-Chapter Ten-

On Your Marks, Get Sett...


Oddly, Harry's first thought was that it was a bit of an issue that something could get underneath their door. However, this was quickly quashed by the painfully obvious realisation that smoke tended to be caused by fire. Nearly every year back in his old school, a firefighter had come in to give a talk, reminding the children that fire was, surprisingly enough, dangerous.

Remembering the firefighters' advice, he quickly felt the door handle with the back of his hand to check where the fire was. Feeling that it wasn't hot, and therefore that the fire wasn't close to the door, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. His jaw dropped.

Nearly every bed was on fire. He couldn't see the state of Tracey's little room beyond the new wall, but the only visibly untouched bed was… his bed? Shaking his head, Harry pulled out his wand, determined to do something. As he racked his brains for a helpful spell, however, he realised that he, as a first year, had absolutely no clue what he could do.

"That's certainly one way to get my attention, Potter," a silky voice said from behind Harry. He spun around and came face to face with Professor Snape, a sneer curled upon his lips. Harry stood there, looking up at the man. With the roaring of the flames behind him and the equally as palpable hostility in front, his brain refused to push any kind of noise from his mouth. Instead, his jaw swung open and shut, mimicking the speech he was attempting in vain.

With the professor's hand firmly on his shoulder, Harry was guided away from the dormitory. The door closed with a wave of the man's wand and the two strode in the direction of the common room. At that point, Harry was glad for the pace of his head of house, having immediately felt the eyes of the entirety of Slytherin upon him.

"I suggest you all make your way to the great hall for lunch," Professor Snape said as they reached the exit. There was a flurry of movement as the students hurried to comply. The wall began to close behind the pair, although not fast enough to block out the babble of conversation that quickly erupted.

Slowly, Harry's brain was spluttering back to life as he felt a hint of relief at being taken in the opposite direction to the great hall. He knew that his fellow Slytherins, as much as that phrase was beginning to feel a little strained, would be rushing to catch them up, but not disobeying Professor Snape's orders to go to the great hall. They wouldn't find them. He could only imagine the rumours that would be spreading through the students - rumours that he didn't deserve.

"Sir, I-" Harry began as his tongue started to work.

"Hush, Potter," the Potions master said, guiding him through a door into a small room. Professor Snape turned him around, put his hands on his shoulders and squatted down to get level with him. "Stay," the man ordered as he looked into Harry's eyes.

#

A golden platter, just like those in the great hall, materialised on the table on the small dungeon room. Harry didn't notice it at first, sitting in the corner with his head in his arms, but the smell of roasted chicken swimming in a thick, dark gravy snuck into Harry's nose and pressed whatever button made his mouth water.

As he tucked in, he remembered how good the food at Hogwarts had been, and how plentiful. He wasn't a great fan of vegetables, having not had enough over the years to acclimatise his palate, but even the greens here in the castle tasted… bearable. However, these thoughts added further salt to the delightfully savoury gravy as tears began to fall. He didn't want to leave the school.

Just as he finished, Harry heard the rattle of the door as it started to open. He had tried the door earlier, but it had been either locked or magically sealed. Sighing, he turned to face Professor Snape.

"Neville?"

"Hi, Harry," Neville said. "Come quick." Harry roughly wiped his face free of any errant watermarks and took Neville's offered hand.

"Why are you here?" Harry blurted out after multiple questions had battled it out for the use of his tongue. Neville furrowed his brow. This wasn't at all like the Harry he knew; it was clearly a very hard time.

"Isn't that what friends do?" he asked. "I know you've been avoiding me - I don't know why - but when a House-elf appears and tells you that your friend's shut in a room, you get up and find him."

"But I thought you didn't like me any more," Harry said in a small voice, looking down at his feet as he followed Neville. He almost bumped into the boy when he stopped at this.

"What makes you think that? We've barely seen you since the welcoming feast."

"I saw how everyone looked at me at the feast. You hated me because I was put into Slytherin."

"Hated you? Harry, we were confused. Merlin, everyone was confused by you going into Slytherin. What do you know about the house?" Harry shrugged at Neville's question. "Right, well, I guess I should start with the fact that Slytherin's considered a dark house. Loads of dark wizards came from Slytherin, including You-Know-Who."

