Two weeks later, Harry was still surprised at how quickly his new life felt so…old. It was as if he'd grown up in a world where ghosts could pass through you, where poltergeists could drench you with water balloons, where food appeared and disappeared at your table, where people wore robes and pointy hats. And where he could fly.
It was on the Friday after he arrived when Harry discovered his skill with a broomstick. After attending a handful of classes earlier in the week, he'd decided that the only ones that weren't review were the 7th year Potions class and Care of Magical Creatures. Harry knew enough from his books about these subjects, but actually being there first hand, brewing Skele-gro and grooming a Pegasus, was quite different than looking at pictures. So, with only two classes to attend during the weekdays, Harry had found himself with a lot of free time. Normally, he divided it between talking to Remus Lupin in the staff room, exploring the castle, interviewing the paintings, and reading in the library. But that Friday morning, as he ate at his own table next to the head table in the Great Hall, he couldn't help but notice the brilliant blue sky above. So instead of starting a book on Necromancy like he'd planned, Harry headed outside, first walking the perimeter of the lake and then heading to the Quidditch pitch when he heard some rather loud laughs echoing off the stands.
"Never thought I'd see the day when you'd actually be hit by a bludger," laughed Remus Lupin, as he struggled to the stuff the gyrating black ball back into its case.
"Well, I'm a bit out of practice," grumbled Wynn McFayden, who was rubbing his shoulder and glaring at the offending bludger. Noticing Harry standing at the edge of the pitch, the two men waved him over. Harry had formed a quick friendship with the pair. Lupin had made a habit of stopping at Harry's room at night and inviting him for a drink at Hagrid's Hut. Even though the groundskeeper was gone and Wynn McFayden was his replacement, the house had retained the name in honor of the fallen half-giant. Harry, who had been missing the Manic drinking games, had eagerly accepted the invitation and immediately became friends with Wynn, a Scotsman who was generally boisterous and hilarious, especially when he told embarrassing stories about Lupin, whom he'd apparently known since childhood.
"Glad to see you out of the library, Harry," greeted Lupin.
"And out of the castle in day light," added Wynn, as he sat down on the pitch, obviously worn from the game he'd been playing with Remus.
"That's not fair. I come out of the BatCave for Care of Magical Creatures," Harry answered, before realizing that the allusion was lost on the two wizards. "Anyway, no class this morning?" Harry continued.
"Not until after lunch," answered Lupin, propping his broom over his shoulder.
"Corr, you've never flown before, have you?" asked Wynn with a sudden urgency.
"Er…no," answered Harry. "Not on a broom anyway."
"How else can you fly?"
"Plane. And I once levitated myself to the top of a building."
"What on earth for?" asked Lupin, eyebrows raised in delight. Both he and Wynn had taken great pleasure in Harry's tales of Manic mischief and civil disobedience.
"I was hiding from campus security after they caught me dying all of the fountains' water blue."
"Well, give Harry your broom Remus," Wynn said after he'd stopped laughing.
"What's wrong with yours?"
"Mine's a Firebolt! What if he crashes?"
"Your faith in me is touching," sneered Harry.
"I now think I understand hoe you get along so swimmingly with Snape," Wynn answered.
"Here," Lupin intervened, putting his Nimbus 2000 into Harry's hands, trying to avoid any Snape-bashing that could eat up a few hours if his friend was so inclined.
"But I don't know what to do," Harry spluttered, looking down at the broom and vaguely wondering what Lupin would do if he started sweeping the ground with it. Judging from the highly polished handle and immaculately even…twigs…he'd have a heart attack.
"Just jump on it and go," answered Wynn.
"And this is why we're all glad that Remus is a professor," smirked Harry. Seeing how Wynn was so often teasing Lupin about something or another, Harry'd decided that he'd take up the defense. Besides, it was so much easier to get a rise out of Wynn. Remus would just stare at you like everything you said was completely logical, even if you were telling him he had horns growing out of his ass. It wasn't very fun.
"That's it, you've been spending way too much time in the dungeons," Wynn muttered.
"Just command the broom up and mount it like this, Harry," Lupin demonstrated. "Then kick off with your right foot. Since you've never flown before, stop after you get a few feet off the ground. Just level yourself with the horizon. Gain your balance then slowly point the handle down, the up again to land."
"Or you could just take off and have fun," Wynn added with a grin. "And if you fall, serves you right for picking on your elders."
"Oh come off it, you're not that eld," Harry answered, before taking off and, finding himself moving like he was part of the wind, Harry took Wynn's advice and flew off at break-neck speed, laughing when he heard a startled cry from Wynn.
