o0o0o0o
A Matter of Alignment
The Castle of Hogwarts sits on a lonely cliff in the Scottish Highlands, overlooking a great lake of terrifying depth. Surrounded on all sides by colossal mountains and located on the edge of a dark, mysterious forest, its grounds are enormous and picturesque, stretching all the way to the borders of the nearby village of Hogsmeade. It is a most beautiful place indeed.
Despite its beauty, there were moments when the castle could be truly imposing, perched on its jagged cliff like a rook. This was such a time, for on the night of the Sorting Ceremony, dark swirling clouds had formed over the valley, blotting out the feeble light of the moon above. These ominous shadows reached so low that the tips of the castle's tallest towers just scraped the lowest of them, and creeping mists slithered through the trees and across the grassy fields below.
Low thunder rumbled from somewhere deep within the darkness and a fork of lightning flashed across the horizon. A second fork came, crashing against the top of a tower with deafening sound. At the top of the Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter woke with a start.
It took Harry a few moments to remember where he was, but slowly it came back to him. He recalled Percy Weasley leading him and his fellow Gryffindors through the castle, to a Common Room concealed behind a portrait of a lady in pink. He remembered climbing the stairs to his dormitory and falling into a four-poster bed with red covers and curtains, which was where he was currently.
He reached out blindly and pulled the curtains open, grabbing his glasses from his bedside table nearby. He stumbled out of bed and inspected his surroundings. Although it was still dark, he could tell something was wrong immediately. Checking his housemates' beds, he found them all empty and perfectly made, in fact the entire room was in the exact same condition that they had found it in earlier. The same spotless wooden floor and circular wooden walls. The same tall windows, with sills so deep that one could sit in them if they wished.
Harry approached the window carefully and watched the storm raging outside. Heavy thunder rumbled through the air, so loud that the bed frames shook in response. Then came the lightning, though all Harry saw was the blinding flash as it struck not five feet from him. A blinding, green flash.
The next thing Harry knew, he was sprawled on his back in the corner opposite the window, the back of his head throbbing from where he had been thrown against the wall. Looking up, he saw the window had been shattered, frame and all, and he could hear nothing over the roaring of the wind, which rushed in through the new opening and made the curtains and drapes fly like flags.
Stood by the window was a tall, broad figure, cloaked in darkness. As yet more lightning flashed across the sky, the figure was illuminated briefly. It was a man, who wore familiar red robes held up by his three belts, complimented by intricate leather gloves and boots. He was turned away from Harry, facing the hole where the window used to be, but his shoulder-length brown hair whipped through the air behind him, caught in the force of the wind.
"Troubling," he said, in a voice that rumbled familiarly.
He turned to Harry, his face hidden by shadow. A pair of deep blue eyes peered down at the skinny boy, seeming to glow against the blackness behind them.
"You aren't frightened?" he asked.
"You- you told me not to be, didn't you?" replied Harry, standing slowly.
"I told you not to fear me," corrected the man, he gestured towards a window, "This is well worth your fear. It is my fear of it which has kept me alive these long ten years."
He took a step forward and Harry tried to find it in himself to be frightened. However, this man seemed to give off a calming presence, an undeniable aura of safety and security. He felt like he should be alarmed by this, but the aura prevented those emotions from forming. He felt perfectly content.
"Such complacency will get you killed," said the man bluntly, "However, I can keep us safe, for the moment. Walk with me, and we shall talk."
The man strode out of the open door which led to the Common Room. As he left, the strange calmness within Harry seemed to lift slightly. His heart began to quicken and his hairs stood on end. Fear and confusion were returning rapidly.
'What is going on?'
Somehow knowing that he would only get his answers from one place, he followed after the man cautiously. The door led to a wide stone staircase, which curved gradually upwards to his left and down to his right. Harry moved slowly down the stairs and entered the Common Room.
The round room was just as he remembered it from last night. The walls were hung with large, colourful tapestries and a huge stone fireplace sat against the far left side, though the fire had burnt down to little more than embers at this point. The floor was a red and gold carpet, and there were many red sofas and armchairs. Other furnishings were scattered about the room, like a tall bookcase or a heavy chest of drawers. The whole room felt warm and cozy, and Harry felt the unnatural calmness wash over him again when he entered.
"Good, good," said the man, "This is good, this room is more secure. I think we can risk sitting down to talk for a while."
He made his way over to a pair of armchairs, which sat facing each other near the fireplace, though Harry was sure that they had not been there when he entered. With a flick of the man's wrist, the flames in the hearth suddenly burst to life again, filling the room with light and warmth.
Harry slipped into the chair opposite him and got his first good look at the man's face. He looked quite old, perhaps in his late fifties, but his bulky muscles would suggest that he was still in very good health. His chestnut brown hair and beard were streaked with grey and his eyes looked like two deep pools of water. Though his face showed obvious lines of age, he had a strong jaw and a pair of thick, heavy eyebrows.
"So," he said finally, picking up a nearby book and leafing through it, "Let us start simple, shall we. What is your name?"
Harry didn't answer. Even in this strange fearless aura, he was still wary of this man, if not nearly as much as he should have been.
"Harry James Potter," the man read from the book, "Potter. A good name that. Shame about the other two."
"Who are you?" asked Harry, suddenly finding his voice again, "Why do I keep seeing you?"
