Chapter 12: Classes
The four-poster bed that Harry was assigned in Gryffindor Tower was lush and comfortable albeit creaky. It was a mess of cotton sheets, a thick white duvet and more pillows than any single person really needed. Harry hated it. That first night when he sunk into his new bed, he realized that it simply wouldn't do. There was no firm back or neck support, no opportunity to twist and turn in one's sleep.
His mood didn't improve the next morning when he realized that his instinctive lashing out at Ron Weasley the night before had scared all four of his dorm mates out of their wits. After experiencing years of isolation and bullying, Harry hadn't expected to form friendships but the way they cowered away from him was just ridiculous. He was irritated with himself for having reacted as badly as he did. It was a move designed for juvie or the Residence where if you let another inmate take liberties even once, you became open game for everyone. But Ron and the others were just pampered little boys and could not conceive that a shove could mean anything more to another kid their age.
He had decided also to stop wearing his beloved Liverpool cap while at the castle. There really was no point now – not only did everyone know who he was, there was little sunlight in the Scottish Highlands to justify a cap. It was thus with heavy regret that he placed his cap in his bedroom within the Valise.
Whispers followed him around in those first few days at Hogwarts.
'…came in looking like the worst Muggle…'
'…I thought he was supposed to have black hair?'
'…seen the scar yet?'
'…heard he punched another first-year right after the Sorting…'
'…carries around that strange Muggle suitcase…'
He had to grit his teeth and suppress his boiling anger upon hearing the 's' word.
At mealtimes, the other first year Gryffindor boys sat as far away from him as they could. While, the first-year girls sat in a huddle giggling amongst themselves and occasionally throwing glances his way before bursting out into more excitable yet hushed chatter.
Hermione Granger was the only first year who deigned to sit near him and he hated her for it.
"Why did you tell everyone your name was Marcus?" she demanded of him that first morning.
"Good morning, how are you Hermione? Did you sleep well?" Harry asked in an affected polite tone, peering up at her from just above his porridge.
"Well…I…yes…I'm fine. But that's beside the point," she spluttered, her pale face turning slightly pink.
He nodded at her and smiled lightly but kept silent otherwise.
The silence stretched out. More and more. And more.
Finally, Hermione threw her hands up in exasperation, "Well!"
"Well?" he asked her in the same faux polite tone as if he truly was confused.
"I asked you why you told us your name was Marcus," she said heatedly drawing the attention of a few senior Gryfffindors sitting nearby.
He looked her in the eyes and then shrugged, "I felt like it?"
Hermione gaped at him, her mouth slightly ajar, "You felt like it?"
"Yes," he replied nodding seriously. "Don't you ever do things because you feel like it?"
She continued to gape at him in shock while he stared back with an expectant look.
"What?" she said finally in a lost tone.
"I asked you, whether you ever do things because you feel like it?" he replied patiently.
"Well of course I do! Everyone does. What does that have to do with anything?" she snapped at him.
He shrugged again, "Dunno." He went back to eating his porridge. He could have sworn she screeched but it could also have been the swarm of owls that suddenly flew into the Great Hall dropping envelopes and packages on expectant students.
(Break)
Classes were a mixed bag in Harry's opinion. His early favourite was Transfiguration, even more so than Charms. There was a permanence and a challenge to Transfiguration that none of the other subjects possessed. He had been mightily impressed in the first lesson when the tabby cat sitting on the professor's desk morphed into a stern-looking Professor McGonagall.
In that first lesson, he earned his first points for his House.
"Why are you staring off into space Mr. Potter? Aren't you supposed to be doing the assigned work?" said McGonagall sternly as she approached his desk.
Harry had gotten bored of the button-to-needle transfiguration very early on. His few days of practice at the beginning of the summer had left him in good stead and he was still able to perform the magic with little trouble. But there are only so many times one can perform the same spell before the 'magic' loses its 'charm.'
"I've already been able to perform the transfiguration Professor," he said evenly in reply, not shying away from her hard stare. Something about McGonagall irked him. It might have been her cold demeanor or perhaps her authoritativeness. In his mind, she came across like a person who would see fit to enforce an arbitrary and useless rule just to assert her dominance. And he didn't like that one bit.
"Well, if you're so confident in your abilities then you wouldn't mind demonstrating, would you?" she asked, crossing her arms, and looking at him expectantly.
He sighed internally, pointed his wand at a spare button in front of him, gathered his will and intent, visualized the change, and cast the spell. Without a hitch, the button transformed into a shiny, pointy needle in front of the Professor and a few peeking students.
