CHAPTER 28: FIRST CONTACT


The entire school broke into an outroar on hearing the results of his sorting. The Gryffindors were very vocal in what they thought about, especially a pair of twins who'd taken to shouting for a re-sorting, standing on the table. The Slytherins looked like they'd swallowed something bitter, while the Ravenclaws were busily debating among themselves. And loudest of all were the resounding cheers from the Hufflepuff table, the one in gold and black.

He took his seat near Hermione and Neville, an older Hufflepuff moving aside to make room for him. He was clapped in the back by a couple, given hearty congratulations, and left to his devices. Hermione seemed conflicted between being delighted that her friend was in the same house as her and angry that he'd given her a false name, which technically wasn't true. Neville was goggling at him.

"I thought your name was Sparhawk!" she hissed. "It is," he replied briefly. "Then what about Harry James Potter?" she demanded. "I don't like being called that," he said quietly. He wasn't really angry at her, but Dumbledore's little move, however necessary for the old man, had infuriated him and a little of it was bleeding out. Massaging his forehead, he let out a little sigh and glanced at Hermione. The poor girl looked upset. Probably afraid of losing her friend. He relented a little.

"Look, I'll tell you about it later, Hermione."

She nodded

"We're friends after all," Her face lit up.

His hand absently brushed his wand and Aphrael's voice tinkled in his head with silvery peals of laughter. "Oh father, always a way with women."

Sparhawk decided not to honour that with a reply and instead turned his attention to the teacher's table where Dumbledore was getting ready to make a speech.


A couple of minutes later, he was eating and convinced that the old man had a few screws loose. He suggested the possibility to Hermione, who looked horrified. "But he's the greatest wizard of his age, vanquisher of Grindelwald!"

Sparhawk grunted. "That age, I assume the competition's pretty low."

A nearby Hufflepuff choked on his pumpkin juice. Once his friend had stopped pounding him on his back, he turned to Sparhawk and grinned. A jawline to die for and the beginnings of a handsome face. He'd often wondered why Ehlana hadn't married some guy like that instead of him with his broken nose and battered body.

"Cedric Diggory," he introduced himself.

"Sparhawk,"

Diggory frowned. "Butt aren't you Harry..."

"I don't like being called that."

Diggory looked confused but nodded in understanding. Hermione piped up from behind him. "Is it because you're famous and people keep hounding you wherever you go?"

"Yeah," Cedric seemed to agree, "After all, you're a household name among wizards."

"There are so many books written about you!"

Sparhawk straightened at that. Books about him. Was this a chance at learning his own history?

"So, do you really live in a castle with dragons for pets?" asked a wide-eyed child from across him.

Well, that was a no.

Sparhawk contemplated his options. Well, he really didn't have any. Unless he started calling himself Harry Potter, everyone who met him would want to know why he called himself Sparhawk. Time to break out ol' reliable.

"Actually, I don't remember. You see, I had an accident a few weeks ago, and I lost my memory. Until a few days back, I didn't even know I was called Harry Potter."

Cedric looked shocked. "Oh, sorry Ha... Sparhawk. I didn't know."

"Neither did I," he quipped drily.

"Then how did you get this name?" asked Hermione. Ever inquisitive. Why had she not been placed in Ravenclaw?

"Fosters gave it to me."

"Oh. But wasn't your family upset by that? That you decided to keep calling yourself Sparhawk."

"From what Dumbledore and the others told me,"

"Professor Dumbledore!" corrected Hermione.

"Well," Sparhawk remedied, "From what Professor Dumbledore and the others told me, I.." how to phrase this to an eleven-year-old child?

"I didn't get along with them too well. I didn't want to go back. I liked my fosters very much, and my uncle and aunt didn't want me back either."

Hermione only started looking more confused, but Sparhawk quieted her with a wave of his hand. "After dinner?" he asked.

She coloured and meekly went back to eating her food. An older girl sitting near her laughed and patted her head, "My, my! Looks like we might beat Ravenclaw after all."

Hermione went even redder if that was possible and focused on her food to the exclusion of everything else.

Well, at least the sorting hat got one thing right.


Once more, Sparhawk couldn't decide if Dumbledore was a fool or just senile. They'd just been warned in the most mysterious ways that the third-floor corridor was off-limits unless they wished to die a painful death. He grimaced as he caught sight of the twins at the Gryffindor table. They had maniacal grins on their faces.

