Author's Notes:

So, firstly, I've had a number of issues, while trying to make minor edits to a couple different chapters in both this story and The Dawn of Badgers and Lions, and I apologize for any confusion. I really don't know how long it will be before I post another chapter, but I will be posting another. I don't intend on abondoning either of my stories that are currently up. This chapter also brings this story up to greater than 30,000 words, which I find kind of exciting.

Chapter 9

The first few weeks of Brandon's education at Hogwarts proved to be most disappointing. The professors took each of the first year classes so painfully slowly, it took everything Brandon had to be patient.

The History of Magic class was a particular disappointment. Professor Binns, who was a ghost, would drone on and on about this or about that, and most of it was little more than what Brandon had read straight out of the textbook. A lot of the other students seemed to make Binns' class a naptime, as the ghost never seemed to notice, and though the idea was tempting, Brandon nonetheless made himself listen to the boring lectures.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a joke. The first day of their class, their "professor" had had the class take a quiz on his books, which Brandon had actually read, though he found them a bit ridiculous. It seemed rather far fetched that anyone could have done all the things that Lockhart said he had done in those books, let alone an idiot like Lockhart. The quiz contained questions like What is Gilderoy Lockhart's Favorite Color? And really, most of the class was going through material in the man's books. Overall, it was a waste of time, and if Brandon could have gotten away with it this would be the class he would choose to sleep through.

Charms was easily Brandon's best subject. When they'd finally moved beyond practicing wrist movements and were instructed to cast certain, minor spells, Professor Flitwick was frequently awed by Brandon's quick grasp of every spell that he taught. The professor would often call him a charms prodigy, and he frequently earned points for Gryffindor in that class. It was difficult to be patient with everyone else slowing up progress.

Transfiguration, on the other hand, proved a little more challenging than charms did. Though Brandon had a little more difficulty with some of the spells, he usually succeeded in getting them right before the others in his class, which earned him even more points, much to the satisfaction of Professor McGonagall. The fact that it wasn't as easy actually made it one of Brandon's favorite classes.

Astronomy was a class that they would only take on certain nights. They would go up to the astronomy tower and listen to lectures by Professor Sinistra, as well as fill out charts that showed the course of the cycles of the heavens and observe different celestial bodies through their telescopes. It wasn't completely boring, but it definitely wasn't Brandon's favorite class either.

The flying lessons were an absolute breeze, after everything that he had done with the Weasleys over the summer. Brandon dazzled Madam Hooch with his remarkable, natural skill flying a broomstick. "It'd be a crime if you didn't try out for Quiddich, next year!" she'd told him. These lessons were fun once they were actually allowed to fly around, but by the time they had reached that point, the lessons were over. It wasn't a class that would take all year. Once you learned how to fly a broom, you knew how to fly a broom.

Out in the greenhouses, Herbology was a mostly interesting class. As Professor Sprout told them on the first day, actually managing the plants that they'd read about was something that you couldn't really totally prepare for by just reading books; it required some practical, hands-on instruction. It wasn't usually the most stimulating of classes, but Brandon found himself enjoying his time out in the gardens and greenhouses.

The most unpleasant class, Potions, was made so by the fact that Professor Snape seemed to absolutely loathe him. If the professor hated Brandon this much, just for being the cousin of Harry Potter, he could only imagine what Harry himself must go through when he attends the greasy-haired git's classes. Though he would do well, and brew his potions correctly, Snape found every flaw that he possibly could with his work, and would regularly take points.

Brandon did the only thing he could do: he sucked it up and dug himself in, bound and determined to get an Outstanding on every single homework assignment and potion brewed, just so he could shove it in the slimy Slytherin's face. He found himself very, very glad that he hadn't been sorted into Slytherin, where he would have had him for a Head of House.

Blaine McFusty shared this assessment when Brandon spoke to him about it once on their way out of the Potions classroom in the Dungeon. The auburn-haired Scottish youth was quickly becoming one of Brandon's fastest friends. He learned that the boy had an elder sister, Rhonda McFusty - who was in Hufflepuff house, and the current Head-Girl - as well as an older brother, Duncan, who actually was a Slytherin in his third year.

