was silence for a few seconds, and Harry was beginning to wonder what was supposed to happen when he finally heard something in his left ear.

"Difficult. Very difficult," said a hoarse, croaky voice. "No stranger to hard work, and plenty of curiosity. Talented too – oh my goodness, yes – and a great deal of courage. You'd do very well in Gryffindor – you're practically overflowing with daring. But what a thirst to prove yourself! Yes, with such ambition, you belong in . . . SLYTHERIN!"

Harry lifted the hat off of his head with a shaky smile – just as the loudest round of applause yet burst out. The Slytherins were cheering, unmistakable triumph on their faces. Many of them had stood up to welcome him, and he shook a few peoples' hands in a daze.

Not everyone was happy, though; Harry couldn't help but smile at the twins, who were dramatically wailing and clutching at each other's robes.

"They're too dramatic by half," a deep voice said. Harry turned to look at an older boy on his right. He had a silver prefect badge and short brown hair. "Nicolas Grimmett, fifth-year prefect."

"Nice to meet you," Harry replied, shaking his hand and taking a seat.

They both turned back to the ceremony, but Harry looked beyond the sorting hat to the High Table. There were many teachers Harry had never seen before, but he spotted Hagrid. He gave Harry a small smile and a wave. Harry grinned and waved back.

In the middle of the table was an enormous gold chair – almost a throne – and Harry recognised Headmaster Albus Dumbledore from his chocolate frog card instantly, his blue eyes and silver beard practically shone.

The sorting finished with Blaise Zabini, a tall black boy, taking a seat opposite Harry. The Headmaster got to his feet, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace them all.

"Welcome!" he called in a clear 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 once and sat back down to loud applause. Harry struggled to reconcile this Dumbledore with the one in Tom's memories.

"Is he – a bit mad?" he asked Nicolas uncertainly.

"They say genius and madness walk hand in hand," he replied. "Help yourself, Harry."

Harry looked down and grinned, an enormous feast had appeared on the table: mountains of vegetables and whole platters of roast meat.

"He's the most powerful wizard in the world, I doubt he cares what you think of him," Blaise Zabini spoke up, as Harry was helping himself to a bit of everything.

"Don't make me laugh," a superior voice called from down the table. "He's ridiculous. Father says that Dumbledore's an old fool."

Harry turned and realised he knew the speaker – it was the blond boy from Diagon Alley. He saw Harry looking and introduced himself, pompously.

"Yes, we've already met," Harry said, recalling their unpleasant meeting. "In Madam Malkin's."

"We did?" Malfoy replied, pale cheeks flushing slightly. "Well, nice to you see again, then."

Harry just nodded and turned back to his food. He was enjoying some roast potatoes, idly listening to Nicolas talking to another fifth-year, when a rasping voice spoke right into his ear.

"That looks . . . delicious . . ."

He jumped, his fork clattering against the table loudly. All nearby conversation had stopped, and when Harry twisted in his seat, he instantly jerked back in shock.

A horrible ghost was floating right behind him, with a gaunt face, blank staring eyes, and bloodstained robes.

"Good evening, Baron," Nicolas said calmly. The ghost turned with unnerving slowness to look at the prefect.

"Good evening . . . Prefect . . ." the Baron whispered.

"May I introduce you to Harry Potter," Nicolas continued. "Harry, this is the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's house ghost."

"Nice to meet you," Harry said, quickly adding, "– Baron."

The Bloody Baron floated closer still. "Welcome to Slytherin . . . Potter . . ." he said hoarsely. He glided past Harry to talk to the group at large.

"Hello . . . young students . . ." They strained to hear him. "We have won the house cup six years in a row . . . I hope you will help us win it a seventh . . ."

Everyone nodded fervently.

"Good . . . Have a pleasant feast . . ."

The Bloody Baron sunk straight into the floor without another word. As he turned back to his food, Harry felt Nicolas pat him on the shoulder.

"You'll get used to him, don't worry," he said. The rest of the first years looked just as unconvinced as Harry. "It's actually quite nice to have the only house ghost that scares Peeves."

Harry helped himself to some treacle tart as the prefect warned them of the mischievous poltergeist. Soon the talk turned to their upcoming classes.

"I'm looking forward to Potions the most," Blaise said to a short girl with dark hair – Pansy, Harry thought her name was. "I've heard Professor Snape favours us."

"What about you, Draco?" asked Pansy.

"Defence Against the Dark Arts," he said immediately. "I can't wait to learn some really good curses. Maybe we'll get to practice a few on some Gryffindors, as well."

Everyone laughed – Draco looked so pleased with himself Harry thought he might burst.

Nicolas leaned over. "You won't be learning about curses for a few years. You'll start with simple jinxes, and work your way up."

A chorus of protests sounded from the first years.

"A few years?" Harry complained.

"I'm afraid so," Nicolas nodded sympathetically.