"If you cannot recognise me, then this will be far more difficult than I thought," said the man, "How should I put this, I am- was a warrior. The Warrior, you could say. A title that has now been passed on to the- hmm- boy in front of me. I hope you do not mind me saying that I expected someone taller."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Harry. The comforting presence was lessened as he began to get more irritated.
"Oh, it is a long story," said the man, "One which neither of us has the time for. Suffice it to say, I heard a rumour about you long ago. I am here to make sure that rumour was not unfounded."
"Are you going to answer any of my questions?" complained Harry.
"You have my apologies, but we really do not have time for your questions at the moment. Right now, you need to listen to me," the man leaned forward, his face intense, "Something is not right here. That storm should not be out there. You should not have been able to speak with me so soon. This should have been our first meeting, in fact."
"What does that mean?" asked Harry impatiently, "Where are we?"
"Where we are is something you will need to figure out for yourself," said the man cryptically, "As to what I mean, all things you see here must come from one of two places, You or I. This storm came from neither."
"Well, where did it come from then?" asked Harry.
"I have not the slightest idea," admitted the man, "Whatever created this though, it would have to be very dark and very powerful. I suppose- perhaps this is what they meant by plagued with strife. It does not matter either way. What matters is that it is a dark and terrible thing."
"But- but this is all a dream, right?" said Harry, surprised that he hadn't thought of this earlier, "It's not real."
"You say that as if they cannot both be true," said the man, "I assure you, this dream is very real."
BANG
The back of the portrait nearby rattled, as something collided against it from outside. Both the man and the boy were on their feet in a flash. The man took a step towards the door, fire burning in his eyes. The calming aura evaporated instantly, and Harry was hit with a surge of such overwhelming urgency that he nearly fell over.
BANG!
The sound was louder this time and the door shuddered heavily. Outside, the wind picked up to the force of gale and rattled the windows in their frames.
"We are out of time," said the man, his calm gone completely, "I am afraid this will have to wait. You must leave now."
"What is it?" gasped Harry, suddenly feeling all the fear he should have felt since he arrived crash down on him at once.
"If I had to guess, I would say it is the dark and terrible thing I mentioned earlier, but that is not important. You must not be here."
"How do I leave?" shot back Harry, "That- that thing is behind the door."
BANG!
Several cracks appeared across the surface of the portrait as it splintered under the blow. The storm roared and, out of nowhere, the windows of the tower exploded inwards and the freezing air rushed into the room.
"A fair point, but that is not what I meant," shouted the man over the wind, his loose hair blowing about in the winds. He turned to face Harry. His eyes flashed and Harry felt his own limbs freeze in place. He couldn't move a muscle, not even in his face. His clothes and hair no longer seemed affected by the miniature hurricane sweeping the room.
"I need you to wake up," said the man, reaching out to Harry's forehead.
CRASH!
The last thing Harry saw was the portrait shattering behind the man in a flash of green, before the hand touched his scar.
o0o0o0o
Harry woke with a jolt, shooting upright in bed and panting heavily. He clawed at his curtains, pulling them open.
His new dorm-mates were already awake and moving about the room, which was bathed in morning sunlight. The boy who had lost his toad on the train was already dressed, while the other two looked like they'd just woken up. Harry fell back against his pillows and ran a hand down his face.
"It was a dream," he reminded himself quietly.
'A very real dream,' his mind echoed.
"You all right there, Potter?" asked the sandy-haired boy.
"Bad dream," replied Harry, putting on his glasses and reaching for his clothes.
As he got changed into his robes, Harry kept shooting glances over at the window from his dream. It was just as solid as the rest of them.
The four boys finished getting ready and made their way downstairs. As Harry suspected, there were no armchairs by the fire for he and the strange man to have sat in, just a long sofa, and the portrait was completely intact. There were a few people milling about in the Common Room, but most had already gone down to breakfast.
The three boys clambered through the portrait hole, Harry trying hard to forget the strange dream. He needed his wits about him if he wanted to learn magic. As they attempted to retrace their steps back to the Great Hall from last night, the sandy-haired boy turned to Harry.
"I'm Seamus," he said, "Seamus Finnigan."
"Harry Potter," said Harry. There was no point trying to hide it after the sorting.
"Yeah, I think I got that part actually," laughed Seamus.
"Sorry, but should I know you?" asked the darker boy, "Everyone seems to know who you are but me."
"Should you know him?" asked Seamus, sounding scandalised, "That's Harry Potter there. You're saying you don't know Harry Potter."
"My parents are muggles," shrugged the boy, "And I'm Dean, since no one asked. Dean Thomas."
"Nice to meet you," greeted Harry.
"So what's the big deal with you anyway?" asked Dean, before backtracking quickly, "Not- I didn't mean- that came out wrong."
"It's fine," said Harry, "I didn't even know about it until recently. I wasn't old enough to remember it."
He proceeded to explain to Dean what Hagrid had told him, about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the war, minus the part about the unblockable killing curse.
"Wow," breathed Dean afterwards, "And this You-Know-Who just disappeared?"
"So far as we know," said Seamus, "Some people think he's still out there. Biding his time, you know."
"For what?" asked Harry.
"Gran says that he's too wounded to carry on," said the toad boy, who had been silent up until this point, "She says that he's wandering around the wilderness like he used to, but he isn't strong enough to kill anything any more."
"You're Longbottom aren't you?" said Seamus, "You were looking for your toad."
"Yes, but I- uh- I found him," said Longbottom, producing Trevor the Toad from one of his pockