Chapter 4: I - (The Good) Start Of Year One
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When Harry comes to the next morning at an ungodly hour, already sitting up on the bed, cold and with a racing heart, only one thing strikes him as odd.
The fact that he's cold.
Befuddled as he is from what little amount of not even restful sleep he got, it takes him a moment to even begin putting a finger on it.
Grasping his covers, they're warm. Resting his forehead on his arms, it feels warm too. The entire room is warm and he isn't.
It's also ungodly early, years of having to wake up at the right time by himself having made Harry an early riser. No matter how tired he is from, say, getting to know about a whole new world the day before, Harry's inner clock will not grant him sleep. Seeing as that is what preoccupies his brain, that is currently only capable of entertaining one single train of thought, he doesn't linger on the cold sensation after it gradually wears off.
It's not like one more quirk of his that he can't explain will kill him.
Slumping back into his pillow (it's so soft), he curses his inability to sleep in, seriously, why is he like this, he's gone to bed in the dead of night after the longest day in his life, if someone has every right to finally get a good night's sleepit's him but no he hasto always wake up early even if he could totally sleep in because he's on summer vacation...
The next time Harry wakes up, it's with significantly less sleep-deprived whining.
Stretching, he catches sight of the window and the pink sky outside. Frowning, Harry checks his watch. His frown deepens when the time confirms that it's not dawn but dusk outside.
Huh. That must've been well over twelve hours he's slept at one piece, he really must've been tired-
Scratching coming from the window interrupts his musings and he looks up to meet the owl's demanding gaze. She wasn't perched there a moment ago. Figures, owls really do fly quiet.
Watching her soar trough the skies over London until she's out of his sight, Harry wonders if it'll be worth it for him too if he goes out this late. But that'd mean he'd have to change out of his comfy pyjamas and leave the cozy room for that... No. He can afford a lazy day, so settles for reading through his schoolbooks, starting with The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1).
Harry plans on going trough all his books. He is curious to see how magic completes or contradicts everything he has learned about the laws of nature and the world itself by now.
The first book has a section devoted to explaining the significance of proper wandholding and movement, which snaps his attention to the holster containing his wand that is still fixed on his wrist. Now that he acknowledges it, Harry notices how it's getting a little tight from being worn nonstop for over a day by now.
(Wait a moment, as of now, did he really spend more time sleeping with this thing on than actually awake?)
He can't really suppress the smirk as he takes the holster off and puts it on his other wrist. Perks of being ambidextrous.
However, his smirk vanishes as he flicks his wrist and the wand doesn't appear. He tries again. It slides out about halfway then gets stuck and Harry is left fiddling with it and pulling it out manually.
What was it that Professor McGonagall said yesterday? That it takes months of practice to get the hang of using a holster like this?
...Then why is one of his clearest memories of yesterday night him easily unsheathing his wand in one swift motion?
Harry tries again, but all of his efforts are nigh useless. He can't replicate his feat. Whatever enabled him in that moment simply isn't here now. He supposes he'll have to learn to do it the traditional way then, by practicing. For months - but it'll be worth it.
And practice he does for a while. A long one and he likes to think that he manages to slide the wand out just a tad quicker than at the beginning. Though it still gets stuck.
Eventually Harry gives in to his curiosity and returns to his schoolbooks. He would love to familiarise himself with the matter before the start of term. Quickly, he establishes that they don't differ that much from his regular schoolbooks, with there being some important key elements that he has to memorize before he can learn about everything else.
He takes out quill, ink bottle and parchment to quickly jot down everything important as he reads on-
To attempt to quickly jot down everything. Or not even quickly at all, to just try getting somewhat used to handling a quill.
How did the goblins yesterday at Gringotts make it look so easy? Because writing with a quill is a fleshed-out nightmare. Forget a ballpoint pen's smooth gliding, the quill won't draw a proper line if not moved with at least some pressure, which quickly grows painful and ink gets everywhere if Harry moves too fast when re-dipping every ten seconds. Not to mention the noise the quill makes as it painstakingly scratches along on the parchment, a feather should not sound like that-
Harry sighs as he searches for some pen in his bags but no, of course nothing is ever that easy.
By the end of what was not really a day, both his wrists ache from constantly switching the quill from one hand to another (downsides of being ambidextrous - and would you look at that, his left hand is full of ink), his eyes are strained from all that reading by candlelight and the owl's name is Hedwig. She likes the name, because she drops the dead rat she was about to gulf down upon being let back in in favor of softly pinching his ear.
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The next day Harry completes his necessary shopping by buying a proper trunk. He also exchanges some nonmagical currency, maybe he will exit Diagon Alley in the coming weeks.
This time around there is nothing at Gringotts.
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Break-in of Gringotts Wizarding Bank
Harry stares at the headline.
The date of the incident lies a few days back, it's also the day he was there with McGonagall.
It does fit in with how he experienced Gringotts back then. How tense the goblins were when they cleared the building, how tense McGonagall was later on after she'd gone back, likely to get a clear update on the situation.
But why would she get involved with what happened there in the first place?
And this dreadful sensation he felt, does it have to do with the culprit? It has to. He has been at Gringotts since and hasn't felt it again. And that whatever it is that has him this riled up can move around freely, a conclusion most unsettling, would also explain why the Cauldron has also been clear ever since.
What McGonagall told him comes back to the forefront of his mind:
"You needn't worry because matters are being taken care of and you are not concerned."
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The next days are mostly spent enjoying and exploring what the magical side has to offer, though Knockturn Alley is not as thoroughly visited as Diagon Alley. Harry is not willing to risk visiting these rather dark corners too much. Sometimes he can't help but be put slightly on edge there, though nothing he encounters in Knockturn Alley sets him off as badly as whatever it was there at the Cauldron and his first visit to Gringotts.
Time passes by and it's not long before Harry starts to not only frequent the magical side, but the nonmagical as well.
Even with the drastic differences between both worlds, Harry can't help but notice that people here and there are still people; Children scream after not getting a toy racing car or a toy broom, people shake their heads when they read the prices of the robes or outfits displayed and groups of friends sit down together to enjoy an ice cream whether they're wizards or not. A man buried in his smartphone bumps into a woman and a wizard buried in his Prophet bumps into a witch. Even the occasional person with the alternative fashion sense makes up for the more exceptional appearances one can spot in Diagon Alley.
Harry's current stop is a bookstore. After all, it's not just the magical books that are fascinating and he has years of having no real access to a good library or bookshop to make up for. He is curious to see what the books on fields like biology or physics have to offer, there was only so much the oversimplified school lesson plan could do to satisfy his fascination with how nature works.
Upon entering the vast lobby, a book in the corner of his eye catches Harry's attention as he walks past the 'Fantasy YA' shelf. He stops. Then looks.
The book his gaze lands on doesn't much differ from almost all the others displayed. It seems to be just as much of a kitschy romantic fantasy novel.
Taking it, Harry inspects what is depicted on the cover closer. It's not the topless, ripped man surrounded by a red glow, nor is it the voluptuous woman clutching his muscled arm, but something else. Something about this book attracted his attention mere moments ago. Question is, what?
The book's title font is very stylised. Large and finely curved silver letters read: The Call of Lucifer; Wings of undying Love
Harry turns it around to see what's written on the back.
Myrriah is a regular girl and Lucifer is the king of demons. She also hides many secrets, secrets that she cannot hold any longer after he sees something special in her and decides to make her his and his alone. But is she a regular girl after all? And can her love save him from the darkness he succumbed to? Or will he be lost forever? Read to find out...
A sole review also made it's way onto the cover.
-'Highly entertaining, top-notch literature right here', one Terry Rickster said.
...Remind himself again, just why has he picked this book up? The judgmental old lady across the store, who decidedly abandoned her own business in favor of stink-eyeing him, is right. He shouldn't have.
Thatdoesn't mean he'll just take her dirty looks though. He makes a point of meeting her eyes with a blank face while clutching the book to his chest like something actually valuable, the cover and what's depicted on it very visible, and walking away. Maintaining the blank face while watching her expression circle trough the five stages of how-dare-you is well worth the struggle.
Harry rounds a corner, defaces some innocent shelf by depositing the book on it, before another thing catches his eye again.
Naturally, because this is a bookstore, it also sells colour-changing umbrellas. Among other niche items, all of which are displayed on a table.
He walks over to inspect one of the feathered pens there are. From a distance they can actually pass as quills; They are the size of one and the plastic feather looks surprisingly realistic. Except for the dreaded sharpened point of a regular quill, these are actual functional ballpoint pens. That look like quills.
Harry will never again shed a bad thought about the random crap bookstores sell for no apparent reason.
He is contemplating taking their entire stock, as it is more important than paying heed to the hurried footsteps around him. Until a girl shoulder-checks him, hard, but not mean.
"I-I'm sorry!", she stutters, her voice pitched by embarrassment. "I didn't mean to-"
Harry only shrugs. "Whatever. It's okay."
With that he turns back to his precious feather pens and she resumes hurrying towards the part of the bookstore she set her sights on. Trailing behind her are her resigned parents.
"Hermione", her father sighs, once they've reached her at the non-fiction shelves. "Please be more careful next time." And it's the only thing he says because he knows they can't bring their daughter to hold in her excitement around bookstores. They've learned that lesson by now.
Meanwhile Harry has decided that, no, he will not take their entire stock but just take off with two.
He still has some books he wants to take a look at. Books that preferably are not romantic fantasy novels. Or fiction, for that matter.
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That same evening Harry quietly thanks his past self for having the common sense not to buy every book he'd deemed interesting back at that store, experimentally pressing his packed trunk shut is already a chore as is. In the same breath he curses his past self for not getting a trunk with an integrated Weightlifting Charm.
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Maybe it's not yet the right time to attempt a spell. But Harry can't really muster the patience to wait until the year at Hogwarts starts anymore.
Baubillious is a simple spell with a simple wand motion going along with it. It casts harmless white sparks that can push something back a little at most.
Harry's first attempt is awkward, the incantation unsure and the motion a little off. He is too distracted imagining what the spell has to come out like and anticipating the pulse of magic in his chest.
What was that other thing McGonagall explained to him back then? It is his wand that channels his magic. He doesn't have to struggle to manifest it, the wand is the outlet he has to focus on.
His wand.
Harry grips it tightly on a passing whim. After a few moments he notices how the wood doesn't grow warm in his hand.
Harry attempts the spell again. While speaking and motioning, he reaches out for the power that he knows lies dormant within him, makes it reach out, and do what he wants, because this power is his alone to wield, a part of him and he can command it in whatever way he likes-
(Once upon a time, when an elder sibling taught a younger one their tricks, these were the very basics they had their little sibling understand)
Harry flinches in surprise at the stark brightness of the many sparks that erupt from his wand, turning everything in the room white for a brief moment.
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The first of September finally rolls around.