McGonagall looked put out and pleased at the same time. "Well, that is quite remarkable. I daresay you've been one of the quickest in your year to pick up this transfiguration. Five points to Gryffindor and I hope to continue seeing such application in all your remaining years at Hogwarts Mr. Potter!"
Harry smiled slightly at the points he had received. He didn't particularly care about the points or his House but he wasn't used to receiving any sort of praise. He found that he liked it even though the truth was that he had practiced that transfiguration many times before. On reflection, he decided that no one needed to know about his practice.
After the class he decided to approach McGonagall about some transfigurations that could help him in building up his Valise.
"Professor?" he said as he approached her desk once all his classmates had exited.
"Yes, Mr. Potter? Don't you have a Herbology class to get to? I hope you don't plan to be late on your first day" said McGonagall sternly, peering down at him.
Harry tried to drown his irritation. Why was everything a tongue-lashing with this woman?
"I'm aware of that Professor and I shan't be late," he replied forcing out a polite tone.
She nodded, "Then how can I help you Mr. Potter?"
"I wondered how would one go about conjuring household items such a table or chair Professor? Is there a book you can point me to?"
She didn't reply for a moment, instead her eyebrows rose marginally, "And why do you want to learn such things Mr. Potter? You're provided with chairs and tables by Hogwarts are you not?"
Harry almost clicked his tongue in irritation. Was she really asking a student in a school why he was curious?
"Ma'am I just found the idea interesting and possibly useful to know for the future."
"Hmmm," she said sounding unconvinced. "Well conjuration is far, far outside the first-year syllabus but you will read about Gamp's Laws of Transfiguration later this year. What those laws say is that one cannot simply conjure something from nothing – barring a few exceptions. So, conjuring a table or a chair from nothingness is not possible."
Harry turned thoughtful, "But one could transfigure say air into something material?"
"Well yes," McGonagall conceded grudgingly, "but you would have to be a really powerful Wizard nay a Sorcerer of the order of Albus Dumbledore to transfigure air into something material. The simpler thing would be to transfigure something of an equivalent mass and density."
It was Harry's turn to 'hmmm' as he pondered this new information over.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall continued but in an even sterner and more irritating tone, "I would advise you to leave thoughts of conjuration behind and focus on the here-and-now including, I might add, your Herbology lesson which is due to start shortly in the Greenhouses. I will be most displeased if you lose Gryffindor the very points I have awarded you, because of tardiness."
'What a bitch,' thought Harry as he rushed off to the Greenhouses.
(break)
Herbology was nothing like Harry had expected. It was one of the classes he'd been most looking forward to at Hogwarts as he imagined all the practical tips he would learn to grow his own crops inside the Valise - a big step towards freedom and self-sufficiency. But instead, the class was all about strange and often dangerous magical plants such as the Devil's Snare that they would be working on that day.
Professor Sprout, the Herbology Professor liked to pair up her students to tackle the various green blighters that they had to understand and work with. This was the only instance when Harry became conscious and a little doubtful of his self-driven isolation from his peers. The Gryffindor boys all paired up with each other and still stayed well-shot of him. The girls were off in their own groups and paid little heed to him. The other Houses had their own connections and cliques and there was nothing to be gained there either. In the end he decided to stay put where he was and leave his pairing to fate or Sprout.
Unfortunately for Harry, there was one person who did want to be around him and that was Hermione Granger. The annoying, self-righteous, opinionated loudmouth immediately came to stand next to him, glaring at him as she did so.
"How did you do the button to needle transfiguration so fast?" she hissed at him in anger and condescension.
While he hated her company, Harry found her much too easy to goad and entertaining to boot.
He simply shrugged in response to her question and turned away from her, struggling not to grin.
He could hear her audibly huff several times behind him and he was sorely tempted to burst out laughing.
'Well, this could be fun,' he thought to himself as he prepared to mess with her.
"In your pairs, please decide who will use the magical clamps we've provided to hold down the larger tentacles of the Snare and who will use the cutting tool to harvest the flowers from the inner part of the Snare," announced Sprout.
Harry smirked inwardly. The clamp job was the easier one by far. The magic in the clamps, Sprout had explained, would easily hold down the large tentacles and just required simple monitoring. The task of harvesting the flower from the Snare's centre was the harder one as it required the student to venture into the Snare's smelly mass and risk being whipped by the smaller tentacles that were too small to be clamped.
"I'll be doing the harvesting of course," he told Hermione in no uncertain terms and with a hint of pomposity.