Harry was beginning to feel rather drowsy, stuffed full as he was. At last, the puddings vanished from the tables, and Dumbledore stood up again.

"Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Harry could hear chuckling coming from the other side of the hall.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors. Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch."

Draco and Blaise both looked up at that, along with some of the older Slytherins.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third- floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."

Harry almost laughed, but caught himself when he saw the look on Nicolas's face – the older boy looked entirely unamused.

"Is he being serious?" whispered Harry.

Nicolas nodded, "Yes, I think so, but he didn't tell us about it."

Harry wondered if that sort of thing was normal at Hogwarts.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. The hall abruptly lurched to its feet. Dumbledore drew a long wand from his robes and flicked it sharply – golden ribbons streamed out of the tip and curled themselves into words.

"Everyone pick their favourite tune," he said cheerfully, "and off we go!"

There was a pause, and then the hall burst into noise. Harry tried to follow along, but it was nearly impossible with everyone was singing at a different tempo. Blaise hadn't even opened his mouth to try, and looked deeply unimpressed. Eventually, the hall died down, except for the redheaded twins again, who were singing very slowly in deep voices. Harry laughed as Dumbledore conducted their last few lines personally, before sending them all off to bed with an, "Off you trot!"

The Slytherin prefects lead them out into the entrance hall. On their right, an enormous marble staircase climbed several stories, culminating in a huge stone archway. Despite his drooping eyelids, Harry wanted to see more of the castle, but they were lead instead down a tight spiral staircase. They emerged in a dim labyrinth of cold corridors, lit by flickering torches, and eventually stopped at an innocuous section of bare wall.

"The password is Runespoor," Nicolas told them. The wall depressed slightly and then slid sideways. "It changes once a fortnight, you'll see the new one over the mantelpiece; don't forget it and don't tell it to anyone."

Harry followed the group into the common room. It was a long, rectangular room with rough stone walls. Bulbous lamps hung on chains from thick pillars, throwing green light across the floor. They crossed the room, and then the first-years split off down two corridors. In the last room six four-poster beds, three on either side of the room, were hung in green drapes. A blazing fireplace sent shadows dancing across the walls.

Their trunks had been put against the ends of the beds – Harry was between Blaise and Vincent Crabbe.

"Not too bad, I suppose," Draco drawled. Harry ignored him and quickly changed into his pyjamas; he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

In his dreams, Harry was standing in the Great Hall at night. All the staff were sitting at their table, but instead of Dumbledore, it was Professor Quirrel in the Headmaster's chair. When they saw Harry, they cheered and began to clap, but as soon as he stepped towards them the floor jerked violently, and he fell over.

The room began to tilt frighteningly, more and more, until he started to slip backwards. Soon he was sliding out of control towards the great double doors to the entrance hall. They swung open with a crash, and Harry pitched headfirst into the darkness beyond – he awoke with a gasp, sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell back to sleep, and when he woke the next day, he didn't remember the dream at all.

–HP–

Harry had thought Tom had prepared him Hogwarts, but now that he was here he could only laugh at the very idea.

It was impossible to be ready for Hogwarts.

The lessons were hectic and the corridors even more so. At any given time and place there seemed to be a dozen things to look at. The portraits and tapestries, the statues and suits of armour, the absurd number of halls and classrooms – Harry thought there couldn't be anywhere else in the world like Hogwarts. Between the school's one-hundred and forty-two staircases, numerous hidden passageways, and a tendency for landmarks to rearrange themselves, Harry seemed to spend most of his free time trying to find his next class.

With Peeves thrown into the occasion, it was a wonder he arrived anywhere at all.

Everywhere he went the other students kept trying to have a good look at him. People followed him down hallways, or poked their heads around doors, only to catch his eye and duck away again. And he thanked his lucky stars that Tom had been teaching him for almost three weeks; there was a great deal of complicated magical theory to grapple with and without his help Harry knew he would have been struggling.

They spoke every evening for a long while: first Tom would help him with his homework; then Harry would tell him about his day, something Tom seemed to actually look forward to, and then they would continue their lessons.

Sometimes he'd tell Harry stories from his own time at Hogwarts instead, which Harry liked even better.

The only thing Tom couldn't help him with was the other Slytherin boys. Harry never believed that it was possible for someone to be more unpleasant than Dudley, until he met Draco Malfoy. Harry had yet to hear something come out of Malfoy's mouth that he agreed with, and Malfoy's constant stream of mocking comments had ensured they had clashed almost every lesson.

The other boys weren't much better: Crabbe and Goyle had twice the muscle and half the brainpower of a troll; Theo seemed a solitary person, and Harry's attempts to talk to him had been fruitless; Blaise was even worse, there didn't seem to be a single person in the school who Blaise respected or admired in any way – Harry hadn't bothered trying to befriend him.