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That cab driver has no business making witty remarks a la "took what you lack in height and packed it into that suitcase, eh?" because it makes him painfully aware of his anything but grande height. He soothes that thorn in his ego's side with the fact that he recalls reading about how boys hit their growth spurts rather late on. There is still hope.
The cab driver is alright in his books again though, after he helps Harry hoist his trunk onto a luggage carrier.
Of course the nonmagical people would stare at him with Hedwig on his carrier. She is not the lightning scar he can easily hide away under his bangs because apparently no one seems able to recognise Harry Potter by other facial features (except for McGonagall, Ollivander and Hagrid?)
He just hopes their eyes won't follow him when he passes straight trough a solid brick wall.
And then, at long last, Harry is finally there; Said brick wall.
This is it.
And without slowing at all he walks trough.
From one moment to the next the scrawny boy with the owl and the big trunk goes from standing out to fitting in perfectly.
He starts weaving his way along the platform and the scarlet train and as he passes them, he looks at robed and normally-clothed people alike, sees more children his own age than over all these weeks at Diagon Alley combined, observes the numerous cats and toads with their respective owners and notices how Hedwig is seemingly the only owl not in a cage. That stings a little.
Harry comes by small crowd, all of them students, eagerly gathering around a boy with dreadlocks and his curiosity is piqued. Making sure his bangs still hang over his forehead, he gets close to them.
"Give us a look, Lee, go on", someone from the gathered students urges.
The boy smugly lifts the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shriek and yell as something inside pokes out a long, hairy leg. Some pull back and bump into Harry who can't suppress a grin at their reaction. He debates getting closer to get a better look at the rest of the creature but decides to keep looking for a compartment that preferably doesn't have rows of students hanging out the windows chattering to their families.
When he finds one, an empty one, today he is lucky, there is no cab driver to help him with his trunk.
"Want a hand?"
Harry looks up at a freckled redhead.
"Yes", he pants, "much appreciated."
"Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!"
Fred, lookalike to the boy who is already with Harry, comes over and from then on it's quick work done quickly. But not thanks to Harry. Who does his best anyway.
"Thank you", he says, pushing his sweaty hair from his eyes. A moment later he curses himself.
"What's that?", the twin who is not Fred asks, pointing at the scar.
"Blimey," Fred exclaims, "Are you-"
"He is," the first twin goes again. "Aren't you?" he adds to Harry, who resigns.
"I'm many things."
"I mean, are you really-"
"That one guy too, yes."
They shoot each other looks and maybe- who is he kidding, his scar is right there for them to see.
"Alright then, oh whoever you might be, sadly we must take our leave-"
"Fred? George? Are you there?"
"-and that there's our cue. See ya 'round, Harry!"
With that, the one who Harry now knows to be George shouts back "Coming, Mum!" and they hop off the train.
From out his compartment's opened window he can see and hear them as they join their just as redheaded family. Their mother has just taken out her handkerchief and now closes in on a younger boy.
"Ron, you've got something on your nose."
"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefink on his nosie?" Fred doesn't make Ron's situation better, as he unsuccessfully fights off his mother cleaning him.
"Shut up."
"Where's Percy?" asks their mother.
"He's coming now."
As if on command, who looks to be the oldest comes striding into sight. He has already changed into his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry notices a shiny silver badge on his chest with the letter P on it.
"Can't stay long, Mother," he declares. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves-"
"Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?" George butts in, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."
"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," Fred says.
"Once-"
"Or twice-"
"A minute-"
"All summer-"
"Oh, shut up," snaps Percy the Prefect.
"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?"
"Because he's a prefect," their mother says fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term and send me an owl when you get there."
She kisses Percy on the cheek and he leaves. Then she turns to the twins.
Harry leans back in his seat so they can't see him looking.
Something about hearing them going on, the teasing from the twins, how they rapidly sent jabs their older brother's way before he had them knock it off and lightly made fun of the younger- it is deeply comforting to Harry. In a strange way though. The same way it is comforting to know that he has this wand and the magic, always at the ready, that-
His fingers find a folded up paper in his pocket.
(Like it or not, in the end their family is still a part of them)
This time the flash in his mind doesn't throw him off. Instead a deep melancholy overcomes Harry, a feeling he thought he'd forgotten. Family... he only ever felt like this when he thought about how he maybe could have had a real family, during all those long hours in the darkness of the cupboard.
He feels along one of the lines marking where the paper was once torn.
How would his life play out, had Voldemort not killed his parents? Would he have had a sibling? Several maybe?
He'd love to have siblings. An older one who'd always have his back and vice versa, they'd make a perfect team. Maybe a middle sibling similar to him, they could trust each other. A younger one he could tease, but together they'd be unstoppable.
Instead he is alone.
It is a soul deep ache, maybe even deeper than that.
Who knows?
Harry doesn't.
In fact, what he has recently begun to push away, and quite effectively at that, now digs itself up again; There is a great deal about himself Harry doesn't know.
He feels the train starting to move and emerges from his thoughts, pushing them back down. Now is not the time. There will come another day when maybe even more things will make sense but now is not that day and Harry blinks himself back to the real world.
He lets go of the paper and takes his hand back out of his pocket.
"We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat!", Fred shouts his sister's way.
He wishes he hadn't spaced out so he could have a context for that one.
The train now slowly picks up speed and many waving hands and smiling or crying faces bid their families goodbye. Harry just looks up at Hedwig and she flies down from a rafter to settle into his lap.
The door of the compartment slides open and the youngest redheaded boy, Ron, comes in.