As expected, the bushy-haired girl's nostrils flared indignantly, and she placed her hands on her hips in a power pose.
"And why's that?" she demanded.
"Well…I'm the Boy-Who-Lived aren't I? I get first choice," Harry replied with a note of innocent perplexity.
Hermione's face went red as she stepped into his personal space and poked him in the chest.
"Now listen here mister. You may be a celebrity but that doesn't give you the right to jump the pack in learning. I have as much right to learn as you do, and I'll be the one doing the harvesting."
He bit back real irritation and anger at the poking and invasion of his personal space as he replied through gritted teeth, "Fine but I get the next choice."
"Hmph!"
Not five minutes later, as Harry lazily watched the big tentacles of the snare struggle against the magical clamps, he heard an exasperated, high-pitched voice come from somewhere within the mass of green, "Can't you do something about these small tentacled…OUCH!"
"Sorry Granger…did you say something?" Harry asked loudly choking on the last few words as he struggled to contain his laughter.
She emerged five minutes later scratched, dirty and smelly carrying a roughly hewed maroon flower in her hands. Harry rushed forward and snatched the flower from her, leaning close to whisper in fake anger, "Took you long enough! Now we're last thanks to you! I hope you're happy."
Her lower lip trembled at that, and he felt only a slightly twinge of guilt. But mostly mirth.
(break)
Harry had not liked the first few lessons of Charms. The subject was usually visually spectacular, but it felt vacuous, perhaps because of the types of rudimentary charms that were in the first-year syllabus – jellylegs, bluebells, cheering. While Harry could see the use cases of each of these charms, they didn't compare in his eyes to the permanence of transfiguration.
One Charms lesson, after his run-in with McGonagall's tetchy unhelpfulness, changed his perception of that subject and of its diminutive teacher Professor Flitwick forever. They all had beakers of water in front of them and were attempting to freeze the water using the Glacius spell. Without the distraction of inane chatter with his fellow students, Harry's attention was solely focused on making the spell work. It didn't happen in one go; Harry had realized early on that he wasn't some sort of magical prodigy. However, he had also realized that compared to many of his peers, his willpower and ability to deal with frustration was unparalleled. So, his first attempt yielded no effect on the water. In his second attempt, the glass of the beaker fogged slightly. On and on he tried, with increasingly successful results. A few attempts after he managed to create a frozen top layer of the water, he finally managed to freeze the entire water upon which his beaker promptly cracked and fell apart.
"Oh excellent work Mr. Potter! Excellent!" cried Flitwick in his squeaky voice and rushing to Harry's side. "Five points to Gryffindor for sheer persistence."
Harry glowed inside at the praise. Unlike the previous time he had won House points, in McGonagall's class, this time the praise felt earned. Flitwick had recognized and rewarded the part of himself that he valued the most, his unwillingness to back down. He felt a rush of gratitude and affection for the tiny, odd professor who was looking back at him with pride.
Later, when Flitwick was again passing by Harry's desk, Harry decided to pose him a question that had been bothering him.
"Sir, may I ask a question?"
"Of course, Mr. Potter, ask away!" replied Flitwick excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Harry didn't know why the elfin professor got so excited near him, but he hoped it would pan out in his favor.
"Sir, I was thinking about the relationship between accidental magic and intentional magic."
Flitwick nodded to indicate that Harry should go on.
"Right, well it seems to me that many of the spells that we are or will practice with our wands have been achieved in the past accidentally by young wizards and witches," said Harry in a slow voice.
Flitwick had paused his bouncing and was focused on Harry with an almost expectant gaze.
"So, that made me wonder why we need the complicated wand movements and incantations when clearly the evidence suggests that it's possible to produce the same result without either. In fact without a wand as well," finished Harry, hoping he had conveyed his point clearly.
Flitwick's reaction was utterly unexpected. The little professor squeaked, threw his hands up and clapped them once loudly.
"Excellent Mr. Potter excellent deduction! Another five points to Gryffindor! My boy, you don't know how precious a gift that inquisitiveness of yours is…never lose it."
Harry glowed and felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He barely managed to restrain himself to a small smile rather than a full-blown grin. He nodded politely and waited for Flitwick to explain.
"Rather than me giving you an answer, why don't you surmise what the answer might be," Flitwick said mysteriously.
"Alright," replied Harry, mentally gearing himself up for deductions. "But where do I start?"
"What is accidental magic?" prompted Flitwick.
"Is it magic responding to some urgent desire of the Wizard?" Harry asked unsure of himself.
