Author's Note: April 3, 2018: I've added around 500 words to the previous chapter (the new section begins 'Harry tried to pay attention' if you want to go back and read it now.) It's a continuation of the scene where it left off originally, a brief introduction of some other characters I'll be using throughout the series, but I ran out of time to do so last week and didn't want to delay the update. Originally I was going to stick it at the beginning of this chapter, but that felt out-of-place and tonally off.
Harry followed Pansy and her friends to the dining hall, paying close attention to the layout as they passed through the halls. He had no intention of ever losing his way to a meal, if he had anything to do about it. He could already smell the food, the delicious scent wafting through the halls. Faintly, as though from a distance, but enticing nonetheless. He couldn't wait. If the night before had been any indication, it was going to be a good meal.
He wasn't particularly hungry, having spent enough years without reliable breakfast that he barely noticed missing a single meal, but the smell did make his stomach rumble eagerly. He wasn't disappointed, the spread wasn't nearly as lavish as the welcome feast the previous day, but it was perfectly sufficient. Luxurious, even compared to the Dursleys' fare. He had never tasted many of the dishes on offer, common though he assumed them to be for wizards.
He was so busy savoring his breakfast - trying very hard not to rush through it; without Dudley here to snatch it away, he didn't need to - he almost didn't notice as the rest of the first years rose in a ripple across the table. Professor Snape swept toward them, his dark cloak rippling behind him.
"Orientation," one of the prefects - Michael? - whispered, nodding for Harry to stand. Harry hurried after their head-of-house, the rest of the first years scrambling to catch up. Professor Snape didn't slow his stride or glance back to see if they were following; if it hadn't been for the prefect's warning, Harry would never have known what was expected of him.
Professor Snape paused at various points throughout the castle, explaining in a brisk measured voice about this corridor or that staircase, carefully detailing the procedure to access certain halls or on which days certain passages could be used. Harry scrambled to take notes, but he had to all but run just to keep up with Professor Snape, and he doubted the few scribbles he managed would be decipherable later.
He hoped Pansy had better luck. He was sure he couldn't remember all this at once. The fourth floor was the one with the blue section? Or was that the sixth?
They passed a dimly-lit corridor on the third floor, ending in a single thick wooden door from behind which came deep snorting sounds and a faint rustling and clinking.
"Dragon," several students whispered, glancing down that forbidden hall with a combination of longing and fearful awe.
Harry was curious, but certainly not enough to dare even approaching the door. It was clearly forbidden for a reason. Even at this distance, the rumbling breathing made its bulk clear. And besides, however sturdy, a wooden door didn't seem sufficient to hold a creature of such size and, presumably, strength.
Professor Snape completely ignored the murmurs, swooping on past the forbidden corridor without pausing. Harry felt completely lost, even as they walked past Professor Quirrell's office. Even the portraits and statues in the halls seemed changed from even the few hours earlier when he had traversed these halls last.
"The eighth step down on this stairway is semi-intangible and will cause your foot to stick if you don't avoid it." He glowered at the students as though forgetting would be a deadly offence, then began to descend. He stepped smoothly past the eighth step without hesitation or breaking stride. The first years scurried to follow, but the narrower stairway made it difficult. They could only go one or two at a time.
A dark-haired girl tripped, trying to jump over the seventh step down, and landed off-balance right squarely in the trick step. Harry dodged out of the way hastily, but it proved unnecessary. Her momentum was halted abruptly as she came to a stumbling stop, her left foot seemingly immobilized within the illusionary stair.
Pansy laughed, pointing and doubling over. "Nice one, Davis."
"Solvite exmovio solwe laxio," Professor Snape snapped, twisting his wand in a complex pattern that lasted nearly half a minute. "Solvite exmovio solwe laxio."
The girl stumbled free of the step as though pushed from behind, but by then the area around her was clear of students and she didn't knock anyone over as she clumsily regained her balance.
Professor Snape didn't wait, continuing down the narrow staircase the moment Davis was free. Harry couldn't remember even part of the spell he'd used, and wondered if most magic was so complicated. So far, Lumos and Lumonitio were the only spells he had experience with. Well, also Professor Quirrell had cast Serpensortia, the Snake-Construct spell, so that did indicate a slight trend toward shorter incantations.