"Anyone sitting there?" he asks, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."
Harry shakes his head and the boy sits down. He glances at Harry and then looks quickly out of the window, pretending he hasn't looked. Harry holds in a snicker when he sees that he still has a black mark on his nose.
"Hey, Ron."
The twins are back.
"Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."
"Right," mumbles Ron.
"Harry," says the other twin, "did we even introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.
"Bye," both Harry and Ron say. The twins slide the compartment door shut behind them.
"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurts out.
"Yup."
"Oh-well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes. And have you really got- you know..."
He points at Harry's forehead.
Harry pulls back his bangs, wanting to get this over with. Ron stares.
"So that's where You-Know-Who-"
"Yes, but I can't remember it."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." But Harry has never even tried remembering anything. That aside, now it's his turn to be pokey.
"What about you? Are all your family wizards?"
"Er- Yes, I think so," Ron shrugs. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him. I've heard you went to live with muggles. What are they like?"
"Wait a second, does everyone in the wizarding world know every last little thing about me?"
At that, Ron stutters.
"I- uh, yes- I mean no! Well... We know that you defeated You-Know-Who and then went to live with muggles and you're supposed to go to Hogwarts soon, actually now, and that's it."
Harry watches as Ron shrinks back a little, ears red. He shrugs the matter off.
"Yeah, about your question: Some nonmagicals are horrible and many others are not. I'd actually say they are just like wizards. Except they use technology to get by instead of magic. Like, instead of using a spell to do something, there's likely a machine for it. Though there are some limits to it because technology can't break the laws of nature like magic can."
A strange look crosses Ron's face.
"So this technology thing can't transform stuff?"
"No", Harry answers, "Why?"
"It's just..." Ron trails off, paling remarkably. "Sometimes Fred and George used to transform my things-" a shudder shuts him up.
Harry decides to console him by saying "It must be nice though, having brothers. I mean sure, they must be a pain sometimes but on the other hand you're not alone, right?"
Ron snorts.
"With seven of us? You can bet the house is never quiet."
"...you have six brothers?"
"Five. And a sister. Actually, she was with us on the platform but she's still too young for Hogwarts."
This boy has six siblings. Harry can't believe how lucky he is. Said boy however looks gloomy.
"I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left- Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."
He pulls out a sleeping and very fat grey rat out of his jacket.
"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff- I mean, I got Scabbers instead."
Ron's ears go pink. He seems to think he's said too much, because goes back to staring out of the window.
Harry can see where he is coming from, though that doesn't mean he agrees.
"And even if you have so many brothers- so what? You're still you, not them. You don't need to copy or surpass them no matter what."
Ron is looking at him again, listening.
"Besides, what would you prefer: Growing up all alone but having boatloads of money that you can only spend on yourself because you know or have no one else? Or growing up always having someone else, even if you're not loaded? Believe me, not always having money is not the end of the world."
('But being at war with the dear family is')
Ron lets out a "hm" and Harry changes the topic, he'd like to keep on conversing rather than let silence settle in. Also, Ron seems interesting to talk to and he has an inkling the feeling is mutual.
"But hey. We're on our way to Hogwarts, we won't have to worry about anything major there-"
For some reason it feels strange saying that.
"-unless Voldemort comes back or something. I mean that place did sound pretty secure- what?"
"You said You-Know-Who's name!" says Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people-"
"That I wouldn't say the name of a guy-" 'Who couldn't even kill a baby' would shock Ron even more, Harry goes for something else "-who is long gone? I don't see a point in it. Don't get me wrong though, I don't want to sound brave or something, parading the name around. Voldemort aside- stop that, c'mon he's dead- what do you think Hogwarts is like?"
From there on, they talk, exchanging impressions and expectations about Hogwarts, with Ron having way more to say than Harry, who doesn't have five brothers to tell him about it.
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"By the way, this 'Study Of Othermagics', did any of your brothers have it?"
"Charlie, yes. Maybe Bill too, 'm not so sure anymore."
"What did they have to say about it?"
"I don't remember much except Charlie seemed upset. Which is weird, because I thought he likes everything to do with monsters. But maybe these kinds of monsters aren't for him, you know? Mum used to read us all kinds of stories about muggle monsters, too, but she stopped when Ginny had nightmares. I think it's scary that we'll have it this year."
"When I met Professor McGonagall, she said that it's possible that it won't be taught."
"You met Profes- wait, why not?"
"She did imply that the one who is supposed to teach it was killed."
"That's bloody insane! Whatever's out there, I just hope we'll never have to face it for real."
"That'd be nice..."
"Hey, about the Houses, have you already thought about which one you'd like to be in?"
"No, not really."
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"Wrestling a troll?!"
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"-in the end Fred and George somehow earned back all the points they lost but since then the caretaker, who they say is a really soft and nice bloke but I don't really believe them, doesn't seem to like them all that much."
A great clattering outside in the corridor interrupts whatever Harry wants to say in response to Ron's story and a smiling, dimpled woman slides back their door.
"Anything off the cart, dears?"
Ron mutters something about sandwiches but Harry sets out to get something and a disgruntled Hedwig, disturbed from her sleep, flutters away. He comes back laden with sweets of all kinds. Ron stares, saying "Hungry, aren't you?"
"Me? Never."
Even for Harry Ron's four sandwiches look remarkably sad, he goes to offer him some of his newly bought treats. Soon the sandwiches lay aside forgotten and Harry opens up his first chocolate frog card, after some prodding from Ron.
"Woo, this guy looks lovely."