Still, Hogwarts was far preferable to his old life at Privet Drive. The castle was astonishing – Harry completely agreed with Tom on that front, it really did feel alive – and the lessons were fascinating. Under Tom's tutelage, he'd managed to win several points for Slytherin, and Professor McGonagall had even given him a rare smile when he'd managed to turn his matchstick silver, though the sharp point of a needle still escaped him.

Not even Tom could improve Professor Binn's lessons though, Harry thought ruefully, as he helped himself to a bowl of porridge, with a generous dashing of sugar. A cacophony of flapping and screeching interrupted his thoughts, as the morning post arrived. Hedwig swooped down, landed next to his plate, and set to work on his toast at once. He scratched the back of her neck affectionately. She didn't have any post, but she reminded him of the note he'd got the morning after the sorting ceremony – he was going to visit Hagrid this afternoon, he'd been looking forward to it all week.

He checked his timetable – Double Potions, and then the afternoon off. Harry hummed to himself; he hadn't met Professor Snape yet, and he wasn't sure if wanted to. Professor Snape was twice as intimidating as all the other teachers put together. He was short-tempered and unpleasant, according to just about everyone, and delighted in giving out detentions as often as he could.

Taking a final gulp of pumpkin juice, he followed the other first-years out of the Great Hall.

The potions classroom was down in the dungeons, like their common room. Unlike their common room, it was cold and damp. Jars of pickled somethings lined the walls, glinting in the torchlight. The classroom was empty when they arrived, and Harry picked the desk furthest from Professor Snape's station, just in case. Malfoy took the seat behind him and gave him a nudge.

"Hey, Potter," he said. "Want to make a bet on how long it takes one of the Gryffindors to do something disastrous? Or are you going to try and beat them to it?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said irritably.

Not long after, the other half of the class arrived, and then the Professor. The class fell silent immediately, and Snape was hardly louder than a whisper as he took the register. When he reached Harry's name, his eyes flicked towards him. They were as dark and cold as his room.

"Ah, yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter. Our new . . . celebrity."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and he heard Malfoy stifle a laugh. Snape finished taking the register and then swept around his desk to stand in front of them.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began. He gathered up his robes and folded his arms. "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."

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed.

"Potter!" Snape suddenly called – half the room twitched. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry thought desperately. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Gryffindor girl's hand shoot into the air. He recognised both of those ingredients, but their use together escaped him.

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

Snape's lips twisted.

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

Relief filled Harry; Tom had taught Harry about the life-saving simple stone during a short tangent on poisons.

"The stomach of a goat, sir," Harry said confidently.

"Do you see any goats, Potter?" asked Snape, looking around the room. Harry felt the smile slide off his face. "Last chance. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

The Gryffindor girls hand hadn't gone down, and now she actually stood up, stretching towards the ceiling. Harry wracked his brain; he knew both of those ingredients too, he'd read about them in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. They both had poisonous leaves, and . . . and . . . and–

"I don't know," Harry said quietly.

"Pity. For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A number of bezoars are kept for emergencies in that cupboard," Snape said, glancing off to the side of the room. "And as for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite. Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"

Harry silently fumed as he reached for his parchment.

How was he supposed to know where the bezoars were kept? And that last question was a trick – he hadn't been able to think of a difference because there weren't any!

The lesson didn't get much better from there.

They were to brew a 'simple' cure for boils – Harry soon found out it was anything but. Even worse, with Snape prowling around the room, freely complimenting Malfoy's work and criticizing everyone else's, it was nearly impossible to concentrate. Snape was just scrutinising Harry's stewed horned slugs when there was a fierce hissing sound from across the room. Harry looked up in time to see Neville's cauldron melt, collapse and throw the incomplete potion all over his arms.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, vanishing the spilt potion with an angry flick of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville could only nod and moan as vicious welts bubbled up under his skin. Snape sent him to the hospital wing immediately, scolded Neville's partner Seamus for carelessness, and rubbed salt in Neville's wounds by docking a point from Gryffindor. Malfoy was even more unbearable for the rest of the lesson. Harry escaped as soon as he could – having turned in an "acceptable" potion – angry and disappointed in equal measures.

He'd been looking forward to potions until now; Tom had said it was one of the most practical skills he'd be taught at Hogwarts. You could do a lot with potions, apparently, if you were clever.

That afternoon, at five to three, Harry walked across the rickety wooden bridge towards the sundial stones. Hagrid lived on the edge of the Forbidden Forest in a little hut – a curl of smoke was rising from its stubby chimney, and a small vegetable patch stretched from its walls towards the trees.

Harry followed the path through the knee-high grass and knocked on the heavy oak door. Almost immediately it shook against the frame as if something had knocked into it, and then Harry heard several deep barks.

The door opened slightly, and Hagrid's bushy face appeared. Lower down, at Harry's height, a big slobbery tongue was sticking through the gap.