He certainly hoped he wouldn't have to learn anything nearly so long any time soon. He wanted to get used to being a wizard in training without anything too strenuous for the start.
Finally, after Harry began to think he couldn't get any more confused, they returned to the entrance hall. From there, they went outside to see where the Quidditch pitch stood amid raised bleachers, the wide lawns and the greenhouses, the lightly forested grounds, the lake. And shown the hut that marked the near boundary to the darker, forbidden forest where students were not allowed to go.
For all his confusion, Harry had to admit that he loved the castle even more now that he'd seen the outside in daylight. And though at first the interior felt endless, he could see that with a few months of practice it should be easy enough to navigate.
The tour ended with Professor Snape depositing them in the Charms corridor minutes before the first class was to begin. With a curt instruction to enter the room marked C-101, he swept off in his dark flowing robes, leaving them to themselves.
Though he wasn't what Harry would ever consider friendly, he was a slightly more familiar figure than their Charms teacher would be. He tried not to feel abandoned, but Professor Snape was his head of house, an important man who was responsible for them all.
Draco Malfoy pushed open the door and strode in as though he owned the place, his two friends flanking him and another boy close behind. Harry waited, making it clear that he wasn't following Draco in, and entered with Pansy at his side.
"We will be studying from 'Magical Theory' this year," announced Professor Flitwick, the Charms master. "Please open your book to the preface."
There was a flurry of pages turning as the students complied.
"Before we begin, can anyone tell me the most important component for Charms?"
A few hands went up. Harry had read a good bit about charms, but was far from confident enough to invite a teacher to call on him. He rummaged in his bag for the textbook, flipped it open to the first chapter.
"Yes, Miss Greengrass?" Professor Flitwick called out.
"Creativity!"
"That's not entirely correct, but a good try. Creativity is one of the greatest strengths of Charms, but not their essential component. Mr. Morris?"
Shawn Morris, the other boy who shared Harry's room (along with Draco, Vincent, and Gregory) answered, "Precision."
"Very good. Point for Slytherin to you. In Charms there is indeed the most space for creativity, but the least tolerance for imprecision. You will often spend weeks practicing a wand movement before it can be usefully applied, precision is of the utmost importance. For a bonus point, can anyone tell me the one change in wand movement that does not harm the spell's effectiveness?"
There was a pause, then a dark-skinned boy raised his hand. Harry remembered seeing him at the Sorting, but not his name.
"Mr. Zabini?"
"Scale."
"Yes, wonderful! Point for Slytherin." Professor Flitwick seemed nearly giddy with excitement. He bobbed his head eagerly as he expounded, "A wand motion can be done tight and well controlled in a small space, or wide and sweeping. So long as the proportions and angles of the movement are correct, the scale of your wandwork does not matter."
Harry took a few inches of brief notes during the lecture portion of the class, pleased to find that he understood just about everything the professor taught. But when they started practicing actual wandwork it became abundantly clear that he was no Charms prodigy. While Quirrell's two quick lessons on light spells had gone smoothly and easily, Harry quickly realized that he'd been correct in waiting for a teacher before trying to learn spells on his own.
He wasn't the only student struggling. A girl with long black hair had an unfortunately strong accent and simply could not prevent her charms from misfiring - the few times they did anything at all. In contrast, Draco Malfoy completely lost his arrogant drawl when spellcasting, his syllables clear and precise. Harry had the distinct feeling that the Malfoy heir had been practicing long before coming to Hogwarts, regardless of what magical law might say.
Pansy moved her wand smoothly, but her spells were no more successful than Harry's own. He took several inches more of notes during the practicals, mostly of things to ask Professor Quirrell about next time they met for practice.
"Transfiguration differs from most spells as it has a direct impact on the nature of the item, object, or creature that you're transforming," Professor McGonagall proclaimed at the start of class. "There are three very important things to keep in mind. First, transfiguration is in general irreversible. You can turn a cup to a frog, and it will hop away. You can turn a frog to a cup, and it will be a cup. You turn that cup into a frog, and you have, this is very important, a different frog. Advanced transfiguration builds in a pattern from the original, like so."
