As promised, this chapter is dedicated to Prism. You know who you are, and you know why.

Chapter 9: Autumn 1991

John received his first Hogwarts letter, prompting much celebration in the Potter household. As a reward, Mr Potter allowed John to pick out a pet to take with him, just as Harry had. Whilst Harry had made a sensible choice in purchasing Hedwig, John walked out of Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley with a three-legged Ragdoll he proudly called Wobbles. It was fortunate that Wobbles was a pretty cat because it certainly wasn't smart. Within the first day of owning it, Wobbles walked into nine walls, fell off three tables, and tried to play with Medusa. His snake was understandably furious about the situation and spent the rest of the summer coiled around Harry's neck. The first of September, Medusa decided, couldn't come fast enough.

But come it did. All too soon, trunks were packed, animals were ushered into cages, and a teary-eyed Acorn was shoving tins of homemade biscuits into their hands. They arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters an hour before the Hogwarts Express was to depart, beating all but the most exuberant students. And, fortunately, the press. Mr Potter ushered John onto the train and helped him get settled into a compartment before turning to Harry.

"I'm not sitting with him!" Harry yelped, recognising the expectant look his father was giving him. It always preceded the request that Harry babysit his brother for whatever task his father deemed too dangerous for John. And, unfortunately for Harry, his father considered many things to be too dangerous for John. But his brother was eleven years old and didn't need Harry to hold his hand for him anymore. Harry certainly didn't have anybody to hold his hand when he started Hogwarts.

"I'm not going to argue with you," Mr Potter said with a heavy sigh. "Just for this one trip. I don't want him sitting alone."

Harry glared at his brother, who shifted from foot to foot and stared at the ground. "He won't be," Harry snapped. "Ron will be with him. Besides, I've got my friends, and I don't want to sit with—"

"Enough," his father said in an even tone that bellied his annoyance. "I won't ask you again. Sit with your brother, or we'll have to rethink about you visiting Hogsmeade this term."

Fuming, Harry snapped his jaw shut and stomped off the train without another word. He found Uncle Sirius lingering on the platform, who was busy shooting Confundus charms at anyone who looked like a reporter. This happened to include Adrian Pucey, who had been taking a picture of Cordelia Gamp when the charm hit him. He stumbled away with a dazed expression after congratulating Harry for winning the Quidditch World Cup. Uncle Sirius at least had the decency to look embarrassed about that.

He turned to Harry with a sheepish smile. "Can't be too careful," he said.

Harry grunted in response and glared across the platform.

"Let me guess," Uncle Sirius said, tossing an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Your dad wants you to sit with John, and you don't because that's not cool."

"He told you then, did he?"

Uncle Sirius laughed. "Nah, but it wasn't too hard to guess. My mum made me do the same thing when Reg started."

Harry froze at this revelation. Uncle Sirius was notoriously tight-lipped about his upbringing. From what Harry could gather, he hadn't had a happy childhood. Any mentions of his family were made with scowls or wistful expressions. This particular comment accompanied a sad look up at the Hogwarts Express, and Harry shuffled closer to hug his uncle.

"Go easy on your dad, okay?" Uncle Sirius said, pulling away to look down at his face. "This is a hard day for him."

Harry pursed his lips. "Why? We're only going to school."

Uncle Sirius's face grew pensive. "We miss you when you're gone—James especially. You know how he is—he likes having you boys close." He sighed heavily before kissing Harry's forehead. "It's difficult to explain if you aren't a parent."

Harry had never considered that sending him to Hogwarts would be difficult for his father. In hindsight, perhaps he should have—before starting school, he had seldom been permitted to leave the grounds of Potter Manor. Harry was educated by private tutors that his father trusted (namely, Uncle Remus). Trips to Diagon Alley were few and far between, and visits anywhere else were out of the question. Harry had always attributed this behaviour to his father's overprotectiveness, though he never understood where the desire came from. The war was over, after all. Voldemort was gone.

