Chapter Three: Clumsy Familiarity

A few hard taps planted a mild, brief throb into Harry's left shoulder blade. He stirred in his sleepy fog, curling into a tighter coil with the pleasant, foreign silk bed sheets.

"It's time to get up, Potter," Draco said.

Harry cracked his eyes open. "Oh, oh alright, thanks," he yawned, stretching a leg out, sitting up slowly.

"What was that you were muttering a couple minutes ago?" Draco asked with a touch of light concern.

"Hmm?" Harry squinted up at his dim face for a moment before gathering and fixing on his glasses.

"I think you were acting out your dream or something. Or nightmare. Whatever was going on, you were scared." Draco turned away with a quick whistle then, stepping into his shoes and crouching to tie them.

Harry had sometimes felt a lingering sensation of unease while just rousing from his sleep. It had been several weeks, but it had occurred to him again then and there. In those past instances, he would shrug it off as a bad dream sequence, but now, having acted out in an obvious manner with a witness, his passing indifference made way for alarmed intrigue. He stood from bed.

"Um, what exactly was I doing, Draco?"

Draco glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. "Just forget it. It's no big deal. You were just sort of shivering, mumbling some "no's" under your breath. Probably your lousy Muggle uncle was wrestling with you or something."

Harry swallowed, rubbing the nape of his neck. He doubted a subconscious replay of Uncle Vernon's wrath had him this flustered, this time, and in those prior. Whatever it was, it went deeper, into an unknown, albeit instinctual lacuna. He could describe the after-effects as holding a vibe of deja vu, and a vague longing for his mother. His stomach was part in knots. He got dressed with the others and exited out into the common-room in groggy silence, straggling along behind Draco and Blaise with Crabbe and Goyle. Crabbe...Goyle, the surnames did them too much justice, but Harry wanted to find a quick distraction from his dim thoughts.

"Hey, uh, what's your first name?" he asked the bulkiest of the duo.

"Vincent. I go by Vince sometimes too, with my cousins and uncles," he said.

"Ah, alright, thanks," Harry said, making a note of it. "So would you like me to call you Vince?"

"Nah, Crabbe is fine. It's a name of prominence, I'll have you know. Good for people round here to know who my dad is. He may not be as important as Malfoy's dad, but he is still pretty high in the ranks."

"Same for me," Goyle chipped in. "I'm Gregory, but we'll stick with Goyle."

Harry had to force-straighten his quirking brows. "Oh, okay then. Um, but you guys can call me Harry."

Crabbe and Goyle each made their own acknowledging guttural noises, scuffling on. Harry picked up his pace to listen in on Draco and Blaise's exchange.

"So I told him, 'no, you daft buffoon, you can't lick your own elbow,' " Draco said snidely, Blaise wearing his common indifferent features. "So he goes to stick his tongue out, and grab hold of his arm to pull it inwards, and I stopped him. I said, 'well, why don't we wager on it first.' And he gives me this dumb look and nods like a cow. I kept it simple. I bet him one hundred fifty galleons on it and he accepted, almost breaking his right arm straight out of his socket trying to twist it so he could get a taste of the underside of his elbow. Easiest score I ever pulled on somebody. I can hardly wait to pull that chump's rug out from under him again next summer."

Harry smirked. The anecdote had sounded of similar cocky background conversations he'd heard plenty of times in the Muggle World, around his uncle and out in public around strangers. Blaise seemed to consider the account in chosen silence. Draco was tilting his sharp chin extra high in the air. Harry had never even caught Dudley being so smug with himself. The sight set a reservation or two, but he was fast to brush it off. Everyone seemed to be staring at him or very much around him. Harry frowned, stilling himself to peek around the room. Indeed, handfuls or people were gawking straight through him. Some averted when he picked one to blink back at, some dared on, only turning to whisper to a friend or several, who each had their own eyes to thrust him over with. It had a distinctly smothering feel to it, making Harry wish to leave the common-room all the sooner. Then, as he approached the exiting slab of wall with Draco and Blaise, someone swatted at his upper back, startling him.

