1
At dawn, one could appreciate, from atop Ravenclaw Tower, a good view of the school grounds, be it the rippling lake reflecting the orange clouds and blue sky above, or the dark forest which the sun had not yet embraced with its morning glow, or the mountain peaks and their futile attempt to keep the world submerged in darkness. All of these were the subjects of Harry's sketch as he stood in the Ravenclaw common room with his brown leather journal in hand.
Harry hatched and scribbled away, but was too distracted by his actions of the prior day; he turned away from the scene in frustration. He had shown Blaise his other journal, the one with the trivial drawings he would entertain himself with after reading fantasy books in St. Grogory's Primary School library. The journal he now held, the one that he felt contained his true vision, he had hidden away perhaps due to habit. However, he had promised himself that he would no longer hide that part of himself, the part that was curious about the world and eager to show his own understanding of it. Thus, he had chosen to start the day by sketching the school grounds without a care for who might see him as he worked. It did not escape him that he perhaps wanted the attention, given that it had nothing to do with his boy saviour image. Such longing was pitiful, but he tried not to dwell on that.
The common room was populated by the house's early risers: a couple of boys near the fire pit were trading strange marbles that they identified as 'gobstones', a group of sixth or seventh-year girls were throwing disdainful looks at the aforementioned boys while they pored over magazines, and a brown-haired boy was heating a tea kettle with a muttered spell. The latter of these housemates moved with practiced poise, adding his own charm to the morning ritual, as he set aside some bone china teacups, saucers, a small tray of madeleines, and a jar of black tea leaves. At the whistle of the tea kettle, he dropped some loose leaf into the cups. Readying to pour the boiled water, he looked up at Harry and smiled without indicating any surprise at the spectator's scrutiny.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Sure," Harry replied, embarrassed at having been caught staring, and went to sit on one of the four armchairs surrounding the vintage tea table.
"I'm Jeremy Stretton, fourth-year, and I believe that any day one starts without a good cup of tea isn't worth living at all."
Harry couldn't help but smile back. "I'm Harry Potter, first-year, and since pumpkin juice seems to be the only other drink of choice around here, I think I'll support tea in its claim for the throne."
"Nice one, kid," Jeremy grinned. He poured two cups and handed one, gently, to Harry before taking a both sat in silence for a good while, each testing the tea's temperature with brief sips, with long gaps of time in between, during which they dipped madeleines into their tea before taking the smallest of bites. Jeremy seemed like a neat guy: he had an athletic build and had the confidence to match; he showed no hint of anxiety – his essence was, in one word, tranquility – despite it being the first day of classes; he also seemed to find relish in every sip of tea as if it was a treasure that only he could appreciate.
"So, you interested in art?" Jeremy finally asked.
"Just sketching."
"It's a shame we don't really have any art classes here. We've got a frog choir and an orchestra, but I don't reckon your talents rest there?"
Harry shook his head.
"It's a damn shame. Well, are you going to show me some of your work?"
Harry handed the journal to Jeremy and the older boy flipped through the pages. He hummed at some pages and seemed captivated by others, his eyes skimmed over some of Harry's scribbled notes, and when done perusing it, he returned it before leaning back into his armchair. He now gazed at Harry with an upturned brow.
"Moon phase charts, bird sketches, plant identification, and your own cipher, though it is a work in progress – bloody hell Potter, you really do belong in Ravenclaw." Jeremy whistled.
"Thank you, I think?" Harry said, feeling abashed.
"Just take the compliment, mate. You were raised by muggles, weren't you?"
Harry's eyes widened. "How did you –"
"Your journal had no magical birds or plants, or anything magical for that matter." At Harry's worried look, Jeremy continued. "Don't worry – I won't tell anyone – but people are bound to notice sooner or later, especially in the house of eagles. We're an inquisitive lot."
After Harry finished his tea, Jeremy took the cup and spun it in his hands until he seemed to find what he was looking for. It took a moment for Harry to realize he must be looking at the tea leaves.
"A candle, I believe – a symbol for insight. It's near the bottom of the cup so this supposed insight isn't coming any time soon, I'm afraid."
"How –?"
"Good morning." Two blonde girls walked in from behind Harry and sat on the two remaining armchairs. Jeremy bent forward to pour tea into their cups which pleased them greatly.
"Harry, these beautiful young ladies are Phoebe Hopper and Florence Stokke," Jeremy's easygoing smile turned malicious. "Ladies, I'm pleased to introduce you to Mr. Potter. I know you two are big fans of his."
The two girls had a gleam in their eyes as they stood up and pulled their armchairs right next to Harry's. They sat down, put their arms around him, and before he could protest, they kissed his cheeks simultaneously. Harry's face burnt up, but he didn't pry himself loose because he knew his exit would be anything but dignified. There was nothing to do, but wish the ground would swallow him whole and spit him out into the lake.
"Well Harry," one of them hummed, her lavender scent posing a strange sort of danger, "once you start your third year, you'll be allowed to go to Hogsmeade. It's a cozy village. I'd be glad to give you a personal tour if you'd like."
"Isn't he cute, Phoebe?" the other asked, ruffling his hair. "We should adopt him. With those eyes, I fancy he'll be turning heads in a few years and who better than us to train him?"
"But we mustn't go too far," Phoebe cautioned. "What if behind every Romeo and Don Juan, every Lothario and Casanova, there was a woman like us, playing with powers far beyond our understanding without considering the repercussions?"
Harry didn't understand, and had no desire to understand, what unspeakable things these girls planned to do with him. Harry sent a supplicating look at Jeremy, to which he laughed.
"Alright ladies, you've had your fun. Why don't you go run along with your classmates, Harry? They seem to be waiting for you."
Harry turned his head and was mortified to find some of the first-year girls standing by Rowena's statue, trying to restrain their mirth at his misfortune.
"Thanks for the tea," Harry said before gathering his things, pulling on his messenger bag, and striding out of the common room, ignoring all the laughs that had erupted. He heard footsteps chasing him, and turned to see Lisa Turpin, Mandy Brocklehurst, and Padma Patil giggling behind him.
"Is Su still asleep?" Harry asked, his hand sliding down the rail as he descended along the spiral staircase that unfolded itself with their every step.
"Nope," Mandy said. She was a thin girl with thick eyebrows, which made her seem more assertive than her soft voice would suggest. "She's giving Morag a pep talk; we think she's feeling homesick."
"It is hard to sleep away from home," Lisa said. "I was tossing and turning all night and I could swear that I heard Morag mumbling in her sleep. How did you sleep, Harry?"
"Like a log," Harry replied. His new bed was much more comfortable than anything he'd ever slept on.
"Harry, I know you were trying to make a quick escape," Padma said with a teasing voice, "But shouldn't we be have waited for one of the prefects to lead us to the Great Hall."
"I memorized the path," Harry said and the girls' laboured breaths kept them from pressing him further.
Normally, Harry's sense of direction rivaled that of a compass, allowing him to chart out routes in his head whenever Dudley and his friends were chasing him through the streets of Little Whinging. Even in the suburbs, where all houses looked the same, Harry was able to determine where his home was without needing a single glance at any street signs. All he had to do was rely on his surroundings, be it the location of the sun, the direction of the wind, the flow of traffic, or a simple landmark.
As Harry walked through the castle's halls, however, he felt as if someone was messing with him. He could have sworn that some of the suits of armour were holding different weapons the night before. Instead of swords and shields, they now carried poleaxes and war hammers. He recognized some of the tapestries, but their colors seemed entirely different under the morning sunlight. At one point, he was convinced that he had gone in a circle and just as he was about to admit being lost, a suit of armour discretely pointed down one of the corridors. Feeling quite foolish, he followed its suggestion and as the group made their way through the stone hall, he felt more assured that they were on the right path.
Finally, they could hear the chatter of other students. They arrived at the Grand Staircase and descended onto the ground floor.
"They're so small! Can you imagine being in the same year as Harry Potter?"
"Look, he's over there with that group of girls."
"He's showing off the scar – always knew he'd be bigheaded."
Whispers followed them, along with impolite gawking and a good deal of pointing, as they made their way to the Great Hall and sat at the Ravenclaw table. While all of the teaching staff was present, most of the students were still in their dormitories. Harry and the girls loaded their plates with sausages, eggs, toast, tomatoes, beans, and mushrooms. He noticed that few of the students wore colored accessories unlike the previous night; it would be much harder to identify people's houses from now on.
