Normal

"Speaking"

'Thinking'

Writing

Chapter 6

By the time Halloween came around, the Gryffindors had mostly forgotten about Harry not playing on the House Team, and the Slytherins were back to hexing him as often as they could. By now, Harry had taken to travelling in a group if he could manage it, and taking roundabout routes through forgotten and hidden corridors when he couldn't. He'd also managed a decent shrinking charm which meant he could keep most of his things in his school bag, enabling him to go from class to class without having to return to Gryffindor tower during the day (and run the risk of meeting Slytherins or still angry Gryffindors).

As a result he was able to hand in much better written assignments, which was both exciting and terrifying. He'd always had to score lower than Dudley before, but now Dudley wasn't here. He wasn't sure if anyone would be really mad if he did better than them, and he didn't know if this school would send his grades to the Dursleys like his old school did.

On top of that, he'd had no idea what the grades he'd been getting actually meant! He kept being 'acceptable' or more often 'exceeding expectations', but he wasn't sure if that was because he was doing well or because his professors didn't expect a lot from him. He'd tried to match his classmates' work, but had given up because of how different they all were.

So he'd decided to try to match his written work with Neville's. Most evenings they'd sit in the common room or library together to do their homework. He would complete the assignment, then ask Neville to look it over. If Neville said it was okay, then he'd hand it in. And if Neville said it needed work, he'd ask the other boy for advice on what to add. That way he'd be getting his grades as close to Neville's as possible.

Classwork was trickier to manage. Some students did really well, and some could barely do anything at all, so Harry had chosen to be a little brave and do his best.

Now, he was sitting in the Charms classroom trying to make a feather float. It was harder than he'd expected, but he wasn't the only person having trouble. Seamus Finnegan had actually exploded his feather, and he and his partner were covered in ash.

Glaring at his stubborn feather, Harry tried again.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

He tried to emphasize the syllables Professor Flitwick had told them to. His heart skipped a beat as his feather wobbled, but it still did not rise. Disappointed, Harry lowered his wand. Why was this so hard? Was he just bad at charms?

"Having trouble, Mister Potter?"

The squeaky voice startled Harry so badly, he knocked his wand and his feather off the desk.

"Sorry, Professor!" He tried to grab his wand, but it was too far away. Before he could get up, Professor Flitwick stopped him.

"Allow me. Wingardium Leviosa." The little man flicked his wand just so, and both feather and his wand came soaring back onto the desk.

"Thanks." Harry took his wand back, then scowled at his feather.

"Do you know how magic works, Mister Potter?' Professor Flitwick asked suddenly, and Harry blinked. What was he supposed to say? He had no idea, but he didn't know if his professor wanted him to admit that. Or was he supposed to know how magic worked already? Had they covered it in class and he'd just not been paying attention?!

Unable to form an answer, Harry just shook his head miserably. To his relief, Professor Flitwick smiled.

"I'd be very surprised if you did. Many wizards have dedicated their lives to unlocking the inner workings of magic," He explained, and Harry listened intently, "but the deeper they go, the more there seems to be. However, there are several basic laws and patterns that most spellcasting is based upon. The most important of these, and the foundation upon which all magic is performed, is the Law of Intent."

Professor Flitwick pointed his wand at Harry's feather and made it rise into the air without saying a word. "In simple terms, the Law of Intent means that what you intend to do with your magic shapes the way you cast. If I cast this levitation charm with real intent to make the feather fly, then fly the feather will."

"Then..." Harry frowned as he watched the feather perform lazy figure eights in the air, "why do we need to say the words?"

"Because they help shape the intent." Professor Flitwick explained. "When you have had years of practice casting this charm, you will no longer need the words because your intent will be clear and strong. But for now, the words act as a framework for the spell."

Harry tried to make sense of what his professor was saying. "So... if I really mean to make it fly... it will?"

"That's the way of it!" Professor Flitwick declared happily, lowering the feather to the desk. "Go on. Try once more."

Trying to ignore the watchful eyes of his professor, Harry focused on the feather.

'Real intent. I have to mean it. The words aren't as important as I thought.'