Harry flew high above the pitch and slowed to a hover there, greeted with a nice panorama of the grounds. Looking down, he could see Wynn flying to catch up with him. Harry dove down, passed within inches of Wynn's head, then accelerated upwards again, turning to weave between the goal posts, then diving down to where Lupin stood, pulling up just before hitting the ground and landing soon after.
"Holy fuck, that was amazing!" Harry shouted, having found his feet and regained the breath that had been sucked out of him in the excitement.
"You could have been killed!" Wynn yelled, landing next to him and looking like he was milliseconds away from a stroke, face blending in with auburn hair.
"Not likely, considering he can outfly half of Portree's team," answered Lupin, who sounded only half as calm as usual.
"That's beside the point," Wynn grumbled, before his worry was won over by his excitement over this new development. "Where'd you learn the Wronski Feint?"
"A wonky faint?"
"No, a Wron-"
"I know, I was joking. Like everything else, I read about it. But don't ask me how I pulled it off. Maybe it's all the video games."
"You looked just like your father," Wynn said, his eyes clouding briefly, but not entirely in grief.
"Thanks, Sirius. Well, I've got a Potions class in an hour and I need a shower or I won't be able to smell the ingredients. See you tonight?" With that, Harry left the Quidditch pitch, and it wasn't until he'd reached the castle that all three men realized what Harry had said.
***
Harry arrived twenty minutes early for the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff seventh year class. Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Snape had decided that this particular house combination would be much less phased by Harry's presence. The Gryffindor-Slytherin class was already tense enough with worries over the war and where fellow students' allegiances rested without the added distraction of having The Boy Who Lived sitting at the back table. Minerva had originally suggested that Harry walk the Hogwarts halls incognito, but the fact that the Death Eaters already knew Harry was at the school, and the fact that it was unusual to have a "mature student", and the fact that a lightening bolt-shaped scar was even more unusual, made the idea of an assumed identity a bit absurd. For the most part, students left Harry alone, only occasionally whispering and pointing, and only twice did someone speak to him directly. "Is that the scar?" Yes. "Why didn't you kill…him?" Harry hadn't answered that question. For some reason, he thought "I was only a baby," would seem a weak excuse to these kids.
Snape was grading papers at his desk when Harry walked into the dungeon. Since his first night at Hogwarts, Harry and Snape had formed an interesting working relationship, one that surprised the rest of the staff and would have left the student body utterly perplexed and maybe appalled had they known about it. Snape tended to ignore Harry in class, unless he saw that the fledgling potion brewer was about to create an explosion of minor proportions, in which case he calmly whispered suggestions, rather than ridiculing him in front of the class, which he was apt to do with any other student. Harry had the suspicion that this public lack of hostility was a concerted effort on Snape's part not to blow any chance of Harry becoming spy.
Every night, the hour between dinner and the later call by Remus Lupin, Harry would meet Snape in the Potions lab for a private tutorial in potions and current events of the wizarding world. It was mildly disconcerting for Harry to be getting along with a professor, having spent the majority of his academic career making life for his teachers a living hell. Whenever he felt himself turning sycophant, Harry would redeem himself by imagining what Manic could do to a place like this castle, with magic at their disposal. It was a challenge, since most pranks could easily be waved away by a wand. Why an image of sheep grazing on the ceiling was stuck in his head, Harry didn't know.
"You're early, Potter," Snape greeted, if you could call it that.
"I was restless. Just flew a broom for the first time," Harry grinned, trying to imagine a Severus Snape on broomstick. Wannabe intimidating robes billowing out…Harry shuddered and reminded himself not to get a ground seat in the upcoming match. Can't be a pretty view, looking up. Unless players wore pants. Or were female. Maybe…no, too young. Harry may have been unaccustomed to waking up alone, but he still had some moral fiber.
"Just like your father, wasting your time with such nonsense," Snape sneered.
"I know you think you're insulting me, so keep pretending if it makes you happy. Anyway, aren't you hoping for a Slytherin Quidditch Cup this year?"
"For the house's sake, not the sport's sake," Snape answered, setting aside his papers and turning to write the day's lesson on the board. There was a charm he could use, but he didn't like to bring his wand to class. His little speech to the first years would make it hypocritical. Besides, he relished the screech of chalk on slate. Reminded him of his great aunt's deathday parties. Harry just assumed the man's wand was lodged somewhere in his person.
"Furnucucide?" Harry asked, reading the board.
"Yes."
"Anything to do with boils?"