"Don't worry about all the staring, Harry," Lisa said as she bit into a tomato slice. "You'll be old news within a week."
Harry doubted that. If adults in Diagon Alley could barely contain themselves, what could possibly temper the excitement of a bunch of kids.
"And Harry," Mandy added, "I know you said Zabini was your friend, but you should be careful around him and the rest of Slytherin just to be safe."
"Oh, and why is that?" Padma bristled. "My dad was in Slytherin."
Mandy's cheeks turned pink. "Sorry. Perhaps not all Slytherins, but most families in that house were on the other side during the war. My parents warned me that some grudges never die."
"I wonder why that is?" Padma muttered as she stabbed her sausage with a fork.
"Mandy," Harry interrupted. "Thanks for keeping an eye out for me, but Blaise is fine."
"Please, just keep it in mind."
Harry nodded, but didn't indicate that he was worried, which seemed to mollify Padma. Hagrid had also decried Slytherin when they had gone shopping, but Harry was inclined to go against the man's advice on principle.
As they finished their meal, the rest of the Ravenclaw first-years came in following Robert and Penelope. Indeed, it seemed as if the majority of the student body had trickled in without Harry noticing. He was never the type to be distracted, but having pleasant company and a pleasant meal was a novel experience.
"Why didn't you wait for us, Harry?" Terry asked as he took a seat.
"I got up pretty early and I didn't want to wake any of you."
"That prefect – Hilliard might be his name – thought you'd all be lost in some dungeon or trapped on the third floor," Anthony said, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "He kept upsetting Clearwater with his outlandish guesses. She was having kittens."
Harry glanced at the prefects down the table and Penelope, indeed, looked frazzled. Noticing his attention, she narrowed her eyes slightly and Harry quickly turned away. Luckily, a rather short staff member chose that moment to approach the first-years and hand out their timetables. One of the older students informed Kevin Entwhistle that the man was their head of house, Professor Flitwick.
"Sadly, I won't have you for class until tomorrow morning," said Professor Flitwick with profound dejection. "But do make sure you all do your best today. I have high expectations of each and every one of you."
At the chorus of agreement, he continued handing time tables further down the table. After some rushed eating from the late risers, they were led away from the Great Hall by Penelope. Along the way, Penelope described which was the quickest paths to their History classroom, while promising to give them a more extensive tour during lunch break.
The Transfiguration Courtyard was a cloister of open grass and fresh air. A large tree stood tall on one end, its dark leaves emitting a subtle glow that may have been a trick of the light or indicative of something far more ancient and powerful. Above a small fountain, an iron sculpture was on display: a sphere perched on the back of a dragon. The courtyard was surrounded by towers and arched windows, an ode to uniformity and symmetry.
After some last-minute tips from Penelope, the group of Ravenclaws entered the Transfiguration classroom and, upon noticing a cat sitting on the professor's desk at the front, they took a seat and chatted among themselves. The only other person in the room was a girl with bushy hair who had taken one of the front seats.
After more students entered, one in particular joined the Ravenclaws and sat next to a girl completely identical to her.
"Parvati!" Padma squealed. "I'm so happy for you. I mean, I would have liked it if we were in the same house, but I think it's a perfect fit for you."
"You don't think dad will be disappointed?" Parvati asked, fidgeting with her hands.
"Never." Padma said with steel certainty.
Just then, a redheaded boy slammed the door open and dropped, quite haggardly, into one of the remaining seats. His mutters about inconsiderate housemates were interrupted by harsh intakes of breath as if he had just finished a marathon. "I've lucked out. I wouldn't have wanted to face her if she'd seen me come in late."
The cat jumped off the desk and morphed into Professor McGonagall. Her stern look quelled all conversation.
"I spoke too soon," the boy said, his face turning red.
"Indeed, you did, Mr. Weasley. Ought I transfigure you into a pocket watch so that you may get to breakfast on time and thus not show up two minutes late to class?"
"It won't happen again, Professor."
The lecture that followed disappointed Harry. The professor was very knowledgeable, but strict, and while her demonstrations were quite impressive, they were no where near ready enough to cast amazing feats of transfiguration. Instead, they were given the dull task of transfiguring a match into a needle. From Ravenclaw house, Harry, Lisa, and Stephen had managed the transfiguration. The latter had struggled to keep his eyes open during the remainder of class. From Gryffindor, a girl with the name 'Granger' was the only one to complete the transfiguration; she had been the most engaged student by far.