She tapped a goblet, turning it into a raven, then cast finite and it reverted to its original goblet form. "Reversibility is an extra layer of magical information which requires additional skill and concentration. Most transfigurations, particularly at the beginning levels, cannot be dispelled. Therefore, anyone fooling around in my class will leave and not return. If I so much as hear about you casting transfigurations on other people for any reason whatsoever, you will leave this class and not return."
The foreign girl raised her hand.
"Yes, Miss Sibazaki?"
"Human transfiguration isn't permanent, though," she said, though she looked horrified at disagreeing with Professor McGonagall.
"That is true. Because magic is different when interacting with something with a soul. Your soul knows the shape you should be, down to the birthmarks and scars, and your magic does its very best to keep you that way. This is also part of the reason witches and wizards can survive mundane injury far better than our muggle counterparts. Transfigurations cast on others often can be dispelled, but not always easily and not always without severe repercussions. We will cover this all in your fourth year and onward, for now stick to teacups and rabbits."
She cleared her throat before continuing, "That permanence is the reason that this class, unlike others, will not have you practicing on your own familiars until you have proven your capacity for reversible transfiguration. And if I hear that any of you has been practicing on another student's familiar, you will leave this class and not return."
Professor McGonagall stared around the classroom sternly, making sure her message was understood before continuing.
"Second, transfiguration has a stronger mental and imaginative component than any other branch of magic. Unlike charms, where the spell has practically identical effects no matter who casts it, when transfiguring an object its specific appearance is almost entirely based on your own mind's picture of it. A spell to transfigure a matchbox into a mouse will always, when properly cast, form a mouse, but its colour, size, species, and other details are generally specific to a caster. Therefore, it is often possible to discern, merely from the outcome of a transfiguration, the witch or wizard who created it."
She gave a particular look at a brown-haired wizard who'd been twiddling his wand without seeming to pay attention. He swallowed as he noticed McGonagall's attention, nodded hastily and folded his hands on the desk in front of him.
"Third, transfiguration is gradual. Unlike most spells, which build up and release their power in a single burst, transfigurations take time to perform correctly. If your concentration wavers at any point, or if you exhaust your magical strength - though this is infrequent unless pushing one's limits deliberately - the spell will fail. This can lead to unpleasant results, and it is considerably more difficult to resume a botched transfiguration than to begin a new one."
She flipped open a thick book on her podium. "Turn to page 167 of your transfiguration almanac. We'll be studying the magical makeup of turtles."
Harry had already looked through 'Transfiguration Almanac, Volume One: For Beginning Students' just enough to know that it was way too complicated to understand without a teacher.
The other textbook for the year, 'A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration,' was written much more simply. Its first exercise was turning matches to needles, which sounded much easier than the magical makeup of turtles. Still, he dug out the thick book and found the page.
Professor McGonagall spent nearly the entire class explaining and expounding upon the two pages dealing with turtles. A lot of the terminology was unfamiliar, the tables and lists opaque at first glance, but Professor McGonagall explained it all clearly and concisely.
By the end of the class, Harry was beginning to feel more confident. It was a different type of learning than muggle school had been, much of what he'd been taught there seemed utterly useless. Who cared about things like multiplication tables and water cycles and spelling when there was the magical composition of existence to be learned instead?
They were assigned eight inches of 'personal observation' on turtles, though Professor McGonagall promised that next class they would be actually practicing spellcasting. She made it clear that they would need these observations later in the year, but turtles would not be easily located by then due to snow, so this was an important assignment with far-reaching consequences which they ought not to slack on.
Had he not been conditioned from a young age to avoid attracting attention to himself, Harry would have asked Professor McGonagall a dozen questions. His curiosity was muted further by the desire not to show his ignorance to his classmates. But, to his surprise, as the bell rang to end the class she called out, "Mr. Potter, would you stay a moment?"
"I'll see you in History," Pansy said. She waved to him, then departed with the others.
Harry waited nervously, standing beside his desk. Once the other students were gone, Professor McGonagall stepped down from her podium and walked closer. Then she stopped, looking down at him as though unsure of something.
"What do you need, Professor?" Harry asked.
"I confess, I never imagined that you wouldn't be in my house," she said softly. Perhaps even sadly? "James and Lily were both in Gryffindor, and I simply assumed. . ."