Harry didn't know who, but also didn't want to interrupt. He already felt like he'd made a right mess of things. Thinking about dark wizards in Slytherin, however, he imagined it was probably one of them who had killed his parents. Augusta had refused to tell him who had robbed him so, but it was probably for the best in the end.

"Actually, Hufflepuff is the only house that has never produced a dark wizard," Neville continued with a small smile on his face.

"I-" Harry began, trailing off as he wrapped his head around what he wanted to say. Neville stopped and turned towards Harry, who was still deep on thought. Harry's head bobbed slightly and his eyes scrunched up for the briefest second as Neville put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said as he looked into the eyes of the young Hufflepuff who'd given him a place to stay at the end of the summer.

Little did he know that Neville was about to reprise this role. The two boys had stopped a little way from a large alcove which held a veritable wall of colossal barrels, each on their side with the tops facing out into the corridor. Harry recognised the corridor as being close to the kitchens, so concluded that these barrels must hold various drinks and other liquids used for cooking the vast number of meals consumed by hundreds of ravenous children.

He therefore found it somewhat odd that Neville walked up to one of the barrels, the lid stretching to about a foot above their heads, and started knocking. It was even more strange when the barrel reacted to this, swinging it's lid out into the corridor. Neville took Harry's hand.

"Most people will only ever see their own common room," Neville explained, "but welcome, Harry, to the common room of Helga Hufflepuff." It was a strange way of introducing him to the Hufflepuff common room, but Harry realised that something more was going on when Neville rapped their knuckles together gently in the rhythm of his speech as he said the name of the founder. Harry looked down at his hand, then back up at Neville who had a questioning look. Harry nodded, making Neville smile.

The Hufflepuff common room was very cosy, with a lot of earthy tones used in the decoration. The floor sloped down slightly into the centre of the circular main room and the ceiling mirrored it with a more pronounced dome. Because of the slope of the floor, the tables, chairs and sofas seemed to all have legs of different lengths, preventing anything from being wobbly.

There was a beautiful, calming smell of plants. Different species of plant burst forth from the pots and troughs on the tables, attached to the walls or hanging from the ceiling. Harry and Neville sat together by a particularly leafy specimen, which the Hufflepuff boy absently caressed, and they spent a few minutes catching up on what they'd missed since the start of term. Harry glossed over many of the issues he'd faced, but eventually had to mention the fire. At this, Neville stood and pulled Harry with him towards one of the doors on the wall.

"Harry, this is your room," he said. He pushed the door open to reveal a cosy little bedroom, with his trunk resting at the foot of the bed.

"My room?"

"Of course. Hufflepuff house is known for its inclusivity. We work hard to create a community in this house and stay loyal to each other, but we also provide what we can, where we can. Many Hufflepuffs are cooks or healers or teachers or work in the welfare-based departments of the Ministry. We care and help, and now it's help you."

"But I don't need help," Harry said with a red face, looking away from his friend.

"Then think of it as helping the others in your dormitory." Harry looked up at this. No, Neville was right. Someone was out to get him and they didn't care who got in the way. More than that, they seemed to be actively cultivating hostility towards him among his dorm-mates - he would likely be blamed for everyone losing their belongings in the fire. He gave Neville a small smile and blushed further at the look of relief on the boy's face. He understood that Neville had really put himself out there to say that.

#

Initially, Harry had felt a little awkward. Firstly, there was no hiding his appearance from the Hufflepuffs who soon returned from dinner in the great hall. Thankfully, however, most of them just glanced his way and, occasionally, offered a small smile. The Hufflepuff perfects had approached, introduced themselves and made themselves available if he needed any help, but nobody else approached him and Neville.

What he found the most awkward, however, was that this room had clearly been used as a refuge many times in the past. The bookshelf made it the most obvious, as there were plenty of books relating to well-being and a whole host of issues arranged on the shelves. He understood that the books would be helpful, but felt that they were a constant reminder of why he was here.

Harry tried not to think about how awkward he felt. In fact, he tried to not think about anything at all. He was attempting to clear his mind, following the advice of one of the books. It had caught his eye, and when the introduction had mentioned the existence of mind magics, though just a passing reference of no more than a dozen words, he felt it was something he wanted to try.