"Double transfiguration every Monday," Anthony whined as they left the class and headed to the History classroom on the first floor. "Seems like a lot of theory and no fun."
"It's a very precise branch of magic," Lisa said. "I doubt we'll do anything that interesting until next term."
"Woe is me," Anthony said.
After History class, Anthony changed his tune and bemoaned the newest disaster. It was the consensus among Gryffindors and Ravenclaws that no one could be worse than Professor Binns. The man was a ghost and his old age did him no favors; his monotone voice had slowly, but surely, lured most of the class into a state of half-slumber. Harry's notes were erratic and though he had written much of Emeric the Evil and Uric the Oddball, his sentences trailed off and his handwriting turned sloppy the farther along it got. It was a great achievement to make a lecture of such interesting wizards more tedious than his uncle's business partners.
Lunch was a blessing and all of the Ravenclaw first-years directed their grievances to Robert and Penelope. Both were sympathetic but offered no remedy. Penelope did manage to lift their spirits as she toured them around the castle. She led them past the greenhouses and the Viaduct, an impressive feat of architecture that stood above a grand chasm. Those that leaned over the balustrade then regretted it, and two stone gargoyles startled them when voices emanated from their unmoving mouths.
"They say many kids have died walking this viaduct here," one of them said in a very serious manner.
"Yes," said the other gargoyle with far too much glee. "It happens all the time. That's the beauty of being made of stone. No one's pushing me over!"
At the gargoyles' wild cackles and the first-years' horror-struck faces, Penelope simply rolled her eyes.
"Ignore them. They're bored stuck there all day so they find entertainment wherever they can."
She dropped them off at a classroom in the transfiguration courtyard where the class was being temporarily held since the old classroom was on the third-floor corridor. Professor Quirrell awaited them, atop a platform surrounded by four pillars. The man was balding and his remaining hair was turning grey. He seemed timid and somewhat fragile, but his classroom was an interesting sight. There were bats, iguanas, snakes, and other creatures Harry could not identify being held in cages scattered around the room.
"I am Professor Quirrell," he said after he had taken attendance. His voice was smooth and despite its softness, it carried itself effortlessly across the room. "This class will introduce you to the idea, the need, of defending oneself when confronting the dark arts. First, however, we must discuss the meaning of 'dark' in the realm of magic. Any ideas… Yes, Miss Brocklehurst?"
"Dark magic is evil magic," Mandy said, lowering her hand.
"Ah yes, the trouble is that we are then forced to define evil and even philosophers struggle to arrive at a unified answer. Furthermore, we then have to question if it is the act or the person's intent that is evil. What happens when a good person uses dark magic? Are they automatically evil? Or does one evil act not undo a lifetime of good character? Or were they ever truly good to begin with? Regardless, a good guess so that will be two points to Ravenclaw, Miss Brocklehurst. Anyone else? Miss Bones?"
"Dark magic is whatever the Ministry says it is," the redheaded girl said. Professor Quirrell laughed and it echoed back and forth across the classroom.
"Five points to Hufflepuff, Miss Bones. You must be related to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. From a certain perspective, your answer is indeed true. A man can insist that his spellwork isn't dark by whatever definition he espouses, but if the ministry has listed it as such, then Madam Bones will have him arrested despite all protests and he'll likely end up with a lengthy sentence. However, I always find it interesting when a witch or wizard is prohibited from casting a certain spell in Britain, but the moment they step foot into a foreign country, they may no longer be forbidden from using that very same spellwork. Some countries are very liberal with the use of magic while others are much stricter. Who is right and who is wrong?"
The class was silent. Harry was horrified by the idea that there was magic that he might be forbidden from using without good reason. Bones, however, looked uncomfortable at the idea that her aunt might be imprisoning people unjustly. Quirrell took a seat on a stool and his face hardened as he leaned forward.
"I wouldn't expect you to come up with the correct answer. Academics still argue over this topic today, but the majority opinion seems to rest on this definition: dark magic is that which corrupts the soul or body, be it the caster's or the victim's."
"Dark magic tends to warp the caster's soul. The caster may lose the ability to feel certain human emotions, such as mercy, compassion, and love. It's also difficult to cast, since it requires negative emotions, and those that use it regularly are, naturally, regularly consumed by hate, anger, and despair. Depending on the magic, their very bodies may become distorted, deformed, inhuman. There's a reason we don't teach such magic here. Few are disciplined enough to dabble in such magic without losing themselves in the process."
Harry raised his hand and Professor Quirrell raised an eyebrow before nodding.
"When you say the caster's soul, are you being literal? Or are you just referring to the mind?"
"I chose my words with precision, Mr. Potter." Professor Quirrell narrowed his eyes and seemed to be debating something in his mind. "If you have the stomach for it, I urge you to do some research on dementors and souls. It may prove enlightening."
"I did say earlier that dark magic may also corrupt the victim, although things get murkier here. Some curses may corrupt the body's functions, making healing a more arduous process. Some may corrupt, even destroy, their very soul. All rituals require a sacrifice, but the dark rituals, well let's just say that many of them use a victim's blood, perhaps even flesh or body, and it must always be forcefully taken. Freely given blood or blood that is merely found lying about is insufficient, since the very act of taking has magic within it and that magic is powerful."
"That is the reason Polyjuice potion, a potion that allows you to take on the appearance of another, is considered a dark potion in academic circles, and of course, the mere act of impersonation is enough to get it banned by the Ministry. The potion requires the victim's hair, blood, or nails even. As long as it is taken by force, magic will accept it. You need not advertise the theft, of course. In fact, it would be immensely stupid if you did so."
"Despite the fact that many academics push this definition of dark magic forward, governments across the globe ban magics that don't belong in this category when they are frightened by it or feel a need to suppress it for whatever reason. Some governments permit the use of some of these magics, due to tradition, the sheer usefulness, or other reasons. More surprising to you might be the fact that some governments prohibit certain magic among the citizenry, but then turn around and use it themselves. During the last war, aurors were permitted the use of certain dark curses. Polyjuice potion is also used by undercover aurors, if we are to believe news reports. Our very own prison employs dark creatures and while the term 'dark creature' is notoriously difficult to define, dementors almost certainly qualify."
Professor Quirrell assigned them a paper on the competing definitions of 'dark creatures', due on Wednesday, and 'dark artefacts', due next Monday, and then allowed the students to inspect all of the creatures in his cages, some of which he identified as vampire bats, a young blinded basilisk, and an erkling whose mouth was gagged in order to prevent the children-eating monster from drowning the room with its mad cackles.
The Ravenclaws were very impressed as they proceeded to the dungeons with the Hufflepuff students for potions class.
"He's a bit scary, isn't he?" Ernie Macmillan said. "Brilliant, but I feel like the subject should only be taken by older students."
"I thought it was wicked," Harry said. "All the things he said, it really makes you think. It's almost as if we're going to be studying horror."
"Boys," Su rolled her eyes. "Hurry up before we're late. You all heard what Professor Snape is like."
The professor's reputation was well deserved. As the students settled at their work stations, the door slammed open and Professor Snape strode in and gave them a speech that glamorized the study of potions. Harry would have been very taken by the professor's words if he hadn't been bothered by the odor of the ingredients and cauldrons present in the classroom.
The professor immediately targeted Harry with three questions, of which he only failed to answer the last one.
"Not so perfect, are you, Mr. Potter? You will find no favoritism for celebrities here."
Harry immediately hated the greasy-haired professor and the way his hooked nose and uneven teeth formed a sneer. His subsequent behavior, barking orders and startling children with his shadowed movements around the class only reinforced his loathing for the man. However, he still found that he enjoyed mixing his boil cure potion. He was itching to ask for more information about the rather odd process of potion-making, but he recognized a lost cause when he saw one.
After a volatile hour, they were dismissed from class and Harry forced himself to not be bothered by the professor's declaration that his work was barely acceptable.
"It looked like a good potion to me," Su said, trying to lift his spirits. "He's got a grudge against you for some reason."
"I thought he was harsh with me as well," Anthony said.
"Yes, but your potion was boiling over onto the table," Su said, unimpressed. Anthony scowled and sped past them, leaving all the Ravenclaws trailing after him.