"Yes. Any more questions?" Snape snapped.
"Em…can you freeze potions to preserve them, if you didn't have a wand handy or the proper storage equipment?"
"Hypothetically, yes. Unless there's dragon's blood or liver in it. But it isn't recommended. Twenty points if you can tell me why."
"For which house?"
"Whichever. Though I'd suspect you'd do well in Slytherin."
"Why? No offense, but your kids are a bunch of snot-nosed bastards from what I can see."
"Fair enough. Answer my question and I'll give you a brief lesson on the houses. More rewarding than points, considering."
"Alright. Freezing not such a good thing. Because it would have to thaw naturally or risk being corrupted, and that takes too long?"
"Is that a question or your answer?"
"Answer."
"Fine. Close enough, but you forget that freezing can often destroy the structure of organic cells. So I'll give you the ten-knut version. Gryffindors are supposedly brave and chivalrous. Macho. Hufflepuffs are loyal and little worker bees. Lemmings. Ravenclaws are wise and witty and wearisome. And Slytherins are cunning and ambitious."
"I can really tell how unbiased you are."
"Well, to be fair, I was nearly sorted into Ravenclaw, so I can't fault them. They at least make my job easier, barring the few that will always insist on exceeding the maximum length."
"Back to your original point, I don't think I'd be a Slytherin."
"Why not?" Snape asked, silently daring Harry to criticize his house. Criticizing his house's students was one thing, but the governing principles behind it were, in Snape's opinion, beyond reproach (at least if anyone asked him).
"I'm not ambitious. How can I be? I have no goals in life."
Then why are you here? Snape wanted to ask, but that was something he didn't need Harry thinking about. Considering always leads to reconsidering. "So which house do you think would suit you best, bearing in mind that there is rarely a perfect fit?"
"Well, my romantic history proves I'm anything but chivalrous, so Gryffindor's out. And contrary to how I've been acting since I've arrived, I'm not all that academic, so Ravenclaw's out. And I am loyal to my friends, when we're in the same country, so I suppose I'd be a Hufflepuff."
Snape couldn't help it. He laughed. Loud and hard and lasting until the first student walked in, and then he shut up really fast, except to whisper to Harry: "As much as I loathed your father, I think you're doing him an injustice by allying yourself with those harebrained badgers. No, you're a Gryffindor. Pity, I was starting to like you."
***
Harry's after-dinner tutorial with Snape proved that they were still friends. In some fashion. They were twenty minutes into a discussion on why adding any unicorn byproduct with any dragon byproduct would cancel each other out when Professor Dumbledore joined them unexpectedly.
"Ah, the man himself," Snape smiled. "The Headmaster is responsible for the pioneering research concerning the uses of dragon blood, Potter."
"And I've invented an interesting variation of ten-pin bowling, but no one ever talks about that," Dumbledore answered, eyes twinkling. Then he turned his attention towards Harry. "Harry, I was hoping you'd cut your lesson a bit short. Seems the world has stopped turning and I have nothing to do for the next half-hour. I've been meaning to assess your ability to perform wandless magic."
Harry nodded, even though he was sure it was unnecessary to give his approval.
"Would you like me to leave?" Snape asked.
"No need," Dumbledore answered. "Luckily, you are no longer in a position where you'd be forced to betray any confidences."
"Nothing lucky about it," Snape snarled. Dumbledore just patted the younger man's shoulder and made to sit down at the nearest worktable.
"Begin whenever you are ready, Harry."
"What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?" Harry asked, not enjoying the feeling of being an organ-grinder's monkey. At least they got some quid for their performance. Then a memory of doing a striptease for Dee's 21st stifled his growing sense of indignation.
"Anything," Dumbledore answered. "Levitate something."
"Soon, Snape was flying around the room, and yelling every obscenity known to man until Harry lowered him to the ground.
"I don't believe that I qualify for 'something', Potter," the Potions master hissed, his face an odd palate of greens and reds.
"I was only levitating your underwear," Harry answered, plastering a look of innocence on his face.
"I'm not wearing any!" Snape cried in triumph, before realizing that having this fact known to the headmaster was not exactly something to be proud of.
"Well, I'd say your levitation is up to speed. Try something more difficult," suggested Dumbledore.
Harry transfigured a table into a more comfortable chair for Dumbledore to sit in.
"Thank you. Can you change something inanimate into animate?"
Harry concentrated, and soon his Moste Potente Potions book was a common garden snake, a tribute he hoped would placate Snape.
"Very good!" Dumbledore applauded. "Now change it back."