Emptying your mind turned out to be much trickier than expected. Just like how wanting to sleep often made it harder to switch off, Harry's mind started whirring like crazy just when he wanted it to be quiet. This meditation thing was perfect for ideas to just come into his head unbidden, right when he was least able to act on them. Oh, how he envied Crabbe and Goyle for the ability to have such beautifully empty minds. They probably didn't even know their first names.

Harry had tried to be fair to the two heavyset boys, to persuade himself that they truly did have a glimmer of intelligence. He hadn't been very successful. He'd probably have earned a D, which apparently was a wizarding grade that stood for 'Dreadful'. Very encouraging. Nevertheless, the first class after the fires hadn't helped matters in this regard.

There had been three types of reaction from his Slytherin classmates when he'd next seen them. A number of students fell into what Harry classed as Category Two. They had enough going on between the ears to realise that only Harry's bed, disregarding Tracey's bed because it was unreachable, had not been set on fire. This meant that Harry was clearly the culprit, as nobody would set fire to their own things, especially when a long Transfiguration essay was nearly due.

Sadly, Crabbe and Goyle had fallen into Category One. The fact that Harry's belongings had remained untouched by the flames was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Someone had set a fire in their dormitory, so it must have been someone from outside the dormitory. In the most extreme cases of Category One, it was clearly the work of the Gryffindors.

Category Three was sparsely populated, however, and Harry took note of each of its members, no matter how hard they tried to hide their identities. Some were cunning enough to realise that Harry being the culprit would be too obvious. Either that, or it was clear that certain members of the house were less than subtle about their animosity towards him, and that hostility was the most likely source of this incident. Thinking about the three categories, Harry supposed that he might have to include a fourth category for people like Daphne who were clever enough not to let on which theory they supported.

Harry cursed. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about the categories. He was supposed to be clearing his mind.

#

Wherever he went, there always seemed to be a Hufflepuff nearby, usually from one of the older years. Sometimes it took him a few minutes to spot them, but they were always there. Harry slowly began to get used to the idea that somebody wanted to look out for him. The constant presence of a yellow-trimmed robe was awkward at first, but it was soon appreciated.

It was about a week after the fire, with everybody looking forward to the upcoming Halloween celebrations, when Harry was looking around the castle. He was peeking into various rooms, mentally cataloguing the most interesting specimens to come back to later, when a small group of older students made their way through the corridor in the opposite direction.

Considering that a group of older students, while small in number, could never be small in size, Harry thought it best to stand to the side of the corridor to allow them to pass. As they approached, he recognised some of them. Upon racking his brains, a couple of names came to him. Flint. Warrington. Avery. They themselves also came to him, careening in his direction as they passed.

Harry closed his eyes, his reflexes knowing what was going to happen before he did. However, the pain didn't come. He wasn't squashed against the wall, glasses knocked askew and robes scuffed by the rough stone. He heard their laughter, though, and opened his eyes. They never looked back at him and were almost staggering towards the end of the corridor Harry had come from. Looking down at himself, almost in disbelief, he saw the subtle shimmer of some sort of shield.

Seeing the hem of a robe trailing on the floor, poking out of an alcove, Harry approached. He moved as silently as possible. As he neared the alcove in question, a head peered out, looking in his direction. The eyebrows shot up and there was an obvious flinch as Harry was spotted.

"Hey, thanks for that," he said to the boy. Unsurprisingly, the crest on his robes showed an image of a badger. The boy himself was quite good-looking, with flawless skin not marred by the acne so often a hallmark of that age. He was a fourth year or similar, by the looks of him. More than grateful, Harry gave the boy a beaming smile.

Since then, Harry had concluded that it was probably impolite to frequent the more out of the way areas of the castle. He didn't want to inconvenience his protectors. The library therefore became his haven, even more so than before. Nobody could consider being there a waste of time and, with Madam Pince's strident presence, every Hufflepuff could relax and focus on their work.

#

Harry's extended time in the library had a number of results. For one, his homework essays were improving in leaps and bounds. He was becoming adept at filtering a musty, waffling text and extracting the most useful points. He was also starting to see the advantage of using more than one source for his information, comparing different books and identifying any discrepancies that could indicate something inaccurate or, more exciting, not fully understood.

