Harry sat up, clutching his chest, gasping for breath, eyes dilating wildly in the darkness and trying to make sense of his surroundings. Sweat dripped down his messy tendrils of damp hair, falling pathetically onto his soaked shirt.
Where – where am I?
He groped blindly for the bedside table. His fingers wrapped around his wand, which lit instantly at his touch.
" Lumos." he rasped pointlessly. The wand strobed brighter.
An unfamiliar bed... a window... and beyond the frame of his vision, beyond the colossal bedframe; velvety blackness. He gazed around, trying to distinguish anything beyond his arm's length, but nothing was to be found.
The bed vanished beneath him in a wisp of grey-white smoke, and he fell to the ground. There was nothing; just Harry standing on a dark, colorless floor, and no matter how bright his wand light became, it did not pierce the darkness. It was the strangest thing – he knew he should be feeling terror or confusion, but he wasn't. Just a horrible apprehension, an anxious foreboding, a grim acceptance.
His breathing came unevenly. In his left hand, he found his glasses – where they came from, he did not know. Attempting to adorn them, he was stopped short by a cloth weaving around his head like a serpent... a constrictor.
A turban wrapped tightly around his head and face. It was warm and had a foul, sour smell to it that made him want to gag. Harry grasped at it, trying to pull it off, but it wouldn't budge.
" You mussst join Ssssslytherin ..." the turban whispered to him. Goosebumps covered his body, and he began shivering for he'd never heard a colder voice; never felt colder breath against his skin.
" It'sss... your dessstiny ..."
No. Harry thought. No, no. I don't want to.
"You mussst..."
No, no, stop. I don't want to be in Slytherin.
The turban grew heavier.
" It'sss... your dessstiny..."
No, please stop, I don't want to-
Heavier still.
" Dessstiny ... is... unavoidable..."
Stop! I don't want to join Slytherin, no!
The hat tightened around Harry's head, growing ever heavier. He clawed and pulled, but it wouldn't budge. The next words escaped his lips as he gasped in pain.
NO! NO, STOP!
A high, cold laugh pierced the air. The effect was instant: Harry went rigid, heart racing, panic filling his body to the brim.
" HA, HA!" the voice cried, bouncing across the invisible walls, surrounding Harry completely. " YOU WILL BE MINE, HARRY POTTER!"
A slit opened in the front of the turban, and it forced his head back, his eyes open.
Before him stood Dumbledore, mighty and bright, filling the room with warm light and phoenix fire.
"Oh, H-Harry," his voice echoed, but it was off-key, forced.
The light around him flickered; Dumbledore's eyes strobed red, his expression glitching, head twisting wildly.
"All... in – y-y-your... head-d," came his stuttered, booming voice.
Professor ?
"Why - sh -should... that... m-mean – it'ssss not – real?"
Dumbledore's face fell, his eyes turned red, his nose flat – the brightness of the room disappeared.
"Can... touch you... "
A long, bony finger scraped Harry's cheek and the turban tightened around his neck, twisting, pulling him, into blackness.
Helplessly falling, his task unfinished, his journey undone.
They are relying on him.
Harry awoke unusually sweaty on his first morning at Hogwarts. Nerves were most likely to blame in his eyes, or maybe that the bed he slept in was drastically warmer than any other he'd slept in prior. As far as he knew, he'd slept through the entire night, peaceful as ever.
Despite the significant darkness that lay outside his window, he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again. He rose from his bed and started dressing for his first day. It was still dark outside when his messenger bag was packed, and his robes adorned.
Ronald, Seamus, and Dean were still asleep, but the fifth bed, belonging to Neville, was empty. Curious, Harry left the dorm and walked down the stairs into the common room, where he found Neville sitting in a large, plushy armchair in front of the fireplace, which was the only source of light in the room. It cast an orange glow on the couches and chairs, and long shadows across the floor.
Harry took a seat in a chair adjacent to Neville.
"Up early, aren't you?"
Neville startled; he hadn't heard Harry descend the stairs. In his hands, he held Trevor the toad, whom he was stroking absently.
"Oh, hello, Harry," he said nervously. "I woke up to go to the bathroom, but couldn't fall back asleep," he glanced at Harry's bag. "Nerves, I guess. What about you?"
"This is the time I usually get up. It's quiet," said Harry, gazing into the flames.
"Yeah, I guess so. Peaceful,"
"You... could say that, yeah,"
Both stayed quiet for a time.
"What time do classes start?"
"What time does breakfast start?"
They chuckled, having spoken at the same time.
"I reckon neither of us knows, then?"
"No, I guess not." Neville smiled sadly. "I haven't got a very good memory; Gran says I remind her of Gramps."
"Oh, that's...er..." he trailed off.
Neville seemed understanding. "Don't worry about it, it's not like she's wrong,"
After a while, the sun was rising outside, and they could hear shuffling and yawning from the dorms.
"Fancy beating the crowd to breakfast?" Harry asked, glancing at the boy's dormitory.
He and Neville set off through the halls, taking as much time as they pleased, trying to memorize the halls and locations of various classrooms as they passed. Finally, they arrived at the Great Hall, where other early risers were starting their meals. Hermione and Percy were the only Gryffindors present at the house table.
"Morning, Hermione," Harry and Neville greeted, sitting across from her.
"Hello, Harry, Neville," she beamed. "Excited for classes?"
"Nervous," Neville said, grabbing a piece of toast.
"Hungry," Harry grumbled, scooping eggs onto his plate.
"I just hope I've prepared enough for the classes," said Hermione, twirling her thumbs, "I stayed up nearly all last night re-reading our textbooks, and I still don't think it's enough..."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Hermione," Harry responded, not looking up from his food. "If some of those Gryffindor second-years made it through, I reckon you're overprepared."