Brandon remembered his promise and wrote to his mother every week. He would use one of the school owls from the owlery during the middle of the week and give it instructions to only deliver the letter during the early part of the afternoon, when his father would be out of the house.

During one Saturday morning, after Brandon had had some time to sleep in, he, Hermione, Ron and Blaine made their way to the Quidditch Pitch to watch Harry practicing with the rest of the Gryffindor team. According to Hermione, Oliver Wood-the Quidditch team captain and Keeper for the team-had woken them all up at dawn that day to get in some early morning practice. They made a quick stop on the way out in the Great Hall to pick up some toast and marmalade.

They made their way outside onto the grounds and out to the Quidditch Pitch, where they went up into the stands. They figured practice must be over because the team was nowhere to be seen, but they could hear them talking down in the changing rooms when they had gone by.

Brandon recognized Colin Creevy a ways away from where they were sitting, who waved enthusiastically at him. Brandon waved back awkwardly. The boy had his camera with him, which he had used to snap pictures of Harry every chance he got since they had arrived from the train. The younger boy seemed to be stalking him, to tell the truth.

It didn't take long for the Gryffindor Quidditch team to finally emerge from the changing rooms, still wearing their red Quidditch robes and carrying their broomsticks.

"Aren't you finished yet," Ron called out incredulously.

"We haven't even started yet," Harry called back. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."

A few seconds later, the team mounted their brooms and all kicked up off the ground. As Brandon watched, he could hear Colin further up in the stands madly snapping pictures with his camera. The boy cried shrilly to him, "Look this way, Harry!"

"He's one of the new Gryffindor first years, isn't he?" Hermione asked he and Blaine.

"Yeah, we have all of our classes with him," Brandon replied. "He seems to know Harry's schedule by heart. He's always following him around trying to catch him in the corridors."

"It sounds like he fancies him," Ron joked.

"Perhaps he does," Blaine replied seriously.

"I was only joking," Ron told him.

"I'm not. Some wizards like other wizards and some witches like other witches. There's nothing wrong with that really, but Colin seems to be taking things a little too far."

Blaine's words nagged at the back of Brandon's brain. What did he like? He knew that the thought had occurred to him that boys like Blaine were handsome, yet he would never usually think to himself that girls were pretty. Did he like boys? If he did, that would be one more reason for his parents to think he was a freak. He would need to think about this some more.

"What are the Slytherins doing here?" Hermione's voice interrupted Brandon's thoughts. All of them looked to see what was going on and sure enough, the Slytherin Quidditch team was marching out onto the field, wearing their green robes and carrying their broomsticks. The Gryffindor team had obviously noticed too, because they were soon landing their brooms and dismounting to meet the Slytherins.

"Flint!" they heard Wood bellow at the Slytherin team captain. "This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"

The four of them made their way down the stands and out onto the field to see what was going on.

Once they made their way across the field to where the two teams seemed to be staring each other down, Brandon heard the Slytherin team captain Flint call, "Oh, look, a field invasion."

"I'll say," Brandon began. "What are you doing invading our field?" But Flint didn't seem to hear him.

"What's he doing here?" Ron asked, pointing at one of the Slytherin players. Brandon recognized Draco Malfoy from when he'd seen both he and his father at Flourish and Blotts. He was wearing Slytherin team Quidditch Robes.

"I'm the new Slytherin Seeker, Wealsey," the blond boy said rather smugly. "Everyone's just been admiring the new brooms my father's bought our team."

Brandon looked at the brooms. They all looked shiny and new, and on Malfoy's he could easily read the fine golden lettering on the handle. Nimbus Two Thousand and One.

"Good, aren't they?" Malfoy said smoothly. "Perhaps the Gryffindor team will be able to raise some gold and buy new brooms too. You could raffle off those Cleansweep Fives; I expect a museum would bid for them."

The rest of the Slytherin team howled with laughter.

Hermione stepped forward. "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," she said sharply. "They got in on pure talent."