As Pandion novices, the only reason Sparhawk and Kalten went to the whole trouble of forging Vanion's signature on the leave slip was because visits to the city of Cimmura had been actively discouraged, Hell, if they'd been allowed free rein, they have probably hated going there. But the activities of novices were strictly curtailed, and the challenge had just seemed too juicy for the two boys. And Dumbledore had just gone ahead and made it open season on the third-floor corridor. He really hoped there wasn't anything that would really kill them.

The feast got over and they were on their way to the common rooms. The Hufflepuff prefect, a tall fellow named Arthur Green, had ushered them out, saying they'd have time for pleasantries later. They followed him down a couple of flights of stairs to a corridor lit by a warm glow from torches set in the walls. At the far end, there was a shadowy passage that contained a stack of barrels.

"Now make sure you get the rhythm right," said Arthur and without further ado, he began tapping out a series of knocks on a barrel couple of rows from the bottom. All of a sudden, the barrels moved aside to reveal a doorway to a hidden room. "If you get the barrel or the rhythm wrong, you'll get drenched in something nasty. Differs every time." the female prefect, Violet Vainbrush, supplied helpfully. Oh, wonderful.

They trooped after the prefects to enter a cozy room swathed in the Hufflepuff colours which by all rights should have made it glaringly bright, but they'd somehow toned down the colours enough that it simply looked quite homey. "Now," said Arthur, "the door to the right leads to the boys' dormitories," indicating to a door set down a few stairs, " and the one to the left to the girls. There are spells on the stairs that lead to the girl's dorms to keep out boys, so don't get any ideas."

Sparhawk thought they were entirely too young for that warning but thought it prudent nonetheless. "And this is the common room. It's quite big, so we can all comfortably get our work done here. There are a couple of fireplaces, sometimes it can get real damp and chilly down here. Over there are a couple of shelves with books donated by our alumni, so we don't have to go over to the library for every little thing. You've got to write your name in the little register near it before you can actually take out any books. If you've got any doubts, problems, you can always come to me or Violet, 'kay?"

The little things nodded and Sparhawk decided to go with the flow here.

"Well, it's quite late now, so I suggest you all go to your beds. You should find your trunks by them. The house-elves bring them up. Classes start at 9 in the morning. If you can't find the way to your classes, you can ask the portraits, they're usually helpful.

He bid goodnight to Hermione and followed the other first-years through the door to the dorms. The dorms turned out to be a long corridor with little side rooms. Each room seemed to house about four big poster beds. The first few rooms were for the oldest years, with the first and second years in the middle and the third, fourth, and fifth years at the very end. Hmm.

At the doors of the rooms for the first years were stuck helpful little plaques with the names of their would-be inhabitants. Sparhawk was surprised. How did that happen so fast? Huh. Magic, he supposed.

He found the one with his name on it and read out the names of his roommates. Neville Longbottom. Cullinan GreyBlack. Warrick Beige. Beside him, Neville looked rather relieved that they would be in the same dorm. He opened the door and slipped inside to find a dark-skinned boy with glasses kneeling by his trunk. He looked up at him with pale grey eyes and they widened. "You're Harry Potter!"

"Sparhawk."

"Huh?"

"Name change. Sparhawk. Never been called Harry."

"Oh." the boy seemed intrigued. "Do you think it was to hide you, you know, from the death eaters and all?"

Sparhawk shrugged. Before he could ask for the boy's name, the door opened and, presumably, the last occupant of their little domicile entered. He was a tall gangly boy, with black hair swept back and a sallow complexion. Taking in the bespectacled death cheater before him, he raised a finger. Sparhawk beat him to it.

"Name change. Sparhawk. Never been called Harry."

The other boy dropped his hand. After a moment's contemplation, he extended his hand for Sparhawk to shake. "Cullinan GreyBlack" he introduced himself.

Neville seemed to pale a little. "Black?" he squeaked. Not very politically correct of him.

"GreyBlack," the boy corrected, "A bit of a lighter shade than the Blacks."

Sparhawk found in him a kindred soul. Well, since they were all here anyway, time to get a few things out of the way. He brought them up to speed on his little 'accident' and loss of memory and encouraged them to spread it as far and wide as possible.

"Yeah, must be really annoying when people keep calling you a different name." observed the kid with glasses who'd introduced himself as Warrick Beige. Not quite Brown, you see.

Cullinan nodded and patted him on his shoulder. Friendly bunch.

Sparhawk shrugged. "It's not annoying, more tiring. I have to keep repeating the story to everyone I meet."

The three boys got looks of determination on their faces. "We'll tell everyone we meet," promised Neville.