He raised his wand and opened his mouth, imagining the feather rising up off the desk and soaring through the air. Suddenly he remembered his first flight on a broom, the feeling of the wind, the pounding of his heart, what it meant to him to fly.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Flitwick clapped and cheered as Harry's feather took to the sky at once, and danced around as Harry moved his wand.

"Well done, Mister Potter! Well done indeed!" The little professor praised loudly, making Harry blush, "Whatever you just imagined - whatever you just felt as you cast that spell - that is real intent. That is what all magic is based on. You've done very well today, young wizard."

"Thanks, Professor!" Harry grinned, directing his feather up and down in the air, barely noticing as Professor Flitwick moved away.

'Magic! I'm doing real magic!' He hoped this thrill would never get old.

"No, no, no!"

Harry jumped as a shrill voice pierced the relative quiet of the classroom and broke his concentration. Sadly, he watched his feather drift downward before turning around to see who had yelled. Almost directly behind him, Hermione Granger scowled at Ronald Weasley, who was looking mutinous.

"You're saying it wrong." She declared, whipping out her own wand and demonstrating the movement. "It's Levi-o-sa, not Levio-sa. And your flick needs to happen directly on the seventh syllable of the incantation, or it won't work properly."

"You do it then, if you're so clever." Weasley demanded, gesturing violently to his feather.

With a reproving glare, Granger raised her wand and performed the spell movement with precision.

"Wingardium Leviosa."

Her feather shivered, then rose up genty, floating over the heads of the students. Professor Flitwick clapped happily, drawing everyone's attention to Granger's success, and the witch gave a satisfied grin.

After class Harry hurried to walk with the other Gryffindors, not wanting to be caught out alone, so he was close enough to the others to hear Weasley mimicking Granger.

"'It's Levi-o-sa, not Levio-sa.'" He stuck his nose in the air as he said this, doing an unfortunately accurate imitation of Hermione's expression. The boys around him sniggered, and Weasley puffed up noticeably, his voice growing louder. "She's a nightmare, honestly. Who cares if we can't do a stupid spell. We're students, we're here to learn. It's no wonder she hasn't got any friends."

Harry grimaced as he caught sight of Granger ducking down a side corridor at that, her face screwed up unhappily. She must have heard what Weasley had said.

For a moment, Harry wondered if he should follow her. Maybe he could make her feel better... Then he caught a glimpse of a robe trimmed with green and silver swishing around the corner, and thought better of it.

-Line Break-

October 31st, 1991. Halloween night.

Ten years ago today, Harry's parents had been killed by a dark wizard.

Harry had spent his whole life believing his parents had been 'no good, lazy drunks' (Uncle Vernon's words) who had died in a car crash. Learning the truth in Flourish and Blotts just two months ago had been... he wasn't sure how to describe it. Wonderful? Terrifying? Both?

Currently, he was curled up on his favorite armchair in the Sett, his copy of Nature's Nobility clutched to his chest. Everyone else was probably at the Halloween Feast right now, but Harry couldn't bring himself to go. This was the first year he knew the truth about what had happened. This was the first year he could... remember them.

With practiced ease, he opened up the book of wizarding genealogy to a page he had, at this point, memorized.

James Fleamont Potter (pureblood) - deceased

b.d. March 27th, 1960 - October 31st, 1981

Hogwarts School Graduate, Class of 1978; Gryffindor; Head Boy 1977-78

Auror, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic; June 1978 - October 1981

Head of House Potter

And sitting beside his father's name...

Lily Potter née Evans (muggleborn) - deceased

b.d. January 30th, 1960 - October 31st, 1981

Hogwarts School Graduate, Class of 1978; Gryffindor; Head Girl 1977-78

He ran his fingers gently over the words, tracing the names softly before following the lines that connected the two to his own name.

Harry James Potter (halfblood)

b. July 31st, 1980 - living

Heir Apparent of House Potter

He wasn't sure how long he'd sat there, staring at his parent's names. When he looked around again, the fire was noticeably lower and he realized he should probably get back to the dormitory before anyone else got back.