But maybe it wasn't as simple as that. Perhaps it was like Harry losing his voice when he was scared or stressed or was reminded of his mother's death. Harry was certain that his father knew that the war was over, and the danger was minimal. But understanding something in your head wasn't the same as believing it in your heart. The world was safer than it was ten years ago, but maybe it didn't feel like it for his father. Perhaps he never got over the fear that Voldemort would walk through his front door again. And if that was true, Harry couldn't blame him for being overprotective—even if it was annoying. Not when Harry himself felt the same fear.

Harry looked up at his uncle and gave him a solemn nod.

Uncle Sirius smiled and carded his fingers through Harry's hair. "You're a good boy, Harry," he said. "Not like your friend Grace. She's scary."

"I resent that," came Grace's familiar posh drawl.

Harry turned to face his friend, who was looking up her nose at him with a distinctly unimpressed look. If it wasn't for her borderline Muggle clothing, he might have mistaken her for one of the pureblood Slytherins she pretended to be. Although, unlike most Slytherin girls, Grace was well-tanned and heavily freckled after her holiday abroad. And, unlike the other girls, the only thing about Grace that had grown over the summer was her hair, which fell in sun-bleached ringlets down her back.

"No, you don't," Harry laughed before catching sight of Cedric. He waved his friend over before continuing, "You like it that people think you're scary."

Grace tilted her head as she considered his words. "It does have its benefits, I suppose," she agreed.

"People won't bother you if they think you're going to bite them," Cedric added, finally making it through the growing crowd. He dropped his trunk and wrapped his arms around Grace, lifting her off the ground. Grace endured the treatment with an air of great suffering, earning chuckles from Uncle Sirius and Dr Cooper.

"Speaking of which," Harry said. "You'll never guess who was made a Gryffindor prefect this year."

Grace looked puzzled for a brief moment before realisation struck, and all of the blood drained out of her face. "No."

Harry grinned and nodded. As if on cue, a gaggle of redheads burst through the barrier. Percy Weasley strutted onto the platform, a gleaming silver badge pinned to his puffed-out chest. To make matters worse (at least for Grace), the Weasleys were heading straight towards them.

"Oh God," she muttered, ducking behind Cedric. "Mummy, I'll see you at Christmas. Don't forget to write." She said, glancing around the station. Her gaze landed on Flint, who was lumbering in their general direction, a bored sort of scowl on his face. "Oh, Marcus! You can help me with my trunk," Grace declared, gesturing needlessly to the pastel pink trunk by her feet.

Marcus lifted an eyebrow as he approached, his face otherwise impassive. "Can I?"

"I'd be delighted," Grace chirped.

Marcus rolled his eyes but swung her trunk up onto his shoulder nonetheless. "Is this the only reason you keep me around?"

"Of course not," Grace said. "Sometimes I need you to reach books on high shelves too."

Marcus huffed in response and waded through the crowd. Grace planted a swift kiss on her mother's cheek and took off after him. They were swallowed by the mass of students and parents by the time the Weasley's made it to them.

Ginny launched herself into Harry's arms and began to complain about not being permitted to join him at Hogwarts. Between her, Mrs Weasley shouting at the twins to behave, and Percy boasting about his prefect badge to anyone who would listen, Harry almost missed his brother slipping into the fray. The latter bade a quick farewell to Uncle Sirius before absconding with Ron. Harry knew his father wasn't far behind with John's appearance, and sure enough, a hand landed on his shoulder.

His father extracted Harry from Ginny's embrace and pulled him into a hug of his own. Harry went willingly, his anger long since having melted away. No words were exchanged, but none were needed, really. The moment lasted perhaps a minute before the whistle was blowing, and he found himself being ushered towards the Express, off for his third year at Hogwarts.

Genius Fratris

It was a surprise to no one that both John and Ron went to Gryffindor. After all, what would you expect from a Potter and a Weasley? Besides, John would never be accepted in Slytherin, even with Harry there to help him. Still, Harry watched with a wistful sort of sadness as his little brother was absorbed into the rambunctious scarlet-clad table.

The Welcome Feast commenced without issue. Grace squeezed herself in between Harry and Flint rather than sit with her fellow Second Years. Harry didn't pay much attention to the new Slytherins, busy as he listened to Bletchley recounting his time in Belgium, though perhaps he should have. At least then, he wouldn't have been so surprised by a voice clearing itself behind him (and when he failed to notice that, a finger tapping on his shoulder). Harry craned around in his seat and looked down at the tiny, pointed face of some newly minted Slytherin. The boy thrust out his hand for Harry to shake. Harry, whose own hands were busy with a fork and knife, settled for a confused nod.