"Who is it?", Ron perks up. "Is it Myron Wagtail? He sports a funny hairdo."
Harry turns his card around to read the name.
"No, it's Salazar Slytherin."
"Oh. I already have him twice."
Harry tunes Ron out to read the card:
Salazar Slytherin was the founder of Slytherin house at Hogwarts. He was one of the first recorded Parselmouths, an accomplished Legilimens and a notorious champion of pureblood supremacy.
During his time in Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts more precisely, Harry has caught enough snippets of information to piece together what pureblood supremacy is about. Not like it is a solely magical concept. And some descriptive book titles, also back at 'Blotts, were nice enough to give him a rough overview about Legilimency too. But the other term...
"Do you know what a Parselmouth is?"
"What, you don't know? A Parselmouth is someone who speaks Parsel. Parsel is the language of snakes. That's very dark magic, speaking to snakes, I'm telling you."
('Dark? The irony')
"...Are you alright?"
"M'fine", Harry mumbles back, absentmindedly rubbing his temple.
They tear trough the other sweets next ("George reckons he had a booger-flavored one once." "So he knew what that tasted like beforehand?"), until eventually there is a knock at the compartment door.
They can't help him and the teary-eyed boy goes off to continue looking for his toad.
Ron then goes off about Scabbers, all the while Harry just looks at the rat.
"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference-" Harry finds himself agreeing "-and I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look..."
Just as he is about to cast the spell, the compartment door slides open again. It's the toadless boy accompanied by a girl that seems familiar to Harry. A second later it occurs to him where he's seen her before.
"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one."
"We've already told him we haven't seen it."
She just looks at Ron with his poised wand.
"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."
"Er-alright."
He chants what sounds like something a nonmagical children's book would come up with. Harry, who has only lived a month with the magic community, wonders how Ron, who grew up with magic, could ever believe that is a real spell. The girl seems to share his sentiment.
"Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard. I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough- I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"
She says all of this very fast. While Ron is stunned, Harry is too, though for an entirely opposite reason. She learned all the books by heart. And Harry thought he'd never meet a greater bookworm than himself. He has "only" made an effort to understand the principles about how each subject works, with part of the theoretical stuff also ingrained in his mind. Hermione, on the other hand...
It makes more sense now, for her as a person, to run people over at bookstores.
"I'm Harry Potter."
"Ron Weasley..."
Ron might as well not exist anymore, her attention is on Harry now.
"Are you really?" Hermione says. "I know all about you, of course-" At that Harry pulls a face. "I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."
"That's- Thanks for letting me know." And Harry means it, he'll look into these books if he gets the chance. Might as well catch up with what the others know. About him.
Hermione is not done yet.
"Oh, and, aren't you the one from back at that one bookstore? You carried these two feathers around with you, didn't you?"
"Right, you were the one with the massive book stack."
"Yes. Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."
After she leaves, Ron turns to Harry.
"You know her?"
"We ran into each other. Actually, she ran into me. That aside, do you know what Rock-Paper-Scissor is?"
•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•≠•
Harry is on his way back from the train's bathrooms, still unused to how his Hogwarts robes hang around his frame. His jeans and shirt are bundled under his arm. Ron beat him at a game he'd just been taught and got to be the one remaining to change in the compartment, curtains drawn shut.
After changing his clothes, he hasn't yet thought of rearranging his hair so it covers his scar. But he also hasn't yet come across someone to stare at him, so when he stops short because there are two massive boys blocking the way, it is very visible.
Harry tries to go around them but they just have to stand shoulder to shoulder and they're large enough to block the corridor that way. They're talking to each other.
"Excuse me? I need to get trough."
Whoever is speaking stops and the two turn around only to reveal that they weren't talking to each other but rather listening to the one who stands before them, a pale blond boy up to now completely obscured by their bulk.
A familiar pale blond boy. Draco Malfoy, if Harry's memory serves him right, which it always does.
Malfoy steps forward and his apparent bodyguards shuffle back. There is no mistaking that look, he too has recognized Harry, more ways than one.
"So it is true", Malfoy begins, decidedly less drawly than back at Madam Malkin's. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter is here. I just didn't expect to have already made acquaintance with you. Allow me to introduce myself properly, this time around: My name is Draco Malfoy."
So this is how Malfoy acts when he truly views someone as equal. Who is he to not indulge him?
"I'm Harry Potter. Whoever's spewing rumors isn't wrong."
Malfoy inclines his head and Harry hates the realization that he is taller by about five centimeters.
"You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
Harry takes a moment to process what has been said and he can't say he likes the implications. But he doesn't want to burn all bridges based on pure assumptions either. Malfoy, being who he is, is no doubt experienced in the finer ways of, well, being a wizard.
"I think I might just want to sort that out for myself. Still, thank you, the offer's appreciated."
Silver eyes narrow, meeting green.
"Are you sure? With your background, you will have to learn certain things one way or another and I can be the one to make sure you come out on top."
Malfoy extends his hand for Harry to shake, and the latter puts on a toothy smile.
"With my background, I may just come in with a surprise or two."
Harry takes Malfoy's hand, his smile has grown a sharper edge.
"It still stands, I'll sort things out myself. One of them being that I can see it coming that your input will be helpful."
If there is one thing Harry has learned from a month in the wizarding world, then it is the fact that it is too vast to be learned about in one month.
Malfoy, though still slightly narrow eyed, gives a long nod and they curtly shake hands.
"Now, see, I have a compartment I really have to get back to, so..." Harry shrugs, half smiling still.