Flitwick nodded encouragingly, "Yes exactly. So what is the process of accidental magic that might lead to the same spell result as any of the charms on the syllabus?"
Harry thought about it for a while, casting back to memories of his own accidental magic, "Well when the Wizard really wants a particular outcome then Magic responds with the most likely spell or effect to make that outcome happen?"
Flitwick smiled and nodded again, "So what is the important part of Accidental Magic?"
"The Wizard's desire?" asked Harry hesitatingly.
"Yes, what is a more technical term for that desire that we use?"
"Maybe…no…it's Intent!" remarked Harry, excited at the deduction clicking in his brain.
Flitwick clapped his hands together and chuckled in a pleased manner. "Now what's different in the process of accidental magic and intentional magic?"
This question was rather tougher, and it took Harry more than a few moments.
"Is it do with that in intentional magic we're not focused on a particular outcome but rather the spell and effect that we want?"
Flitwick nodded with a smile, "Excellent work Mr. Potter. You're doing this analysis all by yourself!"
Harry smiled despite himself.
"Now what is the difference between the accidental and intentional processes?"
Harry took even longer this time and Flitwick excused himself and promised to come back to check on his progress.
Harry pondered the question. In accidental magic, the Wizard needed an outcome out of a strong desire. The Wizard didn't really expect magic to help him, he just wanted some external help to achieve that desire. Magic responded…to that strong desire in a manner of speaking.
In intentional magic, however, the desire for an outcome wasn't evident. In trying to freeze the beaker of water, there wasn't any particular pressing need that Harry had for the water to freeze. But he wanted it to happen nonetheless.
While he was thinking things through, Flitwich circumambulated back to his desk.
"Any luck Mr. Potter?" he asked pleasantly.
"I think so sir…so in accidental magic, the Wizard has a pressing need or desire and sort of asks the universe for help and magic rushes in to respond and help. But in intentional magic, there's no strong need or desire, just a want for magic itself to respond the way the Wizard wants it to. What I'm trying to say is that in accidental magic, Magic chooses to help while in intentional magic, the Wizard forces Magic to work in a certain way?"
Harry focused back on the Professor after finishing his rambling hypothesis. Flitwick's eyes were wide, his eyebrows disappearing into his hair.
"That…that's a remarkably unique perspective Mr. Potter," said the Professor stuttering slightly.
"I'm wrong, aren't I?" Harry replied despondently.
"No! No! Mr. Potter, I'm afraid I led you down this path without giving you fair warning. Which is that there is no right or wrong. These are all hypotheses that other Wizards and Witches have put forth from time to time. Magic, after all, is hardly like Muggle Science. It is simply beyond the ken of simple humans to quantify."
Harry felt a bit mollified at the Professor's reassuring words.
"I was just surprised because your take on accidental versus intentional magic is not one I've personally encountered before. And I do encourage you to keep building on that particular thought."
Harry nodded firmly, feeling slightly pleased again.
Flitwick smiled, "Well the answer I was cack-handedly driving you towards is that the nature of desire is different in accidental magic versus intentional magic. In the former, the desire is driven by a deep need or focused intent to achieve a particular goal. While, in the latter the desire is driven by the belief that a particular spell will work and work in a known manner."
Flitwick paused and observed Harry process this new information.
"So does that help you understand why incantations and wand movements are needed Mr. Potter?" Flitwick prompted gently.
"Is it that the incantations and wand movements act like a sort of mnemonic device?"
"Nemonik?" Flitwick asked looking confused.
"What I mean is…the incantations and wand movements create this belief in the Wizard's mind that the spell will work as advertised. In other words…the incantations and wand movements are a substitute for abstract original belief!"
Flitwick clapped his hands excitedly and his eyes twinkled at his new favourite student. Someone who reminded him not only of another green-eyed brilliant student but also of himself in his younger days.
"Very right Mr. Potter very right! Take ten points for Gryffindor for a brilliant analysis."
But Harry wasn't finished, and as Flitwick was about to move away, Harry stopped him by holding his shoulder.
"Wait…Professor," started Harry with wide eyes. "Does that mean, the reason you walk around correcting incantations and wand-movements is to reinforce the idea that doing both of those perfectly will lead to a working spell?"
Flitwick looked absolutely delighted. He leaned in close to Harry and whispered, "Mr. Potter take twenty-five points for Gryffindor. I would also request you to keep this little deduction to yourself for the time being. You would be doing your peers a disservice if you told them that their learning is based on blind faith."
Flitwick winked and left behind a shell-shocked Harry Potter.
(break)
Potions and Snape were the diametric opposite of Charms and Flitwick. Although Harry hadn't been looking forward to Potions as much as he had been Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology he could still see the value in the subject and entered the Dungeon with an open mind. He had also promised himself that he would keep an open mind about Severus Snape, the alleged Death Eater. After all, Harry himself had murdered someone and out of context would certainly seem evil.
Harry's forbearance was wasted on Snape. That became almost immediately clear in Gryffindor's first Potions lesson with the Slytherins. Snape seemed to hate Harry with incredible venom.
As Snape called him 'a celebrity' and implied that he was a 'dunderhead' and picked on him to answer some tough Potions lessons, Harry struggled to keep his simmering temper under control. He ignored the ill-begotten man's nasty jibes and the pointed laughter of the Slytherins.
Just like Malfoy's spawn, Snape had proven that there was never smoke without fire and in his mind Harry had condemned the Potions Master to a fate as yet undecided.
(break)
Bullying was common in Hogwarts and not just by the teachers, Harry concluded just a week or two into term. Initially, he had pegged the bullying down to the bigoted Slytherins like Malfoy, but it turned out that Gryffindor upperclassmen could be just as ruthless. The Ravenclaws seemed to bully their own while the Hufflepuffs were like a unit and stayed out of shenanigans unless one of their own was the victim of bullying in which case the whole House seemed to come alive like an angry herd of bison.
Despite Harry's best efforts to stay in the background, it was near impossible to do so as the Boy-Who-Lived. Wherever he went other students whispered and pointed at him like he was some zoo animal to be gawked at. It bothered him subconsciously to stand out, more so because it put him on edge constantly. It was a reminder of unpleasant times at Juvie or at the Residence when one of the other inmates had planned to call him out or assault him and everyone but him was aware of the plan. It was like being in the eye of the storm and knowing it. The tension would seep into his skin and his adrenalin would be coursing. Of course, having your adrenalin flowing constantly meant that the associated physiological effects were unavoidable.
Malfoy and Ron Weasley had struck up a mutually antagonistic relationship right from the off. Both boys hated each other's Houses and existences with a passion. Since Harry didn't really move about in the Gryffindor boys' circle…nor in any other circles for that matter, he wasn't aware of all the incidents that had seemingly escalated the fiery war between red and white. But it was something to behold. Rare was a meal when Malfoy didn't cause a scene at the Gryffindor table or Weasley at the Slytherin table.
Unfortunately for Harry, who along with Neville was the only first-year who seemed to stay away from these impromptu verbal battles, he had attracted the negative attention of Malfoy and his cronies possibly by virtue of being a celebrity and by being a Gryffindor. Harry was sure that Malfoy wasn't aware that Harry had been the one to nut him at Madam Malkin's, but the snake-spawn seemed to include him in his general Gryffindor vitriol bombardment.
"A weasel, a fat squib, a beaver and a scarhead," drawled Malfoy one day approaching the Gryffindor first years at breakfast one morning.
Harry kept his head down as he saw the otherwise somnolent Ron Weasley gear up for battle out of the corner of his eye.
"Can you believe we have to have flying lessons with such trash?" Malfoy continued, posing a fake question to Crabbe and/or Goyle.
Unfortunately for Malfoy, Crabbe/Goyle hadn't cottoned on to the fact that Malfoy's question was solely for needling purposes.
"Uh I don't know," the large, buffoonish template bully responded honestly.
Harry couldn't stop his mouth from twitching. He desperately wanted to look up and see Malfoy's expression as his own ally spoiled his verbal thrust.
"Think that's funny do you Potty?" said Malfoy venomously towards Harry.
Harry sighed internally, looked up and into Malfoy's tiny blue eyes and shrugged. To add to the air of nonchalance Harry decided to spoon his broth at the same time. Unfortunately the constantly flowing adrenalin in his system decided to act up at the very moment when all eyes were him and he ended up bringing a violently vibrating spoon to his mouth spilling a significant amount of broth onto the table.
There was a moment of pindrop silence before Malfoy and his cronies burst out laughing.
"Oh Merlin! Look at him shake! Don't cry now Potty Potty Potter! I'm sowwy…it was just a question.
"Oh my…it hurts…this is the Boy-Who-Lived? Boy-Who-Shook more like. How in the world did this coward beat the Dark Lord. He's scared of a question!"
As Malfoy and his cronies walked off chortling, undoubtedly to spread the word around, and as his fellow Gryffindors stared at him in disgust, Harry's boiling anger turned cold and he decided that he would spill blood.