More students filed into the Great Hall as they ate, and after a while, McGonagall started passing out schedules to the Gryffindor students. By the time she got to Harry, Neville, and Hermione, students were craning their necks across the hall, trying to get a good look at Harry.
"Looks like we have History of Magic first," said Hermione, peering down at the scroll of parchment.
Mutterings and behind-hand whispers followed them all the way to their first class; things like "You see him, with the black hair?", "Did you see his face?", "Look at his scar!". Harry ended up covering his scar with his wizard hat and taking off his glasses between classes. Stumbling around the hallway was a small price to pay for significantly less recognition, as his glasses had been on during the sorting, and seemed the most recognizable feature after his scar.
They learned Dumbledore had not been exaggerating in the least when he called the castle "intimidating"; it was damn near a maze. Staircases moved, chameleonic doors would blend in with walls or lock themselves, and secret passageways were everywhere, leading to the most illogical places... and then there was Peeves, who was a nightmare no matter what circumstances you came across him in. He would downright terrorize kids, sometimes acting innocent to the unknowing eye and giving false directions, or bombarding you with balloons of mysteriously viscous liquid that made you itch and rash.
There was also the Caretaker of the castle, Mr. Filch, who would prowl the hallways, unsettlingly reminiscent of his cat, Mrs. Norris, who would summon Filch to any trouble she found. Both would appear out of nowhere, telepathically summoning one another, before relentlessly punishing whoever had unknowingly harassed them.
History of Magic turned out to be much less exciting than it sounded. The content was what Harry had expected: great wizarding battles, magical discoveries, inventions, history of spells and potions - but Professor Binns made it all sound dull and boring. Binns was a ghost, and most students thought he didn't know he was dead; that he had just left his body behind one day and went on with his teaching. His monotone voice droned on for the entire lesson, never stopping, never taking a breath (as he didn't need any), and never looking up from the text he was reading. The class was almost exhausting; it took great willpower to stay awake.
Another unpleasant thing Harry had discovered was the corridor housing Binn's classroom. It was darker than most corridors, had empty alcoves and classrooms branching off from it, and Filch seemed to consciously avoid patrolling it. On Harry's first class, he accidentally opened the wrong door and, to his extreme embarrassment, found some sixth-year Ravenclaws devouring each other's faces within the dark room. Harry noted the traumatic venture and avoided the corridor when he could.
Snogging's gross, anyway.
Their next class, Herbology, was an abrupt but welcome change. It was held outside in Greenhouse One, where they learned about various magical plants and fungi. Professor Sprout, the Hufflepuff Head of House; a short and plump woman with frizzy hair and dirt under her fingernails, taught the class.
Most of Harry's classmates, including him, grimaced at the tasks assigned to them, which usually involved very slimy plants. Neville, on the other hand, admirably dove into everything; he inexplicably seemed to enjoy the class more than everyone else.
Defense of the Dark Arts, taught by the turbaned Professor Quirrell, turned out to be as strange of a class as its teacher. The room always had a purple, glowing fire in the mantel and an unpleasant aroma of garlic and mildew. Quirrell's turban, Harry learned, carried the horrid smell all around the school, infecting everywhere he went with an almost nauseating scent. Quirrell himself was barely capable of teaching the subject; he spoke with a terrible stutter that made notetaking a nightmare for every party involved. A few confident students had asked Professor Quirrell about his own ventures and experiences with DADA, to which he would usually answer by stuttering into a different topic. If you could get over the strange environment and teacher, the content was interesting. You had to teach yourself, mostly, because Quirrell seemed quite incapable of adequately teaching or even understanding his curriculum most of the time.
Everything else aside, the class gave Harry very annoying headaches, where his scar would prickle and smart relentlessly until he was away from the wretched smell that Quirrell carried. Some days it got so painful that Harry would start to get dizzy, once almost blacking out. During these occasions, Harry would leave the classroom without returning, and Quirrell often wouldn't notice.
Charms, taught by the small Professor Flitwick, came much easier to Harry than the other classes. Originally, he'd thought he would be on par with other students, assuming they'd have learned from their magical parents or relatives – but he really, he was as overprepared as Hermione.
Flitwick, whom Harry had seen talking to Hagrid at the welcoming feast, was a very small man with a high-pitched voice to match. Brilliantly white hair adorned the back of his head and upper lip. He often stood on a soapbox to see the class over his desk, which appeared to have been shrunk.
"Welcome, first-years, to Charms!" Flitwick had squeaked during their first lesson. "In this class, I will teach you all the spells and charms necessary to excel in the wizarding world!" The class stared blankly at the little man. "Over the next few years, of course. We will start small.
"For today's lesson, we will be learning Levitation charms." He grinned around at them. "First thing's first, the pronunciation. Wands away, just follow along with me, now. Wingardium Leviosa ."
" Wingardium Leviosa," the class chanted back.
"That's right, one more time,"
"Wingardium Leviosa,"
"Just like that... now onto the wand movement. Practice this without the incantation at first: swish, and flick," he swished his wand upwards and flicked back down. "From there, you just direct your object."
The class started flourishing their wands somewhat randomly, occasionally shooting sparks or bolts of light across the room. Flitwick observed with a grimace for several minutes, but apparently gathered enough confidence to announce, "Now simply combine the incantation, Wingardium Leviosa , with a swish and flick."
Harry looked around, observing his fellow student's strained attempts at levitating their feathers, before turning to his own. " Wingardium Leviosa ," he whispered, swishing and flicking. The feather rose into the air, levitating about a foot off his desk.
"WELL DONE, POTTER!"
Flitwick's enthusiasm, as well as his uncannily sudden appearance next to him, made Harry flinch so hard that his wand spasmed, causing the feather to shoot straight up and disappear behind a massive chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
"Sorry about that - er, Professor, sir," he said, looking up at the chandelier.