Malfoy, likely under the impression that Harry would follow him to his own compartment, responds "Is that so" in a tone that indicates nothing. He then reckons his goons to move, all the while introducing one as "Gregory Goyle" and the other as "Vincent Crabbe".
Just in time, as other compartments slide open and excited students, all not in Hogwarts robes, start coming out to go get changed themselves. The announcement saying that their arrival is imminent may have a hand in that. In the ever growing sea of people, Harry looks back and looses sight of Malfoy.
A few stop to stare or do a double take at him and he hides his scar, all the while mulling over this short but all the more interesting encounter.
Ron has changed into his slightly too short robes by the time Harry's back and trough the compartment window Harry can see it is getting dark outside. So when the train stops there isn't much to see except for the small station outside.
Harry is secretly very glad that they can leave their luggage behind, no worries. Hedwig takes flight and is gone quickly as soon as they step onto the platform.
The air around them is cool and fresh, carrying the smell of dirt and vegetation and there is a certain lively hum to it that doesn't have much to do with the chattering sea of students spilling out of the Express. There seems to be a forest nearby, a big one.
Though there could be all sorts of things around them, it wouldn't make a difference in the dark.
A booming voice makes Harry turn around.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here! All right there, Harry?"
Ah, so Hagrid has spotted him too. Harry raises a hand in greeting.
"C'mon, follow me- any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"
Though there is no opening to answer as the majority of the smaller children, all the first years, separates itself from the crowd of older students and follows Hagrid.
Chatter dies down in rising anticipation, barely held in excitement or wariness, because it is disconcerting to some to not be able to see what lies on either side of the steep, narrow path they are led down. Until they can make out a shore, glistening in the moonlight.
"Oooooh", it echoes from many stunned soon-to-be Hogwarts students, Harry being one of them.
The sight before them, the vast castle with its many turrets and towers that perches atop a high mountain, its many illuminated windows reflecting in the dark lake like the starry sky it stands out against-
Not even the magical moving pictures could do Hogwarts justice. In fact, once facing it in person, one even forgets the rather questionable meaning of its name.
"No more'n four to a boat", Hagrid calls again and Harry tears his eyes away from the castle to the little boat fleet waiting for them. He settles into one with Ron, Hermione and Neville follow.
He feels someone's gaze on him. Harry looks to the side and meets Malfoy's evaluating stare with a little wave of his own.
"Everyone in?" shouts Hagrid, who has a boat to himself. "Right then- FORWARD!"
In the end Hogwarts is more interesting to look at than Malfoy from two boats over. No one speaks, they are all enthralled by the sight, even Hermione. Until it is Hagrid again:
"Heads down!"
They leave the boats behind in an underground cave and make their way up many stairs.
From then on it seems like a fleeting second until Hagrid raises a gigantic fist and knocks three times on the castle door.
The moment it opens, Harry recoils.
If he bumps into someone or not, he can't tell, not that it matters.
This is the Cauldron, this is Gringotts, this is worse. His heartbeat picks up and he stiffens.
Distantly he registers someone patting his shoulder.
Harry forces an exhale and yes, it's Ron urging him to come along with some words that he doesn't even hear. He is urging him to go forward because the others are making their way somewhere, following someone.
Right. It is McGonagall. She is leading them trough an entrance hall. There is no reason, no reason at all-
('No. Something. Is. Wrong.')
Harry moves but otherwise doesn't acknowledge Ron or anyone else at all. They are in a chamber now. McGonagall says something about the Houses and housepoints but it's nothing Harry doesn't know already.
She leaves them and no one is talking much. Or paying any attention to Harry. He holds out his arm. Flicks his wrist.
The wand slides into his hand instantly.
He sheathes it. Draws it again. Silvery figures come and introduce themselves as the house ghosts and Harry pays them no heed. Something else is more important, the world is a blur around him as he is focused on-
On what actually? There is nothing around.
(Except for for the dreadful feeling deep, deep in his gut, so deep it may not actually be there)
His hand stills from where it fell into the rhythm of sheathing and unsheathing, his wand currently withdrawn but at the ready if he only makes the quicket gesture. Of course he'd get the hang of it now, when he'd need it-
Need it for what?
(Just because there is nothing visible around doesn't mean that everything is in order.)
That is when a strange realization hits Harry: He trusts his instincts. If they even are instincts at all, although it doesn't matter in the end. Whatever obscure part of himself it is that keeps him on edge, warning him, telling him that something is amiss- he can rely on it.
Harry can rely on himself.
Someone says his name. From his spot along the wall Harry looks up to see that a line has formed and he is the only one not standing in it. Not doing anything beyond going to line up last, it fails to occur to Harry to care about what an impression he's making, unresponsive like that.
The blank face he is wearing could not coincide less with his inner state of being; Every step they take, out of the chamber and towards doors across the entrance hall, everything in Harry revolts and he has to force himself to take step after step, breath after breath, and he can't do anything about his racing heart that sends cold waves chasing trough his body with every beat.
It is behind the doors McGonagall leads them to, the root of all of this, the very thing that is so twisted, its mere vicinity is enough to do this to him.
Harry is aware of the holster's pressure on his wrist, he can draw his wand in a quick-paced heartbeat's span. That is what keeps him going.
(He faced the darkness, didn't shun it)
He is last in line, last to enter a great hall. But the hall doesn't matter right now. Nor do the hundreds of other students already seated, watching the first year's procession.
Harry immediately finds what doesn't sit right with him.