"Welcome to Slytherin House, Harry!" said a tall and brawny older student with cropped black hair, dark, excited eyes and as showcased in his greeting smile, the worst set of teeth Harry had seen in his whole life. The boy shoved his hand forward, beckoning Harry to shake it. "Name's Marcus Flint. I'm the Quidditch Captain."

"Oh, that's nice," Harry smiled back somewhat shyly.

"Yeah, it's awesome." Marcus split a wider grin, drawing slight more pity from Harry. "We'll be having the famous likes of you aboard come next fall. Wish I could have a practice go with you now. Would love to see what skills you've already got under your belt."

Harry nodded. "Well, yeah, I do have lots of experience with the broom," he confessed, albeit in an entirely separate context than the other's sporty reference.

Marcus laughed, an endearing twinkle in at least one eye. He patted his shoulder heavily, jangling Harry's skeleton. "Yep, well, see ya around, buddy! Don't be chicken to drop by for a word with me, ever want me to show you the ropes on things." He was coming close to gushing.

"Sure, thanks," Harry said, turning when Marcus did. Facing forward again, Harry was met with Draco's steady look of interest, but there was an etch of hurt as well. His clear gray eyes seemed rounder, his neat brows more knitted. Draco then dashed his face directly over his feet, sniffing curtly before regathering his recent composure. Walking out into the bleak, drafty dungeons, Harry thought he happened upon him in mild throes of jealousy. It was what first came to mind, but he had the decency not to get verbal nor prying about it. It was accidental as a sneeze.

Bonus hoards and scattered twosomes and singles took their turns paying much unasked for attention to the new, notorious student. After a mere three more minutes of heavy eye and gossip, already a sly rumor or two bypassed in a couple corners, through gusts. Harry pulled his hood up, ducking his head. Badly as he was anticipating finding community upon coming here to carry out his schooling, some abrupt second thoughts were settling to nest. A few being eager for his companionship was great, a result he'd coveted for the better part of his life, but up and down the halls, everywhere between? By now he could've made like an actual snake and tore down into a pit. His cheeks were aflame, his heart beating towards a race in his ears.

Harry resumed his place beside Draco and Crabbe at breakfast in the Great Hall. In those initial minutes of his entrance and seating, the room carried a clear sort of concentrated hush. He refused to look up for a while however, sipping pumpkin juice, managing to nibble down half a bowl of porridge. Nobody spoke to him very much, not even Draco, who'd been so chatty with him the night before. A layer of self-consciousness kicked in, leaving Harry alone in the sense he was all too familiar with. He grew worried he'd done something terribly wrong, and so early at that. He only had to sulk and bash himself inwardly for the remainder of breakfast, as Draco reignited some warmth on their way to their first class, their time table in his hand. Harry didn't bother to pore over the scroll himself, too fixated on the confusing array of corridors and floors they were navigating closely with ease as Draco took the usual lead. Harry was impressed with how he seemed to get around the castle as he would his own home. He took a breath.

"I couldn't be more lost," Harry said quietly. "You must be good with directions."

"Sure," Draco agreed coolly. "I told you my father works as the Governor for the Board. I've been here plenty of afternoons already, ever since my mother argued him out over which school I'd be attending. Father was meaning to send me to Durmstrang from the moment I was born, but Mother said she couldn't bear having me that far out from her. Father obviously prefers Durmstrang though. I've been in there too. I can definitely say it's got a lot more form and class than this second-rate place. Everything has some kind of improvement in comparison. Better reliability, you could say. Teachers who know what their doing better, probably better trained House Elves for the cooking and housekeeping. But while I'm here, I'll try to seek out the positives…"

Harry was reclaimed by surprise. He himself had considered this place, this palace, to be one of infinite quality. He doubted heaven itself could compare. He tripped over his third or so trick step on the revolving staircase, blaming his clumsiness and withdrawn attentiveness as he was so busy absorbing his wondrous, bright and lively surroundings; the moving, talking portraits! Through his anxiety and uncertainty the further he delved these corridors, watching real live ghosts drift over everyone loudly, animated as though they were still living in the flesh among them, he couldn't help but fall in love in increasing doses with his lucky-duck placement. He remembered Draco was born and raised out of wealth he could barely comprehend, but to be as picky, as self-boastful as he was so far projecting himself to be, Harry had to swallow some of his own pride. If only the other boy could let himself go to a little vulnerability. How else was he going to enjoy himself, become awestruck? There was a great deal here Harry wouldn't imagine taking for granted.