It was almost second nature to traverse the halls of Hogwarts at this point. A hidden passage behind a tapestry on the fourth floor led to a staircase that took him upwards and opened onto the Entrance Hall where a cupboard beneath the marble staircase became a tunnel that sloped downwards and deposited him in a little alcove on the sixth floor across the hall from a girl's bathroom that echoed weirdly every time he passed it. This roundabout route was actually faster than taking the main staircases, and had the added benefit of keeping him out of sight.

From the sixth floor he only had one more staircase to climb to get to Gryffindor tower, but his heart began to race as he heard footsteps behind him. Instantly, he threw himself behind a large stone urn and curled up in it's shadow, watching with wide eyes to see who was coming.

"...in the dungeon... no... of course... third floor... yes..."

Heart in his throat, Harry listened hard as the footsteps and odd muttering came closer. Then a figure stumbled past his hiding place bringing the nauseating stench of old garlic, and the torchlight shone upon a dull purple turban. Professor Quirrell, the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor.

Harry didn't like Professor Quirrell's class much. He always left that class with a bad headache, and sometimes he even felt like he was going to throw up. He thought, maybe, it was just that awful garlic smell, but he just knew there was something more to it. He'd smelled worse at the Dursley's after all (cleaning Dudley's bathroom was never pleasant, and he'd never quite gotten used to the stench of Uncle Vernon's dirty laundry), so there had to have been something else in that room that was hurting him.

Even though the Defense Professor had never paid Harry any special attention, the boy still remained wary, remembering Professor McGonogall turning into a cat and Professor Flitwick talking about intent. Magic could do anything. It was magic, after all.

'But would a professor really want to hurt me?'

The question was answered before he even finished thinking about it.

'The Dursleys hurt me. Mrs Figg never stopped them. Professor McGonogall wanted me to play Seeker. The teachers at Dudley and my old school hurt me.'

He was a freak there, and a freak here. Nobody likes a freak. That was how it worked.

Even so, he didn't like pain. And he wanted to stay out of trouble. He was supposed to be in the Great Hall with everyone else after all. So he remained silent as Professor Quirrell shuffled away, and counted to sixty in the silence after the professor disappeared before he unfolded his body and stepped out of his hiding spot.

Immediately, he froze.

The hallway was full of a smell so thick he could taste it. The professor's garlic stench probably covered it up at first, but now it was all he could focus on. Like wet dog fur and the unmistakable smell of rotting meat. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand instinctivly, but it did absolutely no good. Where was that smell coming from? Did the bathroom have some awful clog? Was this a normal smell for backed up wizard plumbing?

And then he realized that he was not alone in the hallway. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he spun around. Had Professor Quirrell come back? Was he going to get in trouble for not being at the Feast?

It was not Professor Quirrell.

Looming at the end of the hallway, almost filling the huge archway and blocking the exit, was an enormous figure with warty gray-green skin and beady black eyes that were fixed on Harry. The smell was coming from it, and as its heavy breathing echoed down the hall, Harry held his own breath, as if hoping that by making no noise it would decide he wasn't there. In one hand, it held a club three times Harry's size in one hand, and in the other it clutched the broken and deathly still figure of a gray cat.

Eyes wide, heart racing, his body fixed in place as though someone had glued his feet to the floor, Harry watched as the monster lifted its hand to its mouth full of rock-like teeth and crunched the cat down. It swallowed messily, and Harry stared at a trickle of blood that ran down one of the huge tusks that jutted out of the monster's mouth.

Somewhere in the back of his head he recognized the thing he was looking at. A troll. A mountain troll, specifically. They'd just learned about them in Defense, he recalled distantly, terror sharpening his mind even as it weighed his body down like mud.

'Magic resistant hide, powerful arms and hands, acute sense of smell and hearing, preferred diet of goats and birds, but will eat anything with meat on its bones'

The troll roared, and Harry flinched so hard he fell backwards onto the floor. As the troll lumbered forward, each footstep shaking the floor, Harry was reminded horribly of Uncle Vernon approaching him whenever he had done something wrong.

But the troll wouldn't just box his ears or hold him up by his throat. The troll wanted to kill him. It wanted to eat him, just like it had eaten that cat.

'...no...no...I don't want to die...'

His whole body shook as he forced himself up and turned to run. It didn't matter where he was going, he just had to get away.

Faster, he urged his legs, his feet hurting with how hard he pounded them against the floor. Faster, faster. Sheer and utter terror clawed at his insides and wrapped around his throat until he could hardly breath, much less speak or shout for help. All he could do was run, run, run-

Something enormous crashed next to his head, and an explosion of rocks and dust knocked him off his feet. He landed hard against a small pile of sharp stones and rubble, protecting his head with his arms and feeling the jagged stones slice into his skin.

Frantically, he looked around, shaking his head to clear it of whatever that ringing noise was, trying to see through the dust. There, not two feet to his left, the troll's club was embedded in the remains of what used to be the statue of a rearing horse. If he had been even half a foot to the right...

A terrifyingly familiar thud shook the floor, and Harry whipped his head around to see the troll approaching. It was grinning at him, Harry realized suddenly. It's tiny eyes were alight with excitement, and it was grinning at him.

It was enjoying this. It wanted to make him scared, to make him so afraid he couldn't run.

And then there was another feeling, bubbling up beneath the fear that was choking him. His chest became tight, his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears, and he realized that he was angry.

Harry grit his teeth and stood up, ignoring his shaking limbs and his stinging cuts. He'd never fought back against the Dursleys. He'd never stood up against Dudley or Dudley's friends. He'd lived under them, hated by them, nothing more than a dirty, disgusting, ungrateful freak.

'I am freak.' Harry fumbled inside his robe, his face twisting into a glare as he pulled out his wand. 'I was a freak there, and I'm a freak here. I am dirty and disgusting and ungrateful. But...'

The troll took another thundering step toward him, then another, but Harry did not move.

'But... I am going to live!'

Harry raised his wand, remembering suddenly the Sorting Hat's words on that first wonderful night he'd arrived.

'You chose to enter the Wizarding World, even knowing you would face the certainty of your own suffering.'

"I-" Harry coughed, spitting dust and blood out of his mouth, glaring at the troll, feeling as though he was boiling, angrier than he'd ever been in his life. "I chose this. This is my life. And I will not let you take it from me!"

The troll roared and the castle's smallest Gryffindor roared back.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

There was a clatter as a suit of armor fell from its plinth, a whistle as something silver shot through the air like a bullet, and a wet, crunching squelch as Harry hit his target.

The troll bellowed in pain as the sword sliced through its eye. It lurched back, clutching at its face. Blood sprayed out, spattering wetly against the walls, the floor, and the tiny first year. Then, with a roar that ended as a whimper, the troll fell to the ground with a booming crash. One of its tusks, larger than Harry's hand, snapped off as it struck the stone floor.

The tusk clattered to a halt next to Harry's foot and he stared at it for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he picked it up and looked at it, leaving smeared fingerprints in the blood that was spattered over the pale bone. Abruptly, the smell of blood and troll registered in his brain and his legs began to shake so badly he nearly fell over again.

He glanced at the motionless troll and his stomach churned.

It was dead.

The sword pointed up from the back of the troll's head, blood dripping off the blade.

The sword he'd levitated.

It was dead.

He'd killed it.

He'd killed it and he'd do it again if he had to.

He only realized he'd begun to walk when he reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. She was sleeping, empty bottles around her, and didn't even open her eyes as he gave the password in a shaking voice and clambered into the common room. It was habit that had him rolling up his robes to keep the blood from dripping on the carpet. The hallway behind him was clean as well.

The sound of the sword crunching into the troll's skull echoed in his ears, and the blood from the tusk seemed to cover his hands. He had to get it off. Off his hands, off his clothes... it'd been a while since he'd had to wash blood out of his clothes, but he remembered how.

Cold water... cold water helps with bloodstains...

On shaky legs he entered the shower and removed his clothes, refusing to think of anything but getting his clothes (his clothes) clean. He turned the water on, as cold as it could go, then scrubbed blindly at the bloody stains on the fabric.

It wasn't working. The more he scrubbed, the more stains he found.

...it's not working... the whole robe is red... Aunt Petunia's gonna be so mad...

His breath caught suddenly and he pitched forward, shaking uncontrollably, trying desperately to breathe. Clutching the severed troll tusk in his hand, Harry buried his face in his soaked clothes- redbloodred - and cried.