With the improvement in homework came an improvement in classwork, as well as more praise and encouragement from the professors. Whenever there was practical spellwork to be done, Harry would be in the group that was allowed to start practicing earlier, rather than having to continue listening and taking notes. The feedback on his theoretical work had begun to include pointers on essay style and structure, allowing him to complete written work even more quickly.

He had quickly decided that focusing on Transfiguration would help him towards his most immediate goals. It was right at the end of October that the class were learning the spell to harden objects. Professor McGonagall considered this a treat for their work so far, giving them all a break from scowling at various objects and holding their breath as they tried to concentrate on how they could transform those objects. Seeing the head of Gryffindor conjure up cushions for them to harden spurred Harry on to hanging back at the end of class.

"How can I help you, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked as she gathered up the cushions that remained scattered across the desks. Some clinked together, the little sounds telling of the success of the students. Others clearly gave way to the professor's grip, showing that not everyone was quite as successful.

"I wanted to ask for your advice, Professor, if that's ok?" Harry wanted to be sure she had the time for him. He didn't want to be a bother.

"Go ahead, Mr Potter. That's what I'm here for."

"Well, I saw that you created those cushions out of thin air. I was wondering whether you'd be able to teach me how to make a wall or something." The normally stern witch fixed him with a searching look, which softened into a small smile.

"It's not often that I get asked something like this by a first year," Professor McGonagall said. "I'm pleased to see you taking an active interest in your studies. Your mother was just the same."

"Thank you, Professor. Magic is certainly very interesting." Harry didn't want to get distracted by the topic of his parents, no matter how much he enjoyed hearing about them. Although Augusta had managed to tell him a lot about his father's side of the family, the Potters being an old Pureblood family, he'd heard very little about his mother. Nevertheless, he had more pressing and more current matters to deal with, but it was comforting to know that Professor McGonagall would likely be willing to share some stories when they both had time.

"That's good to hear. Right, before looking for a solution to anything, you need to look carefully at the problem. Given that you're thinking about making a wall, I'm going to assume that you want a permanent, solid, durable barrier?"

Harry nodded and took out a sheet of parchment.

#

Harry and Professor McGonagall stayed talking about Transfiguration and the general theories of magic for a long time. Both had lost track of time and it had occurred to none of them that, since it was a Thursday, Harry was meant to be down at the Quidditch pitch that evening. Sooner than either had expected, however, an ornate clock had chimed. It was an odd time for it to chime, being nowhere near the hour.

"Goodness me," Professor McGonagall exclaimed, looking up at the hands shaped like cats' tails. "Is that the time? We should be getting down to the feast, Mr Potter."

Harry reluctantly packed his things away, long abandoned as the pair had become more and more wrapped up in their discussion. At some points, the professor had been grinning widely, usually just before she conceded a point to him. Harry had been similarly excited at times. Learning was so much better when it was an interactive experience. Books had nothing on a knowledgeable and open expert.

However, he had also been disappointed and many of the limitations he had been introduced to. For example, if he had tried to conjure a wall out of nothing, it wouldn't last long. In fact, the bigger the wall, the shorter the time for which it would last. He'd also struggle to make it just the way he wanted it if he were to conjure it in isolation. It was difficult to hold that kind of detail in one's mind.

He was cheered to hear that a solution to many of the issues inherent to the problem at hand would be in transfiguring something which already existed and fitted the brief. Changing something was a lot easier than creating something anew. Conjuration took a lot of mental stamina, concentration, deep understanding of the object, as well as plenty of magical power in order to create matter out of thin air, and it was still a poor solution. Changing the shape of an object, on the other hand, took comparatively little of each and, once you'd got the hang of the process, was infinitely more useful.

Harry continued pondering the nuances of the different types of Transfiguration throughout the feast. He was glad to be sitting between Daphne and Tracey as the two were understanding and didn't interrupt his thoughts by trying to drag him into a conversation. As much as their company was pleasant, though, he still wished he could sit back at the Hufflepuff table like he could for normal meals. However, the feast was particularly truculent on the subject of being normal, and the next aberration came in the form of the doors slamming open.

"Troll! On the fifth floor! Thought you ought to know…"