"Can I help you?" he asked when it became clear that the boy wasn't going to leave. He shot a look at Flint, who was watching the event with thinly-veiled interest.

"You're Harry Potter," the boy said, hand still extended. He raised a pale blond eyebrow as if he were judging Harry for being incredibly rude. For what, Harry wasn't sure. He wasn't the one who had just interrupted someone's dinner, after all.

"I'm aware," he said slowly. "Is there something you need?"

"You're the first Potter sorted into Slytherin in thirteen generations," the boy began. "As such, I believe—"

"Malfoy, get to the point," Pucey drawled before taking a lazy sip of his pumpkin juice. "You're interrupting our meal."

Malfoy's pale face turned pink. "I was just introducing myself—"

Grace let out a tittering, icy laugh. "Quite poorly, considering you've yet to provide us with your name."

Malfoy scowled but finally dropped his hand. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he ground out, shooting Grace a nasty glare.

Harry gave him a smile he hoped was more kind than awkward and nodded. When it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to say anything more, Harry returned to his meal and continued eating. This was not the reaction Malfoy was hoping for, and he spluttered for a moment before stomping away. Across from him, Pucey coughed into his pumpkin juice.

Feeling like he had committed a major faux pas, Harry glanced over at Marcus in confusion. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You snubbed him," Grace explained, a predatory grin on her lips.

Marcus ignored her and shook his head. "Malfoy needs to learn manners."

Even more confused than before, Harry looked away and tried to find another topic of conversation. He nodded up at the High Table, to where a man in a purple turban sat next to a grumpy Professor Snape. "Is that Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked. He vaguely remembered the former Muggle Studies professor. He had been too young to take his class back then, so he didn't have many memories of the man.

Marcus glanced up and gave a slow nod. "The turban's new."

"Reckon he's back to teach Muggle Studies?" Pucey asked.

"Can't be," Grace said. "Burbage is still here."

"With the way Snape is glaring at him," Churchill said, nodding in their Head of House's direction, "he's our new Defence professor."

It was no secret that Snape coveted the Defence Against the Dark Arts position. Harry wasn't sure why—the job was rumoured to be cursed, after all. Also, brilliant as he was at potions, Snape was terrible at teaching. It was difficult to understand why Snape would trade one teaching job for another. Still, every year, Snape would put his name in for the position after the previous professor invariably left. And, every year, Dumbledore would find another person to hire. This year, that person was the trembling Quirinus Quirrell.

The feast passed without further interruptions, and Harry found himself growing sleepy. It was a relief when Dumbledore rose at last to deliver the start-of-term notices. Harry listened with half an ear, assuming that it would be the same as the previous years. And it was—until he mentioned dying a painful death in a corridor on the third floor. Harry glanced around, wondering if he had heard that correctly. Judging by Marcus' grim expression, he had. However, there wasn't much time to dwell on it because Dumbledore was coaxing them into a rousing rendition of the school song.

Harry sent a wave in John's direction after Dumbledore dismissed them, but he doubted he saw it—Percy Weasley was busy ushering the new Gryffindors out of the Great Hall with the eagerness of an Australian Shepard dog. Resolving to find him in the morning, Harry joined the hoard of students trudging towards the dungeons.

Professor Snape was already in the common room when they arrived. He beckoned Harry over with a single skeletal finger and looked down at him with an analytical expression. "You will once again be in your own room," he said in a softy, silky voice. "I needn't remind you that this is a privilege afforded to very few. If it comes to my attention that you have been abusing these accommodations, I will be most displeased. Do you understand?"

Harry gave him a shaky nod. When it became clear Snape would say nothing more, Harry fled up the staircase leading to the private rooms. His trunk was waiting for him in his chambers. A flick of his wand sent his belongings zooming to their homes. A cursory glance showed that the fireplace was already lit, and Harry placed a sleepy Medusa on the hearth. He paused to stroke her soft scales for a moment before slipping out of his room. He wandered down the corridor, reading the bronze plaques affixed to the front of the doors, stopping only when he found the one embossed with 'Marcus Flint, Quidditch Captain'. Muffled movements were audible from inside, and Harry raised a tentative fist to knock on the door.