The five of them, having clustered neatly together from their dormitory and throughout the castle, finally entered a broad, brightly lit classroom down the middle of a corridor on a floor that slipped Harry's notice. Draco led them to a row of desks toward the end of the room.

"Where are we?" Crabbe exhaled once they had each claimed a seat.

"Transfigurations with Professor McGonagall," Draco said. "The lady's something of a strict bitch, you can tell. Father has said as much himself out of her earshot."

Minimal audible response ensued. Harry readied his area first, jittery with excitement, the strongest he'd felt to learn something. Class time back at his old Muggle public school had been dreadful over easy going from day one, compliments of his cousin and his gang of soft-brained cronies who hassled him in the halls like flies around manure. He was ignored in the classes he was fortunate enough not to share with Dudley or a particularly living reflection of him, with the exception of another quiet, small boy named Luke in grade four. Luke had been an enthusiast for amphibian biology and Marvel comic book collecting, so he was giddy as a pup to show off to Harry out during recess once he could see that Harry was somebody who'd open up to him. Somebody! And Harry felt quite the same, bored as he could grow listening to Luke rave on and on about the digestive process boa constrictors must undergo. Alas, Harry hadn't frightened his semi-friend away by an accidental spurt of magic, but he had simply moved out to Wales with his family when his father got sacked and his uncle had a new job opportunity lined up for him involving sales. Harry had gone on his lonesome until now, sitting quietly but in earned company in the most prim classroom etiquette he could muster, his hands clasped in front of him as their rigid and elegant teacher swept into the room. In the way she introduced herself, Harry could recognize meaningful weight in Draco's blunt opinion of a minute earlier. She meant business.

Soon they were given a matchstick each, which Harry sure understood how to use. Spending a rough seven years locked inside a dark cupboard after eight in the evening, Harry had learned to smuggle stray matches from the supply drawer in the kitchen for those occasional times his light bulb fried itself out and his uncle took weeks or months to replace it. He often had to pinch those slender lit sticks in his fingertips for any reading or drawing in there when he was too awake to attempt early slumber. It became a small reward for his daily toiling in the summer while he was stuck home on holiday, and for when he had to run marathons around the school and neighborhood streets from Dudley's more athletic submissives.

Today, essentially reborn into a brand new environment, in an equally other world, Harry found out he'd be putting his match to another purpose. His swore his heart skipped a few beats upon witnessing his teacher morph her desk into a live, noisy swine. He was visibly beaming, and Draco gave an emphasized sniff beside him.

"I reckon you haven't seen much of that then, have you?" he said quietly to Harry. "Must have been lifeless growing up in that awful house headed by such a sub-par race of humans."

"Oh, yeah," Harry replied in full agreement. "You'll have to excuse me for being so shocked by this stuff."

The class was tasked to diminish all the wood quality from their pieces in exchange for a silver, metallic poke. Poising his wand just so as he was, concentrating with his every fiber, enunciating with precision that congratulated his own ears, Harry subsequently felt moronic, but remained at ease seeing his friends were struggling themselves. Evident frustration overcame Draco as he waved his wand in an almost air banging rhythm, muttering between, Crabbe mumbling incoherently and keeping a low, lazy aim after a measly forty second trial, Goyle following suit. Blaise was appearing to maintain a decent degree of cool in his silent, somber effort, making little progress over them however.

Over twenty minutes in, Harry heard a nearby girl exclaim a soft, "Yes!" Her hand shot in the air then, and the teacher swept over to assess. Professor McGonagall raised the well-done needle for the class to draw example of. "Good work, Miss Granger," she told her with a fleeting but sweet smile.