At the far table, amidst the only other adults in the room, a pale young man with a turban is seated. He holds himself slumped and his movements twitch with a nervous indecisiveness.
But Harry can feel his disgusting presence, it overrides everything else.
The first years are now guided to stand in line in front of the teacher's table, facing the other students, and Harry will be damned if he lets his guard down now, turns his back on or gets near him.
The other students watch on as the anxious newcomers get in line and when the last one of them, a scrawny black-haired boy, breaks out of formation to hurry to the other far end of the line, for no reason apparent to them, McGonagall places the stool with the Sorting Hat in front of them. It starts to sing, startling many, but except for one they all listen to it's song.
From his position at the far end of the line, the furthest possible from him, Harry swears he feels his eyes watching him. The notion alone, that this thingeven daresto acknowledge him, makes Harry angry in a way he has only ever felt back when the Dursleys still dared to lock him up.
('Because I am above it')
Harry throws a look over his shoulder but the man with the turban is looking at the Hat and not him. But Harry doesn't look away, as the Hat now starts sorting and his neck begins to strain, because the feeling of being watched and being watched by this despicable somethingthat weighs heavy on his senses does not let up.
Until he hears his name being called- "Potter, Harry" -and he hurries to put on the Hat, he does not want his back facing the teacher's table too long.
He is dimly aware of the murmurs and whispers throwing his name around as the hat's rim slides over his eyes but that doesn't matter. What matters is-
"Oh, my. You can be at ease now. An upset mind won't do my judgement's outcome any good."
There is a small voice in his ear. It speaks over his loud thoughts and Harry finds himself faced with another thing that doesn't sit well with him.
You read my mind, he more states than asks, doing so mentally, this disconcerting thought momentarily overpowering the man with the turban.
"And I see that you have quite the sharp one. There is-"
('Nothing for you to see here')
For a moment it is silent, neither speaking a word. But Harry is the one who is used to quickly moving on after a blank second and if this hat can pick up on what is in his head, he may just finally get an answer.
What did you see? What was that?
"It is nothing for me to look into. I have sorted many and therefore I know when it is not my place to intrude."
It's me. My head. I want you to tell me.
"If I could, I still wouldn't. It is for the better."
The Hat doesn't say how it has never come across a mind that has this particular (otherworldly) tinge to it. There is a small part, at the very back of Harry Potter's mind, but however small it can still make itself known, if briefly.
You sort me into a house that fits my personality but you won't tell me about myself?
"I stand by it."
'How can you sort me properly then?'
"You have many other qualities and as I see you are confident enough for Gryffindor. However you've also got the head for Ravenclaw. There is potential for Hufflepuff as well but you could be great in Slytherin."
They judge everything that has to do with the nonmagical world. And it's the House with the worst reputation.
"It is a shame that over the years the less favourable traits have shaped the view many have of Slytherin. However, it stands, you could be great. Slytherin can bring out what is within you."
Harry considers it and then his decision stands.
Meanwhile, the hall is bursting with the buildup of numerous hushed, excited and expectant murmurs. Usually students only start up with the discussions when the kid under the Hat is a hatstall but this is the sorting of the legendary Harry Potter.
Of course they're not quiet.
"SLYTHERIN!", the Hat shouts.
And then, for a moment, they are, as the realization sinks in. Until some of them are not.
Three quarters of the Hall continue their silence, while one of the tables erupts in cheers and shouts and gestures, beckoning their newest member to join them after he places the Hat back down and starts moving.
The collective stares of a hall full of people weigh heavier now, they carry a new, different air. However the way they don't even register with Harry is the same as before when his fellow first years shot him the occasional odd look for his withdrawn behaviour leading up to now.
Being distracted by the Hat was nice while it lasted. It hasn't made the man with the turban disappear and when Harry goes to sit with the other students at the green table, he only reacts to his housemates minimally. Without thinking anything of it he sits between Malfoy and a ghost whose bloody features he doesn't bother taking in further.
Malfoy leans over to half-whisper "I see you've gotten involved with riffraff like the Weasleys and Hagrid. You better not. They will rub off on you and that's not something you'd want."
Across and around some still look at him.
Harry just nods and continues looking in the direction of the teacher's table. The other Slytherins would maybe have lingered to stare at, no, assess Harry longer, had McGonagall not continued calling out the next ones to be sorted.
One of them being Ron, who, on his way to the Gryffindor table, casts a troubled frown Harry's way. It goes unnoticed.
After the last first year is sorted, he is not the only one paying undivided attention to the top of the Hall anymore. Dumbledore has gotten to his feet, opened his arms wide and is beaming at the students as if nothing makes him happier than to see them all there.
"Welcome," he says. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
Thank you!"
There's rustling echoing across the entire Great Hall as everyone moves to fill their plates. When Harry tears his gaze from the man with the turban, he briefly looks over the abundant assortment of foods that have appeared before calling out.
"Malfoy."
Truth be told, Malfoy didn't expect Potter to speak up, to break out of whatever's gotten into him to have him behave this insociable, not after he so blatantly ignored their collective attempts at conversation in favor of staring up at the teacher's table.
"Yes, Potter?"
"That guy with the turban, what's his name?"
Ah, so he hasn't snapped out of this senseless state. His tone makes it apparent that nothing beyond whatever it is he's this keen on exists.
Malfoy doesn't remark on Potter's briskness beyond raising an eyebrow and taking maybe a little too long to make out Professor Quirrell between Professor Snape and Professor Sprout.