There was a pause before Marcus grunted for him to enter. Harry slipped inside, finding Marcus at the wardrobe, hanging up his clothes. Extracting his wand from his pocket, Harry gave it a wave and watched as Marcus' school robes hung themselves.

"What was that spell?" Marcus asked, squinting at his empty hands and then at the robes hanging neatly in the wardrobe.

Harry shrugged. "It wasn't one," he stated. "What happened at dinner?"

Marcus gestured for Harry to sit in one of the chairs by the fire. "A power play," he explained. "And a poorly done one at that."

Harry frowned at the melodramatic description. "He's eleven."

"He's a Malfoy," Marcus explained. "Do you know who his father is?" When Harry shook his head, Marcus continued. "I'm sure the kid will tell you soon enough. But essentially, Lucius Malfoy is one of the most powerful men in Britain."

Marcus paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. "He's also a former Death Eater."

Harry tilted his head, trying to decide how the two pieces of information connected. The gravity with which Marcus spoke reminded him of another conversation they had had not too long ago. "Does this have to do with what we talked about over the summer?"

Marcus was glaring, though Harry got the impression that it wasn't directed towards him. "Mr Malfoy will no doubt have instructed his son to introduce himself. Malfoy was the first, but he won't be the last."

"The first to what, exactly?" Harry hedged, almost afraid to ask. "Befriend me?"

"Collect you," Marcus corrected. "Their children won't see it that way, of course—they're their parents' pawns. But if the children can befriend you, then the parents can influence you."

A cold, tingly sensation pricked at Harry's fingertips. "What do I do?"

Hours into the term and Harry already felt isolated and overwhelmed. He wasn't raised to see the insidious plots brewing or to partake in social politicking. He wanted nothing to do with the cloak and dagger nonsense that seemed to prevail in the Slytherin common room. He felt like a small child wandering through a dark hellscape without a map to guide him.

Marcus watched Harry for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. "When you are in your room, try to keep the door open as much as possible."

Whatever Harry had been expecting him to say, it wasn't that. His brow furrowed, and he tried to puzzle out Marcus' reasoning. Hadn't he just instructed Harry to be careful? "Why?"

Marcus gave him a look that was equal parts amused and exasperated. "So that people can visit you."

Genius Fratris

"Remind me, why are you taking Ancient Ruins?" Cedric asked as he compared their schedules the following day over breakfast. "You already know most of them."

"Exactly," Harry replied. "It's an easy O."

"Well, at least we'll have another class together," Cedric said, reaching forward to steal a slice of toast off Harry's plate. "Pity we don't have Care of Magical Creatures at the same time, though. Are you sure I can't convince you to drop your private study hour for Arithmancy?"

Harry stabbed his fork at his friend's hand. "Madam Pomfrey requested that it be added to my schedule. She said that I could help her this year."

Cedric gave him an overdramatic eye roll. "I suppose that is rather important," he conceded. "But try not to be selected for any more special lessons in the future. You make the rest of us look bad."

"Your opinion has been noted," Harry teased. "But enough about me. What's this I hear about you trying out for the Quidditch team?"

A light blush appeared across the bridge of Cedric's nose. "Speaking of making the rest of us look bad," he began, looking around. "Where is Gracie?"

"Sleeping, most likely," Harry said. "Don't change the subject."

Cedric rose quickly from his seat, his long legs banging on the table as he did so. "I should go look for her," he declared. "I'd hate for her to be late for her first class."

"She's got a free period," Harry called after him, trying not to laugh at his friend.

Undeterred, Cedric continued towards the door. "That's no excuse to have a lie in!" he called over his shoulder.

Harry shook his head and rose to his feet as well, though for a different reason: John had finally wandered into the Great Hall. His brother looked a little harried and nervous, but his skin was flushed as he chatted to Ron. Harry made his way towards them, dodging an agitated Fred Weasley as he did so.

"I can't wait for Transfiguration," Harry overheard John saying. "That's what my dad does."