Harry shifted minutely, unsure how to respond. What did she want?
"How was it, growing up with muggles?" she asked, her voice deceptively casual.
Harry felt suddenly sure that this question was far more than a simple inquiry. Not mere curiosity; something more lay behind this whole encounter.
He shrugged. "I survived. I much prefer Hogwarts." He caught his voice shaking slightly.
No. He didn't have to be afraid here, wizards are better!
Anger was better than fear, even anger directed at himself. He reached into his pocket, gripped his wand. It steadied him, the tangible reminder of his power, his difference, the distance from his past.
"I hope they didn't give you much trouble over being a wizard?" Professor McGonagall pressed.
Harry looked away, uncomfortable at the directness of her question. "They don't like magic very much," he admitted.
Remembering just how much effort had been required to escape even for a few hours to someplace safe and welcoming, remembering the weeks spent trying desperately to escape just so he could talk to Professor Quirrell or send a letter, or talk to Mrs. Figg-
Harry's hand clenched so tightly on his wand he was almost surprised it didn't snap. He felt tears in his throat, felt the remembered helplessness and despair trying to choke him, to burn through him. He stared at the floor, couldn't have made himself meet her eyes even had he remembered. He was trembling, but whether with suppressed sobbing or rage he couldn't have said.
It was unacceptable. He was going to change, he was not going to let the Dursleys control him. Not here. Not now. He was better, stronger, powerful, important. He. . . could be.
Would he? Was it pointless after all? Could he change himself by pretense, rewrite his future with false confidence?
He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched, jumped backward, his wand coming up without even a moment's thought between himself and. . . Professor McGonagall didn't move to pursue him. Her lips were set in a tight, unreadable expression.
"I'm sorry Mr. Potter," she said gently. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm fine," Harry growled, feeding his remembered weakness into anger, pushing it away from himself.
'Teach me to fight and win,' he strove to remember the defiance he'd felt in that moment, the reckless rejection of the past. "Was there anything else you needed?"
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "You may go."
Harry stormed out, his ire only growing as he replayed the conversation in his mind. He'd given too much away, hadn't responded with strength. His emotions had failed him yet again, and even wrapped in anger he could feel the tears that wanted to burst out of him.
Weakness will not be tolerated. Slytherin is the house of the undeterred, not the pathetic.
"Lumonitio!" Harry snarled, pushing as much of his energy through the spell as he could. The light flared out in a burst, sped down the hallway to splash onto a portrait at the far end. The painted woman threw her hand across her eyes, shaking a fist angrily in Harry's direction, but he fired again and again.
The spell failed and succeeded unpredictably, as usual, which only increased his frustration. Why wasn't his wand working for him? Why was he so pathetic? Why did everyone else know their purpose and place, while only he was left out? He didn't fit in anywhere. He wasn't brave, wasn't strong, wasn't friendly, wasn't kind. Was he cunning? He used to think himself quite clever indeed, but now even that seemed distant and pathetic.
His anger wasn't shield enough. Frustrated tears were escaping down his face. Harry ran aimlessly, just away. He ducked into a bathroom, checked that he was alone, then without conscious decision he was sobbing uncontrollably. All the pent-up years of his unbearable life, all the worry about not fitting into his new home, everything he'd ever pushed aside and tried not to think about came flooding into his mind, completely overwhelming him.
He had to stop. There were twenty minutes left for him to locate the History of Magic lecture hall, and he couldn't afford to come in looking like he'd been crying. Not in a shared class, of all things. Gryffindor would take any chance to pt down Slytherin, Ravenclaw would add his uselessness to their calculations.
No. Harry was different now. He was a wizard. Even if one day wasn't enough to erase the past nearly as completely as he'd hoped, he couldn't give up. Not after so little.
He also made up his mind to avoid Professor McGonagall outside required classes from then on. She seemed far too interested in his past, and that was something he'd much rather leave buried.
It wasn't easy, but he got his emotions under control. Buried his fear, his anguish, his memories of helplessness, and stood with as much confidence as he could muster. He washed his face, stared firmly at his reflection until even he couldn't see any trace of his weakness and despair.
He wasn't quite on time for History of Magic, but he strode in with confidence.