"Hang on," Hagrid grunted. "Back, Fang – back."

He stepped back from the door, and Harry pushed it open. The hut was just one room, filled with oversized furniture and the trappings of a groundskeeper.

"It's good to see yeh, Harry," Hagrid said, closing the door and letting go of the huge boarhound. It bounded straight to Harry and nearly bowled him over trying to lick his ears.

"Hello Hagrid," replied Harry, climbing onto a stool to escape Fang. The dog dropped its head onto his lap with a whine. "Thanks for inviting me over."

"Don' mention it," he replied gruffly.

Hagrid set a copper kettle boiling and passed Harry a plate of rock cakes. They nearly chipped a tooth, and Harry could hardly lift his immense mug of tea, but it was nice to tell Hagrid all about his first week at Hogwarts. He was especially glad to get Snape's lesson off his chest, though Hagrid told him it was nothing to worry about.

"An' how are the other Slytherins treatin' yeh?" Hagrid asked carefully.

"I don't really talk to them much, but I hate Malfoy," Harry said, throwing his hands up angrily. "He's arrogant and spoiled – even worse than Dudley."

Hagrid's face darkened. "Doesn' surprise me. Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy's worth listenin' ter. Don' let him get ter yeh."

"What do you mean the whole family?" Harry asked, intrigued.

"I mean they're the worst sort o' people, Harry, the whole lot of 'em," Hagrid said, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. "Lucius Malfoy – Draco's father – he fought for You-Know-Who. He was one o' the firs' to come back an' say he'd been bewitched. Load o' rubbish – he didn' need an excuse ter go ter the other side."

As much as he hated Malfoy, he never would have guessed that. Harry sat back, absorbing what Hagrid had told him. As he did, he saw something moving; it was a cutting from the Daily Prophet. He reached across the table and picked it up, and as he read, his eyes grew wider and wider.

"Hagrid!" he said excitedly. "This break-in was on my birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"

He looked up from the article and caught Hagrid's eye. The groundskeeper looked distinctly uncomfortable. "What do you think?"

He just grunted through a mouthful of rock cake. Harry re-read the article carefully. 'The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day.' Hagrid had emptied the vault they'd visited. It had only contained that little package, after all.

Maybe that was what the thieves were after? Had Hagrid collected it just in time?

–HP–

His resurrection – if it could be called such a thing – was progressing better than Tom could have hoped.

Before coming to Hogwarts, he'd expected Harry to start writing to him less. His pathetic family might have burdened him beyond belief, but Hogwarts was as close to being perfectly distracting as anything could be. Instead, it had simply given them more to talk about, and Tom's strength was returning faster, he could feel it. The boy's emotions came to him easily now, and although he wasn't particularly happy that the reverse was also true, he couldn't deny it was a good sign.

He didn't know how long it would take, but he would get out of this diary.

It was Saturday, and Harry had apparently carried him to the shores of the Black Lake, where he'd taken shelter under an ancient beech. They'd spent the early hours of the morning talking, the subject matter changing from one moment to the next, in a matter that Tom had begun to enjoy.

"But what could fit in the palm of your hand and still be worth breaking into Gringotts for?"

"A great many things," Tom replied. "There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of artefacts that could fit the bill."

"Well, that narrows it down."

"Indeed."

Harry's most recent line of inquiry concerned the Gringotts break-in and Hagrid's seeming involvement. Tom had to admit, he was interested as well. Gringotts was famously impenetrable, and the fact that nothing had been taken was sheer dumb-luck – this was a historical first.

Tom mulled it over – if Dumbledore had known the package was going to be stolen from Gringotts, then it would make sense for him to move it here. Hogwarts was probably the next best place to keep something safe.

"Perhaps," wrote Tom, "we should be thinking about what sorts of artefacts would be advantageous to Hogwarts? Hagrid did say it was for Hogwarts, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he said it was 'official Hogwarts business.'" All of a sudden, there was a tremendous flare of pure realisation from the Real. "The third-floor corridor!"

The third-floor corridor? Tom didn't follow.

"I don't follow."

"At the welcoming feast Dumbledore said not to enter the third-floor corridor this year," Harry continued in a rush, "unless you wish to die a painful death! If it's at Hogwarts, I bet it's being kept in there!"

"Are you sure he wasn't telling a bad joke?" wrote Tom, sceptical.

"No, one of the prefects said he was being serious," was the eager reply.

"Then I think you might be right," Tom wrote. "It's too much of a coincidence. If it's still at Hogwarts, it's probably there."

"And so Dumbledore told everyone to stay away to keep it hidden?" replied Harry.

"And therefore safe," he agreed. "That would make sense."

They were silent for a few minutes, both lost in thought. Just what was Hogwarts guarding this year?

–HP–

Notes: Aaaaand we're back. Enjoy!