"Matchsticks into needles," Harry said, slipping into the empty seat next to John. He reached for a nearby pot of tea and poured his brother and himself a cup. "That will be your first lesson with McGonagall."

John accepted the teacup with pursed lips. "That's it?"

Harry couldn't help but smile at John's disappointed tone. Withdrawing his wand, he tapped the table and watched with satisfaction as the wood became gleaming steel. Ron swore colourfully at the display, as did several other unsuspecting Gryffindors sitting close by. "It has its benefits," Harry explained. He waved his wand, and the table returned to its original state. "We all have to start somewhere, I suppose."

"You did that without a spell," a high-pitched, bossy voice interjected.

Harry glanced over at the speaker, a girl with long, bushy brown hair and prominent front teeth. She was watching him with a shrewd expression that didn't quite mask the sense of wonder in her eyes. A Muggle-born, then. Harry nodded to her before turning back to his brother. "Don't forget to write to Dad. He'll want to hear about your sorting."

John shook his head as if to clear away his surprise. "Can I use Hedwig?"

Harry shrugged. "Let me know when you do," he said. "Find me if you need anything." Fraternal duties complete for the morning, Harry rose to his feet and departed from the Great Hall.

Harry trudged up to the first class of his Third Year: Defence Against the Dark Arts. Whilst he didn't personally have anything against the subject, he didn't hold much hope that this year would be interesting after two years of lacklustre professors. It had been somewhat of a relief when the scatter-brained Professor Brandon went on maternity leave the previous term. Although, compared to first year's elderly Professor Bennet, who spent more time snoozing at his desk than teaching, he learned loads. But perhaps this year would be different, Harry thought, as he settled himself into an empty desk and waited for the lesson to begin.

His peers filtered in slowly, paying no mind to Harry, who had ensconced himself in the back row. Nobody bothered to sit in the chair beside him, which had ceased to bother him years ago. The class was still chattering, catching up with their friends after several months apart when Professor Quirrell entered the room. He trembled down the aisle, accompanied by the rank stench of garlic. Harry glanced up from his textbook as his professor passed, taking in his ill-fitting teaching robes and ludicrous purple turban. The man had lost some weight recently, he noted.

A sharp pain jolted through Harry's head, eliciting a hiss of surprise. He slapped a hand against his forehead though the pain was already receding. Confused, he massaged the skin above his right eye. If he didn't know any better, he might have thought the pain came from the scar above his eyebrow—the one from The Attack. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

"Harry P-p-p-potter?" Professor Quirrell called out.

Harry glanced up, a reply on the tip of his tongue. And froze. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room, and every hair on his body stood on end. Panic blossomed in his chest, and Harry found himself swallowing down a wave of nausea. Every instinct in his brain was warning him that something was very, very, wrong.

"Harry Potter?" Professor Quirrell called out again, looking around the classroom with a frown. "Is he pres-pres-present?"

If it had been any other student, his peers would have been confused. But after two years of schooling, they were all familiar with Harry's taciturn episodes. As if rehearsed, every student spun around and pointed at him, each wearing varying degrees of amusement.

"Y-y-yes," Professor Quirrell said with what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. "P-p-p-professor Snape t-told me ab-bout your… condition."

Harry remained silent and focused on willing away the blackspot that danced in front of his eyes. His lips had grown numb, and he wondered if he was even breathing. He tried to inhale, but his lungs gave an odd sort of spasm and buzzed as if they were filled with bees.

"P-p-perhaps in the future," he continued, undeterred, "Y-y-you may raise your h-hand?"

It was a reasonable request and one that was extremely accommodating. Harry knew somewhere in the back of his mind that their new Defence professor was being incredibly kind. So why couldn't he even nod in agreement?

Professor Quirrell watched Harry with a calculating expression for several excruciating moments. His eyes narrowed, and he titled his head as if he were listening to someone whispering in his ear. "I see. Very well," he said, at last, turning back to his attendance list.

Harry had no recollection of the lecture that followed, only the vague sense of dread and panic that churned in his stomach. The moment class was dismissed, Harry sprinted out of the room. He barely made it to the lavatory before he emptied the contents of his stomach into the nearest toilet.