Flitwick was beaming, however, and said, "No matter, my dear boy, it's just a feather-" he glanced over at Seamus Finnigan, whose feather had caught on fire. "-anyway, I've never seen a student master the Levitation charm so fast – MERLIN'S BEARD!" he added loudly, making Harry flinch again, for Hermione had just levitated her own, not ten seconds after Harry had. "Twenty points to Gryffindor!"
Hermione directed her feather with much more grace than Harry had; she glided it to Professor Flitwick, whose expression resembled that of a child on Christmas morning, and landed it lightly atop his head.
Transfiguration, taught by Professor McGonagall, was a demanding class. During their first lesson, she gave them a stern lecture about the difficulties, dangers, and beauties in Transfiguration and, to put bluntly, gave a kind "fuck off" to anyone who didn't want to obey her rules. She claimed that, above all, her rules were in place for their own safety, and breaking them would put not only yourself but everyone else in danger. It was plain that she wouldn't tolerate it, and after the twenty-minute talking-to finally concluded, they were given the task of turning a match into a needle.
Transfiguring turned out to be a bit more complicated than regular spellwork – you had to adapt the incantation based on what your desired result was, clearly envisioning it in your mind. The wand movement was also estranged from normal spells; there was no distinct requirement. It was simply trial-and-error, different movements channeled the magic better for different people and different wands, and different incantations could result in the same spell for different people as well.
With reference to the Latin Translation section of his Transfiguration textbook, he figured out a working incantation: Argentum Punctus. He traced his wand over the match, muttering his newly found spell, and felt his magic coursing through his wand. When he withdrew, a needle remained. He grabbed more matches, and during the span of the class, reduced the spell to Argepunctum . He glanced over at Hermione, who was working next to him, and saw that one of her matches had gone silver and pointy. Neville, on his left, hadn't done a single thing to his match, but he instead looked strained and sweaty.
McGonagall was walking around the classroom, scrutinizing all the students' progress (or lack thereof). To the great amusement of Draco Malfoy and his cronies, who were sitting across the classroom, Neville still looked constipated. Harry muttered " Argepunctum," and waved his wand in Neville's direction, transfiguring his needle before McGonagall's eyes, but passing it off as a stretch.
"Well done, Longbottom!" she said, looking down at Neville, who looked equally incredulous. Her eyes slid over Harry, who quickly looked down at his small pile of needles. "My lord, Potter! How many is that, ten? Phenomenal job!"
Harry cringed slightly.
"What incantation did you use, by chance?" she asked, ignoring his flinch.
"Er..." he peered down at his notes, for he was at a loss, " Argentum Punctus, shortened t-to Argepunctum , m-meaning p-pointed silver," he stuttered.
"Simple and effective," she said, noticing Hermione's needle. "You too, Granger? Merlin, well done you three! Twenty points to Gryffindor!" She smiled down at them. "And - Potter, I'd like to speak with you after class, if you'd be so kind."
"Yes, Professor."
About ten minutes later, McGonagall dismissed the class. Hermione gave Harry a reassuring smile before leaving, which he highly appreciated.
"Now, Potter, let me assure you that you are not in any trouble," some tension left his shoulders, "but I would like you to refrain from doing Neville's work in the future,"
"...Of course, Professor."
"My first lesson is always too difficult; I use it to separate the... prestigious students from the average and below-average. Neville's inability to produce a needle in his first transfiguration lesson was not at all due to lack of skill, it's instead due to a lack of experience. I completely expected everyone to fail, and for the most part, my expectations were met – you needn't take pity on Longbottom. I trust that Granger's work was her own; I've reviewed her grades from Muggle Primary School and let me tell you, she is nothing short of brilliant. Anyway, you both shocked me, and if you keep producing work like this, I should have to give you and Hermione some more challenging and... exciting work. Please continue to impress me, you will not regret it. You may go."
Several nights a week they had Astronomy classes at the top of the Astronomy Tower. Being the tallest part of the castle made it a bitch to climb; a spiral staircase was the only access. The class being held at midnight did not make it any easier.
During the lesson itself, they (extremely tiredly) peered through telescopes, making notes on stars, constellations, stellar patterns, etc. Lessons were often several hours long, taking advantage of the night sky for as long as possible before being thwarted by the rising sun or a grumpy rain cloud passing overhead, blurring their telescope lenses and wetting their thin robes.
Lastly, and perhaps most memorably, was Potions class. Harry, Hermione, and Neville found the classroom down in the dungeons with minimal difficulty, but the door was locked. The other students, over several minutes, conglomerated outside the door, a nasty group of Slytherins among them. Draco swaggered over, chin held high, a look of confidence on his face.
"I'm afraid you and Granger won't be the teacher's pets in this class, Potter," he sneered.
Harry chose to stay silent, peering at Draco like he was a zoo exhibit.
"That's right, Professor Snape's an old family friend," he boasted. "My father's gotten him out of a few tight spots if you know what I mean..."
Draco continued to flaunt his fortunes. It was an annoying, unjustifiable type of arrogance that annoyed him greatly, especially because everyone, including the people who were impressed, knew that Malfoy had done nothing to gain the riches he had. He was simply born into them, somehow believing that his heritage alone, something he couldn't control and therefore wasn't his fault, was worth bragging about. The worst part, and the part that bothered Harry the most, was that it worked; people were looking at him like a piece of rare and expensive artwork.
With very minimal thought, Harry discreetly drew his wand, remembering a spell he'd read about a year before. Malfoy was having too much fun.
While Draco was turned away, busy gloating about his fancy broomstick, Harry cautiously aimed his wand and muttered, " Glacius ."
A patch of ice appeared beneath Draco's feet. As soon as he shifted his stance he slipped dramatically and crumpled to the ground. The laughter and commotion that filled the hall, some of it belonging to the Slytherins, provided enough cover for Harry to slip his wand back into his pocket. Nobody saw except Hermione, who stared at him in alarm.