"That is Professor Quirrell. Is there anything he did to warrant such a tone from you?", Malfoy drawls and looks back. His breathing hitches uncomfortably when he sees Potter's expression.
There is an edge to him now, one that Malfoy can't put a finger on and that doesn't sit quite right with him.
Potter doesn't answer. Malfoy huffs and turns around to strike up an acquaintancing conversation with Theodore Nott on his other side then.
On Harry's other side sits the ghost he will come to know as the Bloody Baron and no one wants to get too close to him, so for the remainder of the banquet Harry is left in peace.
He doesn't eat much, too great is his uneasiness around this thingthat now has a name: Quirrell.
Eventually, the hall falls silent. Everyone is done eating and Dumbledore has a few last announcements to make:
"Ahem- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
„First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flash in the direction of the Weasley twins.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch. I also have to sadly inform you that the 'Study Of Othermagics' will be cancelled after all, due to an unforeseen problem that has arisen."
At the Slytherin table some don't particularly bother to suppress their jeers. "How heartbroken do you think the old mugglelover is" and "At this point they should just make it official that that disgrace of a class has no place here".
"And finally I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
The hall is torn between laughing, laughing it off, nervously laughing and not laughing at all.
"He's kidding, right?", some say.
Dumbledore just bids everyone a chipper goodnight and with that, the students take off in four different directions. Harry is with the ones that take the way down, into the dungeons.
Once they leave the Hall behind, it is like a spell wears off. Steadily, like McGonagall's weightlifting charm back then, the further Harry distances himself from Quirrell. Now that he can somewhat relax, he grows aware of how tired and hungry he is. He hasn't eaten much.
He also grows aware of how magnificent the castle is, on the inside just like on the outside. Harry doesn't speak to anyone but this time it is because he is taking in both the layout and the appearance of the corridors they are led down by who presumably is someone important.
"Salazar", is the password that opens up a door behind a bare section of stone wall. It leads them to the Common Room.
The Slytherin Common Room is as tall as it is wide. Green is a prominent colour, present in the furniture and the light emitted by the few lamps among the wall and from the ceiling. The orange fire in the fireplace is a stark contrast. A large portrait of a serpent adorns the place above it.
In fact, now that Harry looks closer, there are serpent motifs everywhere. However their inconspicuous designs make them a perfect, ever-present detail to the room rather than obnoxious eyecatchers.
And when Harry looks up- the green light cast by the lanterns reflects off a good part of the ceiling in a way that shows it is made of glass. Behind that glass it is black. Come to think of it, behind the few windows along one of the room's walls too.
Harry already decides he likes this room, even if it is nighttime, completely dark outside, and if that little hunch he has is true and they are indeed under the lake...
"First years, with us." A boy and a girl stand before them. Prefects, they both have the badges to show for it.
"All there? Good. I am Tabitha Buckminster, the sixth year prefect."
"And my name is Lewis Greywood. The seventh year perfect. Boys and girls, split up and follow us respectively. We will show you to your rooms."
The girls, six in total, go with Buckminster and the boys, also six, follow Greywood.
He leads them to their room and on the way Harry looks around at his new classmates. There's Malfoy with Crabbe and Goyle. That's also where Harry is at his wit's end, he doesn't know the tall, solemn-looking, dark-skinned boy or the other, shorter, black-haired one. He'll have to go about learning their names.
The Slytherin Boy's Dormitory is as green as the Common room, the windows as black. Harry notes the silky curtains that can be drawn shut. Their luggage is also there, at the foot of the five canopy beds.
Harry goes to find his but stops. Of course nothing is ever that easy.
"Someone here has the same trunk I have."
The conversation between Malfoy and the black-haired boy stops and the others look at Harry too.
"So you can talk after all." It's the tall boy who has spoken.
Malfoy pipes up next. "You've been awfully quiet the whole night long. Speaking of, what was so bloody interesting about the teacher's table anyway?"
Despite himself, Harry frowns, all the while the tall boy has made his way over to examine the identical looking trunks.
"It's Quirrell. You better stay away from him", Harry answers truthfully. They will have him as a teacher too, it's only fair that he warns them.
"How so?", Malfoy asks. "He's just an inept fool. You should know that now."
True, now in retrospect, thinking back on the man without his immediate presence pressing down on Harry, he did look and move rather-
"He's not what you think he is. You don't have to take my word for it, but you would all be better off if you stayed away from him."
The black-haired boy humms thoughtfully. "Who knows? There has to be a reason Headmaster Dumbledore chose him as Defense Professor over Snape. I know what you think, Malfoy, but hear me out. You can't deny that Dumbledore is capable. But to stay away from Professor Quirrell? He's supposed to teach us to defend ourselves from danger, not be one himself."
Having said everything, Harry shrugs noncommittally. A click draws his attention to the other boy who has opened one of the trunks. He heaves the lid open and closes it after a moment, looking at Harry and indicating the other trunk.
"That one is yours."
"Thanks. And, sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier."
"Blaise Zabini."
Harry looks at the other boy, who looks behind before pointing to himself.
Harry nods. "I already know know Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle."
"Ah. I'm Theodore Nott. No need to introduce yourself in return but I have to be honest, the Potter name is not traditionally affiliated with Slytherin."
"Your lot is - was - more the common Gryffindor type", Malfoy supplies. Harry doesn't draw forth the energy to answer. Whatever's the deal with who is affiliated with what name and house, he'll try to remember bothering with it once he has the energy to spare.
He is already tucked in and half asleep, before he gets up to shut the curtains of his canopy bed. He doesn't need the others finding out about him.