To his surprise, Pucey was waiting outside the stall. His teammate extended a vial of a glowing purple potion. Harry accepted it and pulled off the stopper, catching the faint scent of apples. A stomach soother, he noted idly.

"It will neutralise the bile," Pucey explained needlessly. Even if Harry didn't spend several hours a week in the Hospital Wing helping Madam Pomfrey with patients, they had studied the potion last term.

Harry nodded and gave Pucey a weak smile before downing the potion. Within seconds, the burning in his throat had ceased. He rolled the crystal vial between his fingers while he waited for the potion to hit his stomach, noting the initials 'AP' etched into the side. Raising an eyebrow, he returned the vial to Pucey, who tucked it into a leather case filled with identical potion-filled vials.

"I have a weak stomach," Pucey explained, catching his line of sight. "It's easier to brew a cauldron once a week than to visit Madam Pomfrey. Speaking of," he continued, taking in Harry's grey face. "Maybe you should pay her a visit."

Harry shook his head. He had Charms with Cedric next, and his friend would worry if he didn't show.

Pucey gave a little hum of disapproval but accepted his decision. The rest of the morning continued without further issues. Cedric didn't comment on Harry's drawn, pasty complexion, nor did he try to press him for details about what had happened in Defence. Instead, he chattered away about his Arithmancy class whilst they reviewed the previous year's charms.

Grace was already sitting at the Slytherin table when they entered the Great Hall an hour later, cutting up her turkey sandwich with a fork and knife. "You look terrible," was her only comment on the matter. She recounted her morning, describing the horrors Professor Sprout subjected her to during her lesson in great detail. ("Dragon dung, Ced! She made me touch dragon dung!")

Harry exchanged an amused glance with Cedric before letting his eyes wander around the Great Hall. He caught sight of Ron's brilliant red hair, and next to him, John was telling an enthusiastic tale to a group of boys. Cho Chang was practising levitating a pear and slicing it with a cutting spell. At the Slytherin table, Churchill had his nose buried deep in a Transfiguration text while he tried to feed himself tomato soup. A little further down the table, Cordelia Gamp was attempting to convince Pucey to let her braid his hair. The blond ferrety First Year that had tried to introduce himself the previous night was holding court amongst a group of enraptured First Years.

Well, at least some of them were enraptured. There was a dark-haired girl with an upturned nose that looked like every word out of the blond's mouth was coming from Merlin himself, but she was more or less the only one. On either side of the blond, two thick-necked boys were shovelling food into their mouth as if it were their last meal. Across the table, a dark-skinned boy watched the blond wax poetic with an expression that fluctuated between vague politeness and barely concealed disdain. On the outskirts of the First Years' group was a reedy-looking boy with ashy brown hair that didn't entirely cover his protruding ears. This boy, however, made no attempt to hide the fact that he was ignoring the blond, instead choosing to read the open book in his lap.

Lips pursing in thought, Harry flicked a grape at Churchill's head and beckoned him over. The Seventh Year gave him a genial smile and abandoned his book with a celerity that would have made Professor McGonagall scowl. After his teammate had slipped into the bench next to him, Harry jerked his chin towards the reedy boy.

"That's Theodore Nott," Churchill explained. "His dad invites us to a stuffy Christmas party every year. Ma makes us go because we're family. I think he's my second cousin or something?"

Harry attempted to hum in understanding but only managed an odd hissing sound from the back of his throat. He watched Nott for a moment before turning back to Churchill, frowning.

Churchill nodded. "He's had a rough time of it. His ma died a few months ago."

Having realised that Harry was no longer listening to her, Grace shifted in her seat, rising slightly to see what had captured his attention. "Dear Lord, he's like the living embodiment of Eeyore."

Cedric tilted his head and gave her a concerned look. "What's that?"

She sighed heavily and waved him off. "Don't worry about it."

Cedric shrugged and also began to not so subtly gawk at the First Year. "You want to give him a hug, don't you?" He asked Harry.

Harry looked over at his best friend, his brow furrowing in confusion. Slowly, he shook his head. Though now that he mentioned it, there was a pathetic, lonely quality that hung over Theodore Nott like a gloomy black thundercloud.

Cedric shrugged this off too. "Well, I do. He looks like he needs one."