Their discussion devolved into an argument over whether or not Snape would blend in with a group of vampires. Their laughs tapered off as they ran into their Slytherin classmates on the way to the greenhouses.
"Hey Potter," Zabini said, pulling away from his housemates. Some of the Ravenclaws looked uneasy.
"Hey Zabini," Harry said, confused with the usage of his surname, but deciding to follow the boy's lead. "Had any good classes today?"
"Potions was entertaining, but it's not really my subject," Zabini said. "Two hours of Binns was a disaster. Defense was very interesting though."
"Agreed," Harry said. "That was my favorite class and I can't see how any other class can beat it."
The two entered the greenhouse without paying attention to the looks their housemates were giving them. Some of those looks were contemplative. Some were annoyed. One of them, was much more than that.
2
Daphne's first day had not gone well. She had planned to start her day by setting up an altar next to her bed; it was always important to initiate new endeavors with the blessings of the Mother Goddess. Instead, Daphne found herself contemplating murder all day and throughout her classes. Asphyxiation had a certain appeal to it. It was more up front and personal than poison or staging a tragic accident. Admittedly, it was beneath her to carry out the dirty work, but sometimes the judge has to be the one to swing the sword.
Her future victim had grinned at her. "Why the icy stare?" Tracey couldn't help but poke the viper with a stick.
"You're dead meat."
Parkinson had exited the dormitory and evaluated the scene. "I'd kill anyone if they were to wake me up with freezing water in the morning."
"You don't understand," Tracey said. "Daphne is not a morning person, so she really should be thanking me. Now, she won't be late to breakfast."
"You're really not helping your case," Bulstrode muttered as she dropped onto an armchair. She, too, didn't seem to be much of a morning person and had been none too pleased to be woken up by Daphne's howls and Tracey's cackles.
Her mood had not improved during the two hours of history class. It only allowed her to delve into revenge fantasies, which Tracey seemed to pick up on since she avoided sitting next to her in both Transfiguration and Potions class. This was a wise move since Daphne would have probably deliberately sabotaged her potion if the opportunity presented itself. Instead, it was Longbottom's potion that had exploded and Daphne lamented the lack of justice in the world. Tracey tested the waters by sitting next to her in Defense class and Daphne did her best to ignore her, and hopefully lure her into a false sense of security.
She was distracted from her thoughts when Zabini abandoned the Slytherins and walked towards Potter. Malfoy had interrogated Zabini about their association in the common room that morning and Zabini gave what she thought were a lot of non-answers, but they seemed to satisfy Malfoy's curiosity.
Daphne's thoughts returned to the prior night, when her Sight wavered in Potter's presence. It could be a coincidence, but she doubted that very much. There weren't many who came from the line of Avalon and they were all a close-knit community, one that never included the Potters from what she had gathered. Her fellow acolytes always had a remarkable connection to nature and its magic, so she resolved to sit close to the boy as they entered the greenhouse.
Professor Sprout was a squat woman who wore an ugly brown hat over her curly hair. She had some dirt on her cheeks and her hands were grubby as well. Despite all this, her smile was kind and welcoming, putting most of the students at ease. Some, like Malfoy and Parkinson, were eyeing all of the plants and tools with disgust.
"Let us start off with learning a spell," Professor Sprout began. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. Don't look so surprised. While I expect all you to get your hands dirty in every single class, some of our tasks will require spellwork. Today, we're dealing with spiky bushes. Don't get too close too them, Mr. Potter. They do tend to shoot spikes at people when they feel threatened. It is best practice to cast the fire-making spell at a distance. The incantation is 'incendio' and you'll find it incredibly useful when we cover devil's snare later in the year."
After successfully learning the spell, Daphne observed Potter's use of a muggle writing device as he sketched the spiky plant in his leather journal. It wasn't conclusive, but it did seem to indicate an affinity and that only begged more questions than it answered.
"I didn't take you for a fangirl," Tracey whispered.
Daphne ignored her and set the spiky bush in front of her on fire. As it receded and it's burnt spikes fell onto the table, she picked one up with discretion and hid it in her sleeves.
"It's understandable," Tracey continued once Professor Sprout had passed by. "He is somewhat cute and he's already famous. Potter dating a Slytherin would be a modern story of forbidden love."
"Shut up if you know what's good for you."
"Everyone needs a little romance in their – ow!" Daphne had poked Tracey's shoulder with the spike, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.