The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered, and Brandon jumped on the opportunity. "Well obviously he needed the bribe to get on the team. The rest of the Slytherins here all have the same build, tall and big, as if size and brute strength were more important than agility and finesse. Scrawny little Malfoy here would never have gotten in. He doesn't fit in with their typical unimaginative tactics."

"No one asked your opinions, you filthy little Mudbloods," Malfoy spat.

Brandon knew as soon as Malfoy said these words that whatever they meant was really bad, because it caused an instant uproar among the other Gryffindors. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to keep Fred and George from pummeling him, and Alicia shrieked, "How dare you?!"

Ron pulled the spell-o-taped wand that he'd broken during his ride in the Ford Anglia from the pocket of his robes, yelling, "You'll pay for that one Malfoy!" pointing it furiously under Flint's arm at Malfoy's face. There was a deafening BANG! as a bright green light erupted from the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him square in the stomach.

As he fell backward, Hermione rushed to his side. "Ron! Ron! Are you alright?" she squealed.

As Ron opened his mouth to speak, he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out his mouth and onto his lap, much to the amusement of the Slytherins, who were roaring with laughter once again.

"Let's get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest," Harry suggested. Brandon helped him pull Ron up by the arms.

After dodging Colin, who wanted to take a picture, the five of them made their way to Hagrid's cabin. They nearly ran into Lockhart on the way, but managed to hide behind a large bush and wait him out; he seemed to be leaving Hagrid's hut.

Once the coast was clear, they moved on forward and knocked on the door, which Hagrid answered immediately, wearing a grumpy expression, but he brightened considerably once he saw who it was.

"Bin wonderin' when yeh'd come ter see me - come in, come in - thought yeh mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again."

As Brandon and Harry supported Ron over the threshold, they told him how his curse had backfired back on the Quidditch pitch. Hagrid, seeming unperturbed by the slugs, showed them all inside and gave him a large copper basin.

"Better out than in," he said cheerfully. "Get 'em all up Ron."

"I don't think there's anything to do except for wait for it to stop," Hermione said anxiously.

Finally able to let Ron go, Brandon took a look around the cabin. It had only the one room, but it was spacious - it had to be for a large man like Hagrid to live in it - and it was a comfortable sort of place. An enormous bed sat in one corner, with a merrily crackling fire in the other. The five of them were shown seats at a large table while Hagrid set himself to making tea.

A huge boarhound, which Harry told him was named Fang, began to sniff Brandon and Blaine curiously.

"So tell me," Hagrid said after a while. "Who was Ron tryin' ter curse, anyway?"

"Malfoy called Brandon and Hermione something," Harry began. "It must have been really bad, because everyone went wild."

"It was bad," Ron said hoarsely, coming up to the table, "Malfoy called them—" Before he could finish the sentance, he dived out of sight again as another wave of slugs hit him.

"He called them Mudbloods, Hagrid," Blaine said solemnly.

"He didn'!" Hagrid growled at Hermione.

"He did," she confirmed, "but I don't really understand what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course—"

"It's about the most insulting thing to say that he could think of," gasped Ron as he came up again. "Mudblood is a foul name for someone that's Muggle-born—you know, non-magic parents." He burped up a particularly large slug into his hand, which he immediately tossed into the basin.

"There are some wizarding families," Blaine continued for him, "like the Malfoys, that believe that they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blooded."

"It's ridiculous," Ron began again, "and most of us know that it doesn't actually make any difference whatsoever. I mean, look at Neville Longbottom, he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."

"An' they haven' invented a spell our Hermione can' do," Hagrid said proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

"It's a disgusting thing to call someone," Blaine said. "It suggests that your blood is dirty and common. It's beyond stupid—most witches and wizards alive today are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't intermarried with Muggles and Muggle-borns, we'd have died out."

"I don' think I've had the pleasure o' meetin' yeh before," Hagrid said to Blaine finally. "Forgive my manners. I'm Rubeus Hagrid, but everyone jus' calls me Hagrid."

"I'm Blaine McFusty," Blaine told Hagrid. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"McFusty?" Hagrid asked with a light in his eyes. "Not one o' the McFustys o' the Hebrides are yeh?"

"Aye," Blaine replied with a smile. "You've heard of us, I trust because we—"

"Yeh've looked after the dragons o' the Hebrides fer centuries!" Hagrid finished for him enthusiastically.

Before Hagrid could begin interrogating Blaine, Brandon produced something from his school bag that he'd brought with him. "We were planning on coming out to your hut, before Ron cursed himself, Hagrid, so I brought this with me; I thought you might like to have a look at it." Brandon presented him with the book about dragons, which Hagrid took eagerly.

"I've had a look at it," Blaine put in, " and it's a very well-written book. The author sure did his research, I can tell you. At least in the section about the Hebridean Black. The illustration is a very accurate representation of the Dragons' physiology as well."

"You've seen them?" Hermione asked him. "You've actually been around the Dragons?"

"Oh aye," Blaine told her. "I even held a baby one once that had lost its mother to another female dragon that was trying to take over the territory."

"What happened to it?" Hagrid asked longingly.

"Well, my Da took him to a cave where he knew that the little guy wouldn't be attacked and brought food to him every day until he was ready to fend for himself. I named him Merlin."

"I didn't realize you were one of those McFustys," Ron said after belching up some more slugs.

"You never asked," Blaine said simply.

By the end of their visit, Brandon had agreed to let Hagrid borrow the book after Hermione had mentioned that there wasn't a copy of it in the Hogwarts Library.

Once they had all made their way back up to the Castle, they had no sooner stepped foot into the entrance hall when the voice of Professor McGonagall rang out, "There you are, Potter—Weasley." She approached them looking even more stern than usual. "You will both be serving your detentions this evening."

X X X

Later that evening, while Harry and Ron were both serving their detentions, Brandon and Blaine were sitting together in the library, working on a History of Magic essay, when another boy, from one of the upper years, came and sat across from Blaine at their table. On closer inspection, seeing that he was a Slytherin and that he had the same dark green eyes and sharp jawline as Blaine—though with chocolate brown hair instead of auburn—Brandon correctly deduced that this was his friend's elder brother, Duncan.

"What exactly did you think you were doing?" the elder boy asked. "My housemates are all accusing me and our whole family of being blood-traitors."

Blaine gave him a look of contempt, "By their standards, Duncan, we are blood-traitors. Brandon here is my best friend, and your housemates called him a Mudblood."

"That's beside the—" Duncan began, but Blaine cut him off.

"That's exactly the point. Besides, I didn't do anything. All I did was stand beside my friends. You knew something like this was bound to happen when I was sorted into Gryffindor."

Brandon sat silently, feeling awkward.

Duncan calmed down a bit. "I know. I know," he said, rubbing his temples. "I'm sorry, it's just that I already get enough grief for Rhonda being the Head Girl in Hufflepuff. Whenever she has to punish any of my housemates, they usually turn around and blame me. I just wish you could have been sorted into Slytherin with me, or at least been put in Ravenclaw."

"Well, it's hardly my fault that your house has so many bigots in it."

Duncan turned to Brandon then. "I'm sorry for whatever that stupid Malfoy kid said to you. Not all of us Slytherins are so bad, you know."

Brandon shifted in his seat uncomfortably before he replied, "Er - right, thanks I guess." The elder boy gave him a winning smile, and the absurd thought that Duncan was extremely good looking crossed his mind and his thoughts shifted back to the conversation earlier that day. Some wizards like other wizards and some witches like other witches. There's nothing wrong with that really . . .

There's nothing wrong with that really . . . There's nothing wrong with that really . . .

Freaks, came the voice of his father. It's not natural.

"Well, is that all you came for?" Blaine asked his brother after a moment, snapping Brandon back to reality.

He was glad that they didn't seem to notice that he was blushing; he could feel it in his cheeks. Either they hadn't noticed, or they had chalked it up to him feeling embarassed about the apology. Was this how Ginny felt all the time around Harry? Possibly Colin too? Except Colin didn't seem to have any shame and never seemed to blush like this; perhaps the other first year boy's obsesion wasn't romantic after all.

"Aye. I'd been looking for you and someone from Gryffindor told me that you were heading to the Library," Duncan explained. "I didn't really need anything else. Just please don't try to antagonize the other Slytherins. I have to live with all of them, including the bigots."

"I'm not and I won't," Blaine told him irritably. "As long as they stay out of my way, I'll stay out of theirs."

With a sigh, Duncan turned back to Brandon, "Well, it was nice meeting you, Brandon." He gave another charming smile, and Brandon felt a tingling sensation in his lower chest. "See you later, brother."

"Bye," Blaine said, returning to his Potions book.

"It was nice meeting you too, Duncan," Brandon said, watching as the boy left.

"He had some nerve, asking me not to defend my own friends," Blaine said after his brother was well out of earshot.

"I'm fine," Brandon said. "And like you said, you didn't even really do anything. There's an old Muggle saying, Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."

"That's ridiculous," his friend argued. "Words can hurt more than any injury."

"Yes, but they won't actually physically injure you," Brandon reminded him, "but getting into a fight over them certainly can."

Blaine sighed at this, "I'm too tired to have a philisophical discussion. Let's just finish our Potions assignment. We're almost done."

Feeling more awake than his friend, Brandon's mind frequently wandered during the time they spent working on their essays. Did he like blokes? Did Duncan like blokes? Were these feelings real, or were they part of some pre-adolescent phase? Really, he had a lot to think about. He kept having to drag his mind back to Potions.

When they were finally done, they tiredly made their way back to the Gryffindor common room and to their dormitories. Brandon figured that Harry and Ron would surely be done with their detentions by now, but decided they were probably tired too. He would ask them both about it the next day.

As he lay awake in his four-poster bed, thoughts continued spinning around in his head. Some wizards like other wizards and some witches like other witches. There's nothing wrong with that really . . . There's nothing wrong with that really . . .

He slowly drifted off to sleep.

"I can't believe you're a poof as well as a wizard!" his father told him. "You're a disgrace to this family! Nothing but a perverted freak!"

"Oh! My darling boy!" his mother was crying. "Don't worry, we'll find some way to fix you!"

Dudley was punching him in the gut.

"Atta boy son!" their father egged him on. "Beat the gay out of him!"

Brandon woke in a sweat.

"You okay, Brandon?" Blaine's voice asked groggily. "You cried out in your sleep. Bad dream?"

"Yeah," Brandon told him, more relieved than he could say that the whole thing was a dream. "I'm fine, thanks, Blaine. Go back to sleep."

Some wizards like other wizards and some witches like other witches. There's nothing wrong with that really . . . There's nothing wrong with that really . . . There's nothing wrong with that really . . .

X X X

In the days that followed, Brandon did the best he could to put his thoughts about his sexuality out of his mind. He decided that he was too young to be thinking about those kinds of things, anyways. Yes, he would put these thoughts out of his head and focus on his schoolwork.

One evening, whilst he and Blaine were in the common room, working on a Transfiguration assignment and Hermione was forcing Ron to work on their Potions homework, Harry climbed in through the portrait hole, looking rather damp and wearing shoes covered in mud after another Quidditch practice session in the lovely autumn weather.

He told them all that he needed to go up to the dormitory to change and that he'd be back. When he returned, he told them about an invitation he'd recieved from the Gryffindor Ghost, Nearly Headless Nick or, as he prefered to be called, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington.

"A deathday party," said Hermione keenly. "I bet there aren't many living people who can say they've been to one of those—It'll be fascinating!"

"Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?" Ron said, obviously already grumpy about the Potions homework. "Sounds dead depressing to me."

"It doesn't exactly sound altogether appealing, does it?" Brandon agreed. "At least, not on the night of the Halloween Feast."

During the course of their conversation, Brandon had noticed Fred and George with a salamander that they had "rescued" from their Care of Magical Creatures class. They seemed to be trying to feed the bright orange, fire-dwelling creature one of their Filibuster fireworks.

The little thing was smouldering slightly, surrounded by a group of curious Gryffindors when it suddenly whizzed into the air emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly round the room. Percy bellowed himself hoarse at the twins, and all the while, the salamander kept flying about the room, shooting a spectacular display of tangerine colored stars from its mouth before it finally escaped into the fireplace.