"You say that about Professor Snape," Grace commented, her lips twitching while she tried to suppress her smile.

"He needs a hug too! You Slytherins need a daily dose of sunshine in your life. And as your designated Hufflepuff friend, I'm obligated to make that happen," Cedric declared.

"And with that, I take my leave," Churchill said, rising from the bench and dashing away.

"You should bring this up during your next Potion's lesson," Grace agreed with a solemn nod. "I'm certain Professor Snape will agree."

Cedric let out a boisterous laugh. Once upon a time, such an occurrence would have garnered several head-turns from the surrounding Slytherins. After two years, however, they had grown used to Harry Potter's noisy companion. "I'll let him know it was your idea, dearest."

Harry listened to his two friends dissolve into playful banter, which chased away the lingering numbness in his body. He still felt unsettled by what had happened that morning, but there was something else brewing in his chest: purpose. In his mind, a plan blossomed, filled with hope and longing. It was a plan that could backfire spectacularly on him. But if it succeeded…

He didn't have time to waste. Now all he needed was to get his voice back.

Genius Fratris

As it always happened, Harry's time at Hogwarts seemed to fly by. Between his nine courses, Flint's insane Quidditch practices, and his lessons with Madam Pomfrey, Harry found that he barely had time to speak with his brother, let alone forge a relationship with the reclusive Theodore Nott. Despite his hectic schedule, Harry found that he enjoyed his lessons, even with the growing workload. Ancient Runes was as easy as he expected it to be, quickly earning him the admiration of Professor Babbling. Care of Magical creatures, despite reluctantly enrolling in the elective (indeed, it had been Professor Snape's idea, who had drily reminded Harry that he was 'fond of animals'), also proved to be an excellent choice—even if he did find the gnarled Professor Kettleburn to be rather intimidating. His private study with Madam Pomfrey was by far his favourite, however. Having learned the basics of First aid, Harry had been promoted from his previous role of errand boy to mending broken bones and administering potions under Madam Pomfrey's watchful eye.

Flint's assumptions also proved to be correct. It wasn't uncommon for someone to poke their head into Harry's private chambers or join him in the extra armchair by the fire. Most of these visitors were members of the Quidditch team: Pucey, being the closest in age, often asked for assistance with classwork; Bletchley, who enjoyed playing his harp for anyone who would listen, greatly appreciated having a subject who did not (and could not) object; and Flint, who Harry decided was more or less his friend. Others were more surprising, however: the very pretty Cordelia Gamp would wander in to chat, leaving Harry feeling thoroughly confused and flustered after she departed; homesick First Years who wanted hugs and quiet, sympathetic ears; and several housemates who required healing that didn't warrant a trip to Madam Pomfrey.

When Harry did find himself with a spare moment, he practised the meditation exercises that Madam Pomfrey had taught him. They were supposed to help him relax when he was anxious, but Harry wasn't sure how effective they were. While he hadn't fallen totally silent, Harry never knew exactly when his voice would cooperate. Speaking in lessons was out of the question, but when he was alone or in the company of one of his friends, Harry sometimes managed to get a few words in. The panic that he felt during that first Defence lesson always lingered at the back of his mind, but by the end of October, he had managed to quell the desire to empty his stomach after sitting through one of Professor Quirrell's lectures. It was a small victory, Harry conceded, but a victory nonetheless.

Harry was still relieved when Halloween arrived, marking the arrival of a long-awaited trip to Hogsmeade. Being their first visit to the village, the Third Years had been able to talk about little else since it had been announced. It was a chance to stock up on sweets, go on dates, and drink Butterbeer with friends—Harry was only interested in two of those activities if he was completely honest. Still, he was no less excited to leave Hogwarts for the day. In fact, the only thing that could've made the day perfect was if Grace could have come with them.

As it was, Second Years weren't granted the privilege of visiting Hogsmeade, leading Grace to extract several promises to bring her back presents. She somehow managed to convince not only himself and Cedric to buy her sweets but Flint, Churchill, and a sixth year Ravenclaw prefect called Baggins as well. (They still didn't understand how she managed that last one.) John likewise begged him for a slab of Honeydukes' fudge, giving him the sad, kicked puppy look he knew Harry was unable to resist.