"What's happened?" Professor Sprout asked, directing everyone's attention at the two girls.
"Tracey got a little careless and our plant shot a spike at her while I was burning it."
The professor seemed skeptical, but she held back from questioning them further. Tracey looked disgruntled at being made to seem like an oaf, but she deserved it. Indeed, Daphne's retribution had only just begun. She then noticed Potter staring at her while Zabini chatted on oblivious to his friend's distraction. Potter's glasses softened the intensity of his eyes, but she couldn't quite make out what he might be thinking. He smiled shyly and returned his attention to Zabini, breaking the moment. She found her curiosity maddening and resolved to not look at him for the rest of the week if she could, choosing to focus instead on her revenge campaign against Tracey. Yes, her friend was going to have an unpleasant evening.
3
That night, a shrouded figure flew low past trees of beech, pine, oak, and yew. It followed no manmade path, but maneuvered around bushes, vines, and thorns as swift as a beast on the hunt. The castle was far behind it, as it delved deeper and deeper into the forest, and the highlands climbed higher and higher before it fell once more. Here, the forest was thick with trees, forcing the spectre to cease its flight and descend into a striding march.
The figure slowed down when he came across a persistent hissing – adders were all over the floor and he had to step carefully around them so as to not step on any of the irritated serpents. He faced a grove of yew trees splattered with dry blood. The grass and flowers were dying and no other animal dared approach this cursèd spot. At the center was a throne made of prickly vines and seated above was an old, pale man but his eyes were blank and his body motionless. Some vines had penetrated his body and one nasty stem had punctured through the man's chest where his heart ought to be. The traveler lowered his hood and a balding face was revealed.
"My lord," the man whispered as he got down on his knees.
The old man's mouth opened and a viper within eyed the visitor for a moment. The old man spoke, releasing a harsh hissing voice.
"Tell me, Quirinus, what have you to report?" The man's lips and teeth moved in a somewhat normal fashion, but he had no tongue and the snake seemed to substitute in the task of assisting his speech. The corpse's eyes remained foggy through it all.
"I have much to tell you, my lord. I've done what Dumbledore asked and provided a mountain troll. Unfortunately, I did not get to see what else lies within the chamber. Dumbledore has been very methodical about ensuring that each Professor remain oblivious of any protection but that which they provided.
"This is not unexpected. I hope you have not risked your position by coming all the way here to state the obvious, Quirrell."
"No, my lord," Quirrell sputtered. "Dumbledore made a rather odd decision last night. He announced to all students that the corridor was out of bounds during the sorting ceremony."
"That is odd," the snake moved around in the man's mouth until it reached a state of rest. "He could put up enchantments to deter the students. The castle is already quite capable of sustaining such magic. Already, it prohibits my encroachment and thus I rest here, so far from my goal."
"It is a trap," the corpse continued. "But it's an obvious one, so the question remains: what is the old man trying to accomplish?"
"My lord, I am absolutely certain that the stone he showed us was real. The power that emanated from the stone – it took all my discipline to refrain from snatching it."
"I believe you Quirinus, but practically advertising it to the whole student body is a calculated ploy. I'll have to think on it."
A silence stretched between the two in that unholy grove. Quirrell kept his eyes on the dry leaves below and ignored the hissing of the surrounding adders.
"Have you instructed the Potter boy, yet?"
"Earlier today, yes. He either grew up without proper instruction regarding the magical world, or he grew up with no instruction at all."
"He was raised by muggles?" the voice hissed in surprise.
"The boy seemed skeptical of the existence of souls."
"Ah, yes. Muggles and their physicalist views, so blind to the mysteries of the soul, so enthralled by the material world."
"The ignorant child should have guessed when he first ran into one of the castle's ghosts," Quirrell spat.
"He's but a mere child. I would not hold such high expectations this early on."
"The boy is in Ravenclaw," Quirrell said.
"Is that so? Your old house, Quirinus? Well, I think you ought to establish a relationship with the boy. Keep an eye on him."
"Of course, my lord."
A root dug out of the earth and inched towards Quirrell, who remain petrified on his knees. The root lifted Quirrell's chin, forcing him to face the viper in the corpse's mouth.
"I require unicorn blood. I trust you will find the way to bring it to me."