Warrick looked thoughtful. "How about," he asked in his tiny child voice, " we put a notice in the common room explaining things? Won't it make things a lot easier?"

The other two thought it was a smashing idea. Sparhawk winced, but these seemed to be really nice lads, bursting to help their own out, and he didn't have the heart to say no. He nodded and they set about finding supplies and writing out a notice.


The next day, the three boys were in for a pleasant surprise as they already found a notice in the common room stating that Harry Potter's name was Sparhawk and people were encouraged to avoid calling him Harry. There was even a little appendix stating that Cullinan GreyBlack was not a Black. They were a shade lighter. Sparhawk was pleasantly surprised and was beginning to get a good feeling about his choice of house. Sure the Gryffindors were supposed to braver than the rest, the Ravenclaws smarter and the Slytherins more cunning, but all that paled in comparison to good old loyalty and hard work.

Cedric Diggory caught them staring at the notice and smiled, a hint of embarrassment evident. "Well, ", he said, "we noticed how you really seemed to hate being called Sparhawk, so I brought it to the notice of Arthur and he thought it would be a smashing good idea to put out a notice, you know?"

Sparhawk groaned. Well, his friends had the same idea, but they were eleven, for God's sake!

"As for the school, we thought flyers would be nice."

A nasty feeling welled up in Sparhawk's gut. "What's a flyer?" he asked.


Sparhawk and his companions made it to the Transfiguration classroom in record time. The Friar, Sparhawk refused to call him the fat friar, he'd been downright jolly, had been especially helpful. He'd popped out of the woodwork in all the right moments, extremely convenient, which led Sparhawk to believe the ghost was following them. Why? He couldn't fathom. What could the ghost of one long dead want with four eleven year old's?

They waited in the front row, all alone except for a ginger cat, waiting for the rest of the class to troop in. Must be the teacher's, Sparhawk thought, engaging the feline in a staring match. It seemed to have some strange markings around its eyes.

As he absently fingered his wand, Aphrael spoke in his mind. "Why don't you try petting it, father?"

"No!" he replied sternly.

"Oh, please, father! I'm stuck in this ethereal form and I miss touching things! Can't you pet it just once? Please?"

Sparhawk sighed. He knew where this would end. After a bit more wheedling, in which time a few more students trooped in, he got up and slowly made his way to the cat. It regarded him with vivid green eyes, head cocked. He lifted his hand and slowly extended it, half expecting it to run away. What he didn't expect, was for it to suddenly spring off the table and transform mid-air into the Transfiguration teacher, McGonagall.

Sparhawk, to his credit, barely flinched, instead bowing and saying, "Good day to you." and backed away to his seat.

Neville was holding in fits of laughter, his chubby rolls jiggling, while Warrick and Cullinan expressly avoided looking at him. Sparhawk had a feeling they would erupt like a volcano if they did. Hermione was shooting him a scandalized look from where she was sitting with some of the girls.

"Father?" came Aphrael's voice. "Why didn't you pet her?"

Sparhawk let go of his wand.


Mc Gonagall was smiling on the inside. Someone always tried to pet her on the first day of school, and she quite enjoyed startling them. Well, it was that or letting them fondle the teacher and that wasn't going anywhere good. The only damper had been that young Ha... Sparhawk had barely flinched. Most people would evince surprise, embarrassment, fear or something of the like, but the young boy had been as stone-faced as a poker player.

Oh well, one couldn't have everything. She began her yearly introduction to transfiguration. By waving her wand and transforming a desk into a pig and back. Nothing like a little bit of advanced transfiguration to capture the attention of eleven-year-olds.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing in my class will leave and not come back. Now, the transfiguration which you witnessed will take you a long time to do, but rest assured, with hard work and dedication, by the time you are seventh years, you will be more than accomplished in the art. Now listen carefully and take notes."

They were given a brief introduction to the basics, which seemed to mostly revolve around don't try to transfigure things that are far too apart in mass and don't eat anything that you've transfigured. Very instructive. And then they were handed a match and told to change it into a needle.

Sparhawk was somewhat excited. This would be the first chance he had actually gotten to try magic with his new wand. If you discounted talking with his daughter. That was a magic all its own.

Similar to the styric arts, the spells were in another language, but that was where the similarity ended. In the former, what you were doing was actually placing a carefully worded request to a younger Styric God/Goddess of your choice and they would provide the power, whereas here the power seemed to come from within and also... strangely from without. He didn't know quite how to describe it yet.