It was with this in mind that he departed from the Great Hall on Halloween morning, a bag of gold jingling in his pocket, and Cedric chatting his ear off about the Shrieking Shack. He waved to John from across the hall, who watched him go with a mixture of longing and jealousy. Harry would have felt more guilty about leaving him behind had his brother not been surrounded by several friends. As it was, with John being infinitely more sociable and likeable than himself, Harry just grinned and kept walking.

There was one person Harry pitied, however. Harry had watched Theodore Nott for several months, noticing how the boy lingered on the outskirts of groups, neither welcomed nor shunned by his peers. It was as if they were indifferent to his presence, or perhaps they forgot that he existed. Harry was intimately familiar with that feeling. Perhaps that was why he paused on his way out of the Great Hall, leaving the still talking Cedric to continue several paces without him.

"Do you want anything from Honeydukes?" Harry asked Nott, who flinched so violently that he spilt tea down the front of his robes. Harry siphoned the mess away with a flick of his wand and an apologetic smile before repeating his query.

"Are you speaking to me?" Nott asked, glancing around as if looking for one of Harry's friends.

Harry didn't know if he should feel amused or sad by the confused look on Nott's face. "Obviously."

Nott shook his head after a long, awkward pause. Harry couldn't blame him— if the situations had been reversed, Harry would have been suspicious of the older student's motives. So instead of explaining himself, Harry nodded and caught up with Cedric, who was staring at him as if he had grown a second head.

Cedric latched onto Harry's elbow and all but dragged him out of the Great Hall. "What was that about?" he asked.

Harry shrugged, unsure how to phrase his thoughts. There was no logical reason for a Third Year to notice an unrelated First Year. Or at least, that's how it was in Slytherin. Harry knew first hand isolating that was, especially for someone as lonely as Nott— as Harry himself had been. He remembered wishing for the other boys to talk to him: not to mock him or bully him, but to include him in things. He remembered the joy he felt when he found that belonging with Cedric and later Grace.

Flint had told him that people were watching him, waiting to see what great things he would accomplish. But did that greatness come only from magical talent or social influence? Why couldn't he be known for his great kindness? For his empathy? That seemed far more important than how many spells he could cast. After all, what was the point of greatness if you were all alone?

"He needs a friend," he said at last.

Whether or not Cedric understood his reasoning, he accepted Harry's answer and didn't bring it up again. Instead, they spent a lovely day strolling through Hogsmeade, spending far more Galleons than either boy cared to admit. And when they arrived back at school several hours later, they enjoyed a splendid feast created by the Hogwarts' elves. He listened attentively as Grace regaled him with tales of her day spent with Hagrid, reporting with excitement that Ebony was expecting a foal in May.

It was a shame Professor Quirrell had to ruin it.

Okay, perhaps that was uncharitable. The man hardly ruined the Halloween Feast. It wasn't like he was the one that let the troll into the castle, after all. He simply informed them that a troll roamed the dungeons before fainting on the Great Hall floor. Either way, however, the feast was over, and Professor Dumbledore ordered them back to their dormitories (excluding the Slytherins, of course. They did, after all, live in said dungeons.)

There was no reason for Harry to assume that John wouldn't go back to Gryffindor Tower. Why on earth would he think that his little brother would seek out a fully grown mountain troll? He certainly didn't believe that Professor McGonagall, after finding them standing in a destroyed girl's lavatory with a troll at their feet, would give them house points rather than detention. Though perhaps if he had imagined this, it would have set the tone for John's time at Hogwarts. And then Harry would not have been so surprised two days later when he stepped onto the Quidditch pitch for the first match of the season and found himself face to face with John.


"They might not need me; but they might.

I'll let my head be just in sight;

A smile as small as mine might be

Precisely their necessity."

Emily Dickenson


A/N: Halloween 1991 took place on a Thursday, so it's doubtful that Hogwarts would have scheduled a trip that day. I've decided I don't care and elected to ignore this. Let's pretend Dumbledore was feeling extra whimsical that day and decided to give everyone the day off of classes.

Anyway. Leave me a comment and let me know what you thought of the chapter, yeah? I love hearing from you all! -CA