The noise seemed to wake Professor Snape, who swung the door open, releasing strange fumes into the hall from within. Everyone went silent and still as he dragged his gaze across their guilty faces, finally speaking in an adenoidal voice.
"And what is going on here?" he drawled.
"He tripped," said Pansy Parkinson.
Snape's eyes were drawn to the small patch of ice like a magnet. He didn't even look around before saying, "Ten points from Gryffindor." He then turned around and disappeared into the classroom.
"Well, that wasn't fair," Neville whispered angrily. "We didn't even do anything,"
Hermione looked at Harry warningly, and they followed the other students into the room. Dusty, yellowing bottles with hand-written labels filled the shelves on every side of the room, ranging from simple dried mint leaves in small vials to whole dragon hearts in green-tinted gallon jugs. Tables with matching stools occupied most of the room, all facing a grand desk at the head of the classroom. Every workspace had a small, iron divot on one side, presumably used for a fire based on the charring of the wood around it. The Gryffindors parted from the Slytherins and sat down on opposite sides of the room, and Snape stood up from his desk. He unrolled a scroll of parchment and began taking roll call, pausing at Harry's name and staring down at it like a rather unpleasant insect had landed there.
"Ah yes," he said softly, "Harry Potter, our new – celebrity ."
His eyes, dark and cold, turned on Harry for the first time since the welcoming feast. In the back of the classroom, Draco and his friends were sniggering to themselves. Snape smiled darkly and returned to roll call. When he had finished, he glared down upon the class.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he spoke in a barely audible voice. "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, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The class was dead silent. Harry shared a raised eyebrow with Neville, who looked mortified, but Hermione was so far on the edge of her seat, Harry was certain magic was responsible for keeping her from falling. She was staring dead ahead, drinking in every word, completely prepared, it seemed, to prove herself.
"Potter!" said Snape suddenly, whipping his head around to where Harry sat. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
He glanced at Neville, who looked completely clueless, and then at Hermione, whose hand was pointing straight up in the air like a telephone pole. His mind was racing, trying to remember what he had read in the brief study of potions he had done... Asphodel... Lily of death; Wormwood... bitter finality...
"If I'm n-not mistaken, Professor... th -that would be the Draught of Living D-Death." He swallowed. Hermione's hand dropped disappointedly. The class held its breath as Snape's eyebrows raised, his lip curling.
"Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?" he asked, near silently. Hermione's hand shot up once more.
"An... apothecary?" Harry responded truthfully. Several Gryffindors laughed around him, which he really wished they wouldn't because Snape's gaze was growing more deadly with every passing moment.
" Don't be cheeky, Potter," he snapped. "What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Hermione gave up on raising her hand, instead quietly staring at Harry as he fumbled through his memory, trying to remember everything he'd ever read in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.
" They're... they're the same!" Harry announced triumphantly, looking Snape right in the eye. He scrutinized Harry for several seconds with a glare colder than the ice Malfoy had slipped on and took a slow, deep breath.
" Thought some extra studying would make you look better than everyone else, eh, Potter?" He shook his head. "How pathetically selfish of you. Ten points from Gryffindor."
Harry did not respond, he merely stared down at the desk, waiting for Snape's piercing gaze to leave him. The pride Harry had felt a moment before disappeared instantly, replaced by anger, injustice, and defeat. The Slytherins in the back were laughing, Snape was smiling coldly, and tears threatened Harry's eyes – he couldn't explain why. The brutal injustice of it struck the wrong chord within Harry, and at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to disappear.
He sat with miserably low spirits, not uttering a single word, for the remainder of the lesson. His mind was far from potions, trying to gather a reason for Snape's immediate hatred. The only thing close to an interaction they'd had before then was the one moment in the Great Hall – perhaps, Harry thought, it was because he was in Gryffindor... no, Snape hadn't treated any other Gryffindors that way...
At the end of class, the potion he had produced was so terrible that Snape laughed while examining it and humiliated him in front of the class. " This is more what I expected from The Boy Who Lived," he said with distaste as he peered into the cauldron.
Over the following weeks, Harry continued to excel at Transfiguration and Charms. Transfiguration had finally given him a way to channel his magic however he pleased, not confined by one specific wand movement or incantation; he could just feel the magic, warping and shaping it as he felt the need to.
In charms, they had started rather slow, learning simple charms like Alohomora, Lumos, Reparo , and their respective countercharms (Nox, Colloportus ). Harry knew many of the charms from his training with Mrs. Figg, and the ones he wasn't familiar with came easy, requiring almost no power and equally simple wand movements.
Herbology was more physically demanding than anything else – one class they were forced to chase some rather skittish Wartizomes across the grounds. Their lessons were with the Hufflepuffs, who seemed to be the friendliest house toward Gryffindor. Ravenclaws were never rude or aggressive, but they would often treat Gryffindors to a smug look of superiority like they always knew more than them. Slytherin was... well... almost exactly how Neville had described them.
The interhouse discrepancies were nothing short of unhealthy, mainly between Slytherins and anyone who crossed paths with them. Harry witnessed as a brother and sister, separated into Hufflepuff and Slytherin, formed a disgusting hatred for each other, as well as a set of old friends being fed lies by their separate houses until they could no longer face each other. It was, in Harry's opinion, pitiful to watch, but he seemed to be the only one noticing.
After several Potions lessons, Harry was forced to accept Snape's unyielding hatred toward him. No matter what he did, no matter how good his potion work was, no matter how polite he was – Snape would greet him with the same cruel sneer. Snape's attitude, in fact, seemed to get even worse with Harry's improving potion work, which was ironically budded from Harry ignoring the batlike man. When he ignored Snape, he was able to get more done – but Snape also grew nastier and became harder to ignore in general. The class became his least favorite, even surpassing the migraine-inducing DADA class.