"That's just great," Draco scoffed. "A blasted Mudblood gets it right as rain."

"Hmm?" Harry automatically sounded.

"You didn't get the word? She's not like us. She's less, no better than your guardians," Draco said. "One of the Muggle-borns round here. They're easy to identify, at least for true wizards and witches."

Harry stood with the rest of class as it began to let out. He hadn't opted to reply, unsure how to, and he was watching the bright girl with lots of wild brown hair pack her rucksack and head out with the others, a light, cute skip to her step. He immediately denied the possible existence of anything muddy or wrong going on within her, but this was an observation he was sure in that moment he'd be bringing to his grave.

"You'll get it next time, Malfoy," Goyle drawled, lumbering alongside Crabbe behind Harry and the other two back out into the corridor. By the threshold, Harry spotted Ron up-close. He had seen him earlier sitting on the opposite side of the class, speaking with a saucer-eyed, chubby-faced boy who had that interrupting toad as a pet. Harry decided to flashed him a warm smile, which Ron acknowledged but declined to return, instead flushing pink and dragging his eyes downwards, placing a hand on that other's boy's back in wordless encouragement to speed up. Registering that, Harry met a hollow type of pang. It ripped in his stomach, somewhere below his chest. He amounted it to heartbreak, but inhaled deeply, scolding himself. 'I have to set things straight,' his internal voice said boldly. 'It's obvious why he's hurt about this.'

"Where to now?" either Crabbe or Goyle huffed in dead spirits.

"Charms," Draco sighed, as though he were about to walk into an hour long paint-drying session. "That's Professor Flitwick's class. He's a goofy little bugger. We'll pass his course with flying colors without even having to think much."

"Ah, excellent," replied one of them, Harry again couldn't decipher which. Harry stared dead ahead through the thick throng of students swimming the corridors. He watched the fiery ginger hair of Ron's fade and disappear around the corner. Harry vowed to meet up with him somehow. The trouble lied in doing so utterly outside of his new friends' awareness.

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That evening in his dormitory, Harry did some casual reading out of a book on Roman mythology while Crabbe and Goyle pigged out on treacle tart and chocolates over their bedspreads, Draco and Blaise speaking amongst themselves out of Harry's peripheral view. He was pleased to come across a figure named Janus through his skimming. In ancient Rome, Janus was a god of beginnings, passageways and endings. He was a fellow of two faces, enabling him to see front and backwards, watchful around. Two faced. Those words drifted through Harry. His snowy owl, beautiful and helpful but with the price of a good bite popped up. She was owed a name. Well overdue, to boot. He had to look no further, his dawdling mind made up. He cleared his throat.

"I'll be calling my owl Janus, everyone," he spoke up, peering over his book. "Janus was a two-faced god of Roman times. My bird has a way like that herself…and I reckon the name sounds unisex enough."

Response was slow. As expected, Draco was one to break out a comment. "You don't have to get so noble with it, naming a delivery bird. I suspect you put way too much thought into that."

Harry flushed slightly. "Perhaps, but she means a good deal to me. No harm in assigning her a fitting, honorable name...right?"

"Guess not. We just called ours Hearth." Draco shrugged. "What he's basically the color of."

"Mine's Hugh," Goyle said plainly. The topic drizzled out thereafter, but Harry felt accomplished in at least two senses for his first day at Hogwarts. He had a named owl, an official partner in her, his personal reliable, who was perching down at the owlery now, hopefully not shedding feathers or blood in sassy fits with the other messengers in there. Then there was Ron, where Harry held out hope. Once the others tucked themselves into their sheets, dimmed the lights, Harry quickly scrawled a note which he'd somehow pass to him the next morning.

Ron, meet me in the library by the outermost east window today between 5 and 6 pm please. I need to speak with you.

-Thanks, Harry

He folded the note and hid it under his briefs in his nightstand's top drawer, falling asleep with a stomach half full of flapping creatures.

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a/n: Might make a habit of updating this one again after turning dust onto it for several years. Anyway, thanks for reading, leave a thought if you'd like.