Harry was about to comply, but his curiosity got the better of him. After all, he'd never made a living thing before. "Just a second," he said, before striking up a conversation with the snake.
"How long have you been here?" Harry asked it.
"What do you mean? I've been here as long as you have," the snake hissed.
"Well, what do you remember, before I started talking to you? Where were you?"
"I was lying on the table, of course. And before that I was in your bag. Has it always been so cold in here?" Harry shrugged, turned the snake back into a book, and smiled at the two slack-jawed professors. He didn't notice the shock on their faces; he was too relieved that, no matter what shape he'd given the book, he hadn't been meddling in creation of souls, or whatever it is. Of course, now he'd have to worry about the level of consciousness in furniture, but he could put that aside for now.
"Well, that was unexpected," Snape said, breaking Harry's reverie.
"I just wanted to ask it a few questions," Harry answered.
"Yes, it's perfectly natural to converse with serpents," Snape chuckled. Honestly, how many cards can one boy hide up his sleeves? But Dumbledore seemed to have gotten over his surprise relatively quickly.
"What did you ask it, Harry?" the Headmaster asked.
"I wanted to know if it remembered anything from when it was a book. Luckily, it did."
"Why does it matter?" asked Snape.
"When I'm ready for the power and responsibility of creating a sentient being, I'll do it the old-fashioned way and knock a girl up," Harry smirked.
"Definitely not Slytherin material," Snape mumbled.
"I think it's a fascinating subject, Harry," Dumbledore entered. "One that you should discuss with Professor McGonagall. It has the promise of being a journal article of great significance. In the meantime, why don't you head back to your room? Don't want to keep Professor Lupin waiting."
"Yes, I need a stiff drink. Goodnight, professors."
***
Harry had just told Remus Lupin and Wynn McFayden about his time with Snape and Dumbledore. The unnatural silence between the three drinking partners had forced him to say something, and he'd thought that Wynn at least would get a kick out of Snape bouncing off walls, or going commando. He was right on both accounts, and even Lupin nearly spit out his whiskey when he'd heard the last bit. He dreamt of telling the surly Severus: "Don't get your knickers in a twist. Oh wait, you don't have any." But alas, Harry had sworn them both to secrecy.
Whatever lightened atmosphere Harry had hoped to create was jeopardized by his revelation that he was a Parslemouth, but Wynn was too preoccupied to say much about this unusual talent other than echoing Snape's "that was unexpected" and giving Remus a pointed look which suggested further discussion at a later date. Right now, he wanted to talk about what was said on the pitch.
"Harry, about what you said earlier-" Wynn began, before stopping, still unsure of what to say. Thankfully, Harry saved him.
"Listen, Wynn, if you want we can just call it a slip of the tongue and leave it at that, no explanation necessary," answered Harry, still hoping he hadn't been wrong in his guess.
"I think it would be safer for everyone involved if we did just that," suggested Remus. Harry nodded, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Wynn.
"How did you know? I mean, what made you think I was-" Wynn asked, torn between being relieved that, at least in their minds, he was finally Harry's godfather, and being scared witless that it had been so obvious to a boy who'd known him only two weeks.
"I really wasn't certain, until now," Harry answered awkwardly. When he'd dreamt of meeting his godfather, of having a real family, he hadn't thought it would have to be so…restrained. Of course, he hadn't thought they'd be friends, sitting around drinking cheap whiskey, talking about reckless stunts and dangerous one-night stands. God, he wanted to hug the man.
"What made you suspect?" Lupin asked.
"Minerva got quite chatty in some of her letters," Harry confessed, missing a brief look of panic cross Lupin's face as he thought of some secrets the witch could reveal about him. "Once she'd explained Sirius Black's innocence, she'd gone on and on about his schooldays with my dad and his friends. All the trouble they got in and out of. And how Remus here was so close to him. So when I saw you two together, and you'd talk about my dad but avoid talking about Sirius, even though Minerva said the staff knew about his situation, and there was the way you kept looking at me, Wynn. Well, I thought, either I've got something hanging out my nose, or he's gay, or he's my godfather. Or a combination of all three."
"You've got lots of things hanging out of your nose, but it doesn't bother me," Wynn grinned. "And if I were gay, you definitely wouldn't be my type."
"Oh?" Harry asked. "Who would be your type?" shooting a sly grin in Lupin's direction.
"Ewww," both Wynn and Remus chorused.
The night dissolved into drunken laughs after that, and Harry found himself stumbling back to his room just before sunrise, happy and numb and drunk from the feeling that he wasn't homesick. He was home.