"I just don't get it," Harry said over dinner. "He really seems to hate me, and I didn't even do anything!"
"He hates everyone, Harry," Hermione said sympathetically, "Everyone except those damn Slytherins he's got right under his thumb," she finished, glaring at the green-clad table.
Neville said suddenly with wide eyes, "I had a nightmare about him last night..."
Harry and Hermione both stared at him.
"In my dream, I was brewing a potion, and then it turned black, and he rose out of the cauldron and started yelling at me... and then he turned into my grandma..." he broke off, shivering. Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance.
"Oh, hi, Ron," Neville said with a sigh, red cheeks facing toward Harry. He turned to see the red-headed boy who, to Harry's annoyance, liked to loudly joke with Seamus and Dean in boys' dorms late at night.
"Hey, Neville," said Ron, eyes darting quickly between Harry's forehead and Neville's round face. "My brothers – er... I... wanted to invite Har- you, and Harry, to play some wizarding chess. Over there," he added, averting his gaze from Harry and pointing to his twin brothers sitting further down the table. "With us," he added.
Harry furrowed his brow.
"Sure, I could play some chess," Neville said appreciatively. "Harry, are you..."
Harry scooted minutely closer to Hermione. "No, Neville, I think I'll stay. But thanks, anyway," he added pointedly to Ron, who turned red and quickly walked away.
"You bloody idiot, why didn't you invite the girl?" he heard one of the twins say incredulously down the table.
Harry rolled his eyes, turning back to Hermione, who was staring down the table at the Weasley boys. "That was a bit rude," he said, poking at his food.
"He was just nervous," said Hermione distractedly. "You're a wizarding celebrity, people are bound to... I was lucky enough to meet you accidentally, anyway..." their eyes met, and Hermione's cheeks went pink. She looked away toward the chess match again. "He probably assumed I don't like chess-"
" Do you like chess?" Harry asked.
"Never played, so I don't really know,"
"You've never played chess? Not even at Muggle school?"
"No, never," she said.
"I think you'd like it," Harry said thoughtfully. "It's more on the strategic side of board games, anyway."
Hermione was still staring down the table.
"Right, well... goodnight, Hermione,"
He hadn't been planning on going to the dorms at first, he'd been planning on going to the library to get some books on defensive spells to practice, but the thought left his mind when he saw the Slytherins within. He made his way to Gryffindor Tower.
"Pig snout," he said dismissively; the portrait swung open.
The common room, dimly lit by torches, was mostly empty. There were a pair of fifth years seated at a dark table across the threshold, a few dazed-looking second years staring into the fire, and Percy, who was pinning things on the house notice board. Not completely knowing why, he found his legs taking him in that direction.
"Hey, Percy," he greeted casually.
"Oh, hello, Harry," Percy replied; he trying to stick a large piece of parchment to the board.
"What are you putting up?" Harry really wasn't interested in whatever Percy was doing, but he didn't feel like sleeping yet.
He peered at the parchment. "Flying lessons for first-years, next Tuesday, with the Slytherins," he read. "Blimey, I remember flying lessons. I wasn't nearly as good as my brothers, but it was fun."
He then tried to transfigure part of the paper into nails, intending for them to fasten it to the board, but they just fell to the ground.
"Say, have you learned sticking charms yet? I can only remember the permanent one, and I don't want to make the same mistake that Hufflepuff prefect did... had to replace the whole wall..."
"Er... it's A gglutino," said Harry. On a desk next to Percy, he noticed a bold headline: Gringotts Break-In Latest. " Are you done with that newspaper?" he asked, pointing.
"Oh, yeah," he picked it up, glancing at it quickly before handing it to Harry. "Pretty wild, my dad says there's never been a break-in before,"
As Harry suspected, the small snippet on the front revealed nothing new; a vault was broken into the day before he went to Gringotts, but it was emptied earlier that day - by Dumbledore, he remembered. But it got him thinking... what had that goblin – Griphook – said? A very important artifact...
Mind spinning, he left Percy at the notice board, where he had just glued his own hand to the parchment. He went to the dorms and sat on his bed, staring out the window and thinking.
Hermione's strange mood was suddenly a minute, unimportant detail amidst a much bigger issue: whatever Dumbledore took from that vault very nearly entered the grasp of dark wizards. Someone had gotten into the Gringotts vault and then escaped without being seen or heard, leaving no trace... Harry had seen the security, seen the vaults – it would require a great amount of power and skill to do what had been done. The object itself was Dumbledore's, or at least in his possession... and for some reason, he had taken it from a Gringotts vault the very same day. Did he intend to use whatever it was? Did he need it for something? Or did he suspect that it was unsafe to keep in Gringotts? Maybe he wanted to store it somewhere else, somewhere he could keep an eye on it...
As he lay gazing out the dark window, his thoughts melded into his dreams, and he slept. He did not see his fellow Gryffindors arrive. He did not witness as Neville, so similarly and yet so differently from himself, woke gasping for air in the middle of the night, tears leaking down his face, silent sobs shaking his body as red flashes haunted his vision.
Harry, Hermione, and Neville arrived at the Quidditch practice pitch at three-thirty in the afternoon on Tuesday. Hermione, being Muggleborn , and Harry, being raised for the most part by the Dursleys, had no idea what to expect from broomstick riding. When they asked Neville about it at breakfast, all he could add was a story about a toy broomstick and the falling off of said broomstick into a patch of cactuses during a vacation several years before.
Twenty broomsticks were lying in neat rows on the grass, twigs vibrating idly in the cool breeze. The teacher, Madam Hooch, looked more like a hawk than a woman.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
The students rushed to stand over a broomstick, some running into each other, others fighting over the nicest broomstick they could find. Harry looked down at his, which looked splintery, rough, and had twigs sticking out at odd angles. It looked quite uncomfortable to sit on, he thought, wishing he'd picked a nicer one.
"Right then," said Madam Hooch, surveying the small group. "Stick your dominant hand out over the broomstick, no, don't pick it up, boy," she added, glaring at Neville, who dropped it to the ground immediately. "Dominant hand over the broomstick, and say 'up'. Just like this, now, up!" she said firmly. The broomstick flew off the ground into her waiting grasp, and when she released it, it lay floating idly in the air, unaffected by the wind.
Shouts of "up" filled the crowd. Some broomsticks flew right into its owner's hand obediently, others lifted off the ground a few inches before falling pathetically back to the ground, and some just didn't move. Neville's broomstick flew up at a right angle and, with a loud thwack, struck him in the nose, causing him to fall to the ground beside it.
Eventually, everyone managed to summon their broomsticks, so Madam Hooch started walking around, showing everyone how to grip and mount the broomstick. Malfoy, who had been gloating about years of experience, looked rather shocked and frankly outraged when Madam Hooch told him he'd had the wrong grip for years.
As soon as Neville swung his leg over the broomstick, he rose off the ground. Madam Hooch hadn't told them how to control the broomstick yet, so his panicked expression when he started drifting higher was perfectly understandable.
"Get back here, boy!" Madam Hooch shouted. "Point the nose down! No, down! Merlin's sake, boy, point the nose – oh hell..."
Neville, trying his best to obey Hooch's orders, had pointed the nose down quite steeply, causing the broomstick to gain alarming speed pointed straight toward the ground. Naturally, this made Neville panic even more, so he pulled the nose up sharply, carrying the momentum into a new path headed straight for the side of the bleachers. With a spectacular crash and much howling laughter from the Slytherins, Neville lay rolling in agony on the ground with the splintered remains of his broomstick strewn across the grass like depressing, brown confetti.
Madam Hooch sprinted over to him, looking ever more like a hawk in the way she ran, and scooped him up. With one glance at the arm he was cradling, she said, "Broken wrist," she then addressed Harry, who was nearest. "I have to take Longbottom to the infirmary. I trust you can keep everyone on the ground here until I get back." And she ran toward the castle with strange elegance, muttering reassurances and apologies to Neville, who was lying limp in her arms.
"How pathetic was that?" Malfoy cried to the great amusement of the other Slytherins. "I mean come on, he even dropped his little retard ball," he guffawed, scooping a small glass ball off the ground. "It's a Remembrall, right?" he asked Hermione sarcastically.
"Give it here, Malfoy," said Harry, to everyone's surprise, his own most of all. So far he had, with the exception of their first meeting, avoided conflict with Malfoy. He usually ignored it, rolling his eyes with Hermione, sometimes responding with a snide remark that, if Malfoy couldn't think of a response to, would pretend he didn't hear.
"Potter wants the retard ball?" Malfoy mocked, "Not exactly a surprise, is it?" he muttered, quite audibly, to Crabbe and Goyle . Pansy Parkinson exclaimed " Malfoy!" in a fake accusing tone, shoving him playfully.
"I said give it here, Malfoy," said Harry with a slight hint of warning.
"Go soak your head, Potter," he sneered. "Maybe if you stared at a book every second of your life like Granger, you'd learn what's good for you,"
"She's not staring at a book now," said Harry, his anger growing. Malfoy, dragging Hermione into it again... Making fun of her for no reason... "Like the rest of us, she's staring at an egotistical arse who can't butt out of other people's business." Silence followed this statement, and Malfoy's glare grew deadly.
"So come get it, Potter..." Malfoy whispered, mounting his broom and drifting slowly to Harry. As soon as he gripped the broom, however, the Remembrall turned bright red in his hand. "It's right here." He waved it mockingly in front of Harry, just out of his reach. What was in his reach made all the difference.
"Looks like you've forgotten something, Malfoy," said Harry, pointing at the glowing orb. Malfoy glanced at it, providing Harry the vital moment he needed. "The right grip,"
Harry swung his arm in a great arc from behind him, smacking the underside of Malfoy's broom tip with all the force he could. The tip flew up, pointing toward the sky, and rocketed out from under Malfoy's feet, causing him to fall off it and drop the Remembrall onto the grass. Harry scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket.
He walked back to his broom where he stood beside Hermione, quietly watching Malfoy climbing to his feet. With a positively disgusting glare, Malfoy stalked off to retrieve his broom, and the Gryffindors broke out into roaring laughter.
"Harry, that was awesome!" said Seamus enthusiastically.
"Totally badass," said Dean.
"It was a fluke, he really did have the wrong grip," said Harry dismissively, refusing all the compliments dished to him by the other Gryffindors.
"Was that really necessary?" Hermione said uncertainly, looking toward the castle.
"I was just doing what Madam Hooch told me to," he replied honestly. "She told me to keep everyone on the ground, and his feet were definitely floating. Besides, he had Neville's thingy," he said, motioning to his pocket.
"Oh, alright..."
Malfoy returning several minutes later with twigs in his hair brought laughter to the Gryffindors again; even Harry allowed himself an unconcealable grin as Malfoy's typically smug expression turned to embarrassment and anger. Harry's spirits were high as Madam Hooch returned with Neville, whose wrist was no longer broken.
"Sorry about that," she said to everyone before addressing Harry. "Everyone stayed on the ground, Potter? No sneaks?"
"That's right, Madam, no sneaks," Harry repeated as Hermione stifled a chuckle. Malfoy looked murderous.
"Where did we leave off, then? Oh, yes – er – taking off," she said, mounting her broomstick. "To take off, as Neville was kind enough to demonstrate, you kick off the ground. It'll give a boost of speed, and from there, you can direct it in the direction you want. I want you all to kick off, lightly, and drift a couple of yards before you touch down again. Go,"
Harry kicked off, drifted idly for a few seconds, and lightly tilted it back down, landing swiftly.
"Well, that wasn't too bad, was it, Hermione...?" He turned to see Hermione hobbling, or whatever the broomstick equivalent is, about an inch off the ground. Neville hadn't even kicked off yet, he was staring at the broomstick with wide, fearful eyes.
"Come on, Longbottom, just do as I say, and you'll be fine!" called Madam Hooch.
Neville hesitantly kicked off the ground and drifted, quivering, through the air, before collapsing next to Harry. Madam Hooch rolled her eyes, turning to the Slytherins. " Grip, Malfoy!"
The lesson proceeded; Madam Hooch taught them how to turn, accelerate, brake, ascend, dive, and even a brief overview of Quidditch. He was surprised at how naturally flying came to him – the broomstick seemed to obey his thoughts instead of his movements.
Dives were the first time they got any real speed. The exercise involved ascending high in the air before diving through a hoop. As he rose high in the air, he got a tingly, nervous feeling in his stomach. The first dive, however, rid him of his nervousness immediately. Something about the speed, the control, the wind whipping through his hair, rippling his robes – he felt freer than he could ever remember.
To both the collective awe and shameful envy of his classmates, he excelled far beyond most of their abilities during the lesson and by the end of it, Madam Hooch wore a wide grin of anticipation.
"Well done, Potter! If it were up to me, you'd have a place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team right now; I've not seen someone fly like that since your dad was here all those years ago," said Madam Hooch as she dismissed them. For several hours after the lesson, Harry could neither deflate his chest nor diminish his feeling of self-pride that resulted from being compared to his father, who was apparently good at Quidditch.
He left dinner with a stupid grin on his face. Neville stayed behind, wanting to discuss something with Professor Sprout, but Hermione trotted along briskly beside him, climbing the moving staircases and ducking through shortcuts as they made their way to the common room. It had been a perfect day – discovering an amazing new magical hobby, barely any homework, and wonderful conversation with Neville and Hermione at dinner... Harry was sure half of his good mood was satisfaction wrought by knocking Malfoy off his broomstick.
Intending to study with Hermione before bed, he politely told her to find some comfortable seats by the fire, and he went to retrieve some of his newer spellbooks from his trunk. As he reached the top of the stairs, he noticed something unusual – the door to the boys' dorm was closed. Perhaps, Harry thought, someone was changing? No... there was a curtained area specifically for that purpose.
He pressed his ear noiselessly against the door, fingers curled around the doorknob, but not twisting. The voices within were very quiet, cutting in and out of audibility at random.
"...got what he deserved... really showed him..."
"...yeah... Malfoy... ground... badass..."
"...easy... anyone... do it... easy..."
"...jealous?"
There was a pause, and the conversation became louder.
"Jealous of what?"
The tone was familiar to Harry – it betrayed the words it soaked. Petunia's cruel voice echoed in Harry's mind, it didn't get her very far...
" Jealous that he's a know-it-all? Jealous that he hangs around that nuisance, Granger?" continued the voice. Harry's fingers clenched around the doorknob.
"... You like her! "
" What ?! Where the bloody hell did you get that idea?"
"I saw the way you looked at the pair of them today. You're jealous of him, mate,"
"No, I'm not," something hit the wall. "He's just got an ugly scar across his head. And why would I like Granger, anyway? She's got horse teeth, and she thinks she's smarter than everyone else!"
"Mate, I-"
Harry did not listen any longer. He didn't care if they shit-talked him, but he drew a line at Hermione. She'd done nothing except answer questions correctly in class. She hadn't done any stunts, broken any rules, bothered anyone... why were they insulting her for no reason?
He knocked loudly on the door and entered as the room grew silent. He frowned at the three boys within.
"You ought to talk a bit quieter," said Harry in a serious voice. Seamus opened his mouth to speak, but Harry raised his hand. "I don't care what you say about me, really, I've heard it all already. What I don't want is Hermione hearing she's got horse teeth," he looked around at them, studying their faces. When none of them responded, he grabbed a random spellbook and left.
The short encounter had Harry thinking. The first two weeks of school, both the teachers and students had treated him like a very fragile object, speaking only kind, careful words to him, as if testing the waters. After some time, however, both the teachers and the students had a better understanding of his personality and treated him like any other student. Other kids no longer ogled over his scar in the hallway, asked him about Voldemort, or whispered behind their hands, and teachers' breath no longer caught while reading his name.
It was painfully obvious that they expected something different from the Boy-Who-Lived, but he didn't care much. As far as everyone knew, Harry was completely normal aside from his scar and the event that wrought it, and he was now being treated, for the most part, as such. Exceptions included Snape, who hated him; Malfoy, who hated him more; and apparently his fellow Gryffindors, who also sported their own negative opinions on him.
At least he had Hermione, he thought, looking up from the textbook at the bushy-haired girl beside him. She was always searching for something to learn, always looking for something new – it was incredible to him.
Harry himself did the same thing, but more as a responsibility than anything else. His fate, his destiny, his future... Tomorrow, he liked to call it... demanded it, because he didn't know when the time would come. It could be months, weeks, or days away; perhaps tomorrow, and he needed to be ready. Not just for himself, but for everyone else. He tried not to think of it that way, though, because it made him feel queasy.
Because Harry and Hermione both spent their free time studying, they started to do it together. Sometimes they'd do separate homework, sometimes they'd work on a tricky spell, sometimes they'd just reminisce about random bullshit; it was certainly more interesting than doing it alone. Sometimes Neville would even bless them with his presence for a short time, occasionally providing helpful insight Harry would've never thought of.
Harry shook his head; Hermione was saying his name.
"Sorry, Hermione, I zoned out again," he sighed.
"I could tell," she smiled. "Your eyes were drooping,"
"Where were we?" he asked, looking down at the textbook.
" Overview of elemental defensive spells, part one," she recited.
"Right,"
He looked down at the page. The words, some longer than his finger, blurred together like bleeding ink. He rubbed his eyes, accidentally knocking his glasses onto the floor, where they shattered.
"...maybe we should take a break," said Hermione as Harry tapped irritably at his glasses with his wand.
"Thanks, I don't think I could read another word even if I wanted to,"
"Why are you so interested in defensive magic, anyway?" she squinted down at the paper. "We're not supposed to learn some of this stuff until sixth year,"
Harry thought about the question, deciding to answer with a misleading truth.
"I love casting the spells," he said honestly. "The feeling is unreplaceable – the magic coursing through my arm and out of the wand, doing as I command..." He caught Hermione's eye, quickly looking down. "And you never know when you might need it. I guess it's like how Muggles learn martial arts. It's an exercise, sure, and it's fun, sure, but it's also security. I'm not doing a very good job explaining," he finished.
"No, I – I understand. It's a good point..."
They stared at each other. Hermione's lips were slightly parted, and Harry could see the edges of her bucked teeth sticking out from under her top lip. Her dark red-brown eyes stared back at him like roasted chestnuts.
"I need your opinion on something," he decided.
"Sure,"
He looked around at the common room, more students had filed in since their arrival. The sun was cresting the trees outside; they'd eaten dinner rather earlier than he thought. He figured Ron, Dean, and Seamus hadn't even gone to the Great Hall yet.
"We should go to the library," he said, grabbing her arm.
"Why? It closes in twenty minutes!"
"That's why it'll be empty, and I don't want others listening in."
She shot him a glare but nevertheless allowed him to steer her out of the portrait hole and down the hallway. When they arrived, Harry hastily dragged her to the farthest corner, intending to find privacy. Looking around, he sat at a small, dark table in the back of the goblin history section, which was vast compared to most other topics.
"Ok," he breathed as Hermione sat across from him. "Did you hear about Gringotts, that goblin -run bank? It got robbed, or almost did, I read about it in the newspaper."
Alarm flashed across her face.
"How? Isn't robbing Gringotts impossible? I've read about their security, it's some of the best in the world, surpassed only by Hogwarts and Azkaban, if I had to guess," she said incredulously.
"I know, it's unbelievable. I went down to the vaults when I visited, and the way they have it locked up down there... it sure seems impossible to rob," he ran his hand through his messy hair and took a deep breath. "Someone did it, though. The goblin told me about it, I was there the day after,"
"So... what's this got to do with spells?"
"Nothing, nothing," he said, shaking his head, "It's just, I've got a theory. Hear me out,"
"Fire away, Potter,"
"The newspaper said it was an attempted robbery, right?"
"I didn't read it,"
"Then take my word for it," he gathered his thoughts, "An attempted robbery. That means whoever broke into the vault didn't get whatever was inside. It must have been emptied prior to the break-in."
"What if the vault was always empty?"
He stared at her. "Why would they break into it if it was empty?"
"Oh, right,"
"It was empty, but the fact that someone broke into it means that it had something valuable inside of it before, and it was taken out between two points in time: when the robber found out about it, and when they actually broke in. This could be either a long or short span of time. Do we agree so far?"
"Yes, that makes sense,"
"When I was at Gringotts, security was tight. They made me sign something with my blood." he looked around. "The goblin I was talking to was kind of a mean, serious type, but got friendly after verifying who I was, and said he knew my family – but that's not important. He told me that the robbery was the day before, as I already said. My birthday, by strange coincidence, but I don't think there is any correlation there. In his angry little rant about the disgrace of being robbed, etc., he let something slip. He said the vault was emptied by Dumbledore the same day."
Harry watched Hermione for a reaction, but he was disappointed. She simply looked at him, eyes narrowed as if thinking hard .
"So... there was something valuable in that vault, and Dumbledore took it out before someone broke in?"
"Yes, he took it out before, but also after. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe the robber chose a random vault to break into, maybe nothing was planned – but I don't think so. Something important was in that vault, something of Dumbledore's, and someone was after it, is likely still after it. Breaking into that vault would take a lot of power, maybe even dark magic. You said Hogwarts has better security than Gringotts?"
"Not necessarily better, per se... but incredible, yes. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
" W hat if Dumbledore wanted to keep whatever was in the vault a bit closer?"
Hermione's eyes widened even more. "You think he brought whatever it is here?!" she exclaimed.
"Yes, I do. And I think it's in that third-floor corridor."
She didn't look convinced.
" Oh come on, it makes sense! Why else would he want to keep people out?" he asked.
"Maybe the same reason as the Forest, it could actually be dangerous. There could be poltergeists, dangerous animals, old magic..."
"But we don't know what's there,"
"That's what I'm saying,"
"So it could be whatever was in that vault!"
"I suppose, but it could also be any of the things I said," she replied. "You couldn't possibly be thinking of going there!" she exclaimed. He couldn't hide the guilt on his face.
"Oh, please, Harry, there could be something dangerous there! And even if it is Dumbledore's - thing, there is no reason to find out! I'm sure there's more protecting it than a locked door, anyway."
Harry couldn't deny her logic. Whoever broke into the vault was dangerous, and if they came back, it had to be protected more than Gringotts could.
"Library's closed," said Madam Pince irritably as she passed, waving a feather duster at them.
"That was a good break, I think," said Hermione as she stood. "I've got a few more hours of spell practice in me, you?"
He looked up at her. Orange-pink light from the dying sunset was flooding the windows like a tsunami of color, and dust particles twinkled like tiny fireworks.
"I reckon I can go longer than you," he said teasingly, rising from his chair.
"Don't push it, Potter."
She laughed.