He'd just pointed the wand at the matchstick when he noticed the students closest to him staring. He turned to Neville, one eyebrow raised. Since the boy seemed in no mood to give any answers and just stared, he gave up and raised his wand...oh, the wand.

"That's one cool wand," whispered Neville.

Well, it stood to reason that it would stand out. All the others were of wood whereas Sparhawk's stick... was not.

Mc Gonagall had come to stand in front of them and cleared her throat. "I agree, that it is a 'cool wand'. But if you would get back to your matchstick, that would be fine."

Neville blushed scarlet and got back to making constipated faces at his matchstick. Neville's own wand, Sparhawk noted idly, was looking rather battered. Must see much use.

Mc Gonagall did not move, but stood there and just... watched him. Sparhawk ignored her and raised his wand. Aphrael's voice filled his head. "What might you be doing, father?"

"Attempting to change a matchstick into a needle."

Somehow he could feel that she was grinning even though she was incorporeal.

"You could just ask me, you know?"

"No," he replied firmly, "You're weak enough as it is, and I won't risk harming you further."

"You wouldn't, father. I could draw on your power. And you've plenty."

Sparhawk ignored her and muttered the incantation, concentrating on what he wanted the matchstick to become. He felt a surge of power go through his wand and before his eyes, the matchstick jumped up with a bang and came to rest as a perfect, silvery needle.

Mc Gonagall's face grew pleased. "Well, well. A bit rough and you certainly need control, but overall, five points to Hufflepuff for a successful transfiguration."

Hermione stared at him incredulously and then went back to her match with a determined look on her face. Sure enough, near the end of her class, she was the only other one with a transfigured needle. She smirked triumphantly at him.

Well, a bit of competition was always nice.

He was still gripping his wand lazily when an amused chuckle sounded in his head. "Competing with children, are we now, father?"

He chose to ignore that.


By the end of day one, Sparhawk felt that all the teachers were quite fine, well, except for Snape, whose class he did not have the opportunity to yet attend. Oh, and Quirrell. On the outside, the man looked like a blubbering, stuttering, incompetent fool. Making head or tail of what he said itself was getting to be a chore. On the inside, there was something far more sinister.


The first thing Sparhawk noticed on entering the defense against the dark arts classroom was all the garlic. It was hanging from the walls, the windows, the ceiling. Hell, it was even stuffed underneath their desks. That strong, eye-watering smell pervaded the entire room, and it was a bloody miracle that people actually learned anything here. His friends were wrinkling their noses and wiping their teary eyes, well all except Cullinan, who seemed to be inhaling deep lungfuls of the thing. Hermione watched him in mild disgust. "I kinda like it, " the boy protested.

Shaking his head, Sparhawk sat down, hand automatically straying to his wand. And it was at that moment that Professor Quirrel chose to enter. From afar, Quirrel had appeared rather benign to Sparhawk, what with his comical turban and his annoying stutter. But this close, something about the man struck Sparhawk as odd. No. More than odd... something... filthy.

He grasped his wand, and Aphrael's presence flooded his mind at once. "Sparhawk, " she said, "Be a dear and kill that man, will you?" And he realized. It was the stench of corruption, a stench he remembered all too well from his recent encounter with it millennia ago. "Azash," he breathed, his hand straying to the dagger he kept secret about him at all times. He turned to look at his friends, but they seemed oblivious. Maybe it was because Sparhawk had been a church knight, committed to meeting the foul foes of his God on every front, that he alone could discern this scent. Or it could simply be that the garlic was too overpowering for the little ones.

"Not quite Azash, father," Aphrael whispered in his head, "he's most definitely dead. You took care of that. This... this is most likely a remnant of sorts, a piece of rotten flesh, if you will, rotten flesh of a dead God. But how did it end up here, with this sorry excuse for a man?"

Sparhawk did not know the answer to that, but if Quirrel had been corrupted by exposure to that foul being... well, he'd have to save him. And by that, Sparhawk most definitely meant kill him and scatter the ashes to the four winds.

But he could not just murder a teacher in broad daylight so soon after joining school. It would be frowned upon. And probably dangerous. Who knew what powers Azash's flesh had vested here? No, he would bide his time. And watch. And learn. And when the time was right... The oblivious man with the funny turban might not know it as he listed the dangers of accepting potions from strangers on the chalkboard, but his days were numbered.


A/N : Enter, the antagonist! Well, as I always say, read and review. It was my birthday last week, so it'd be like you were leaving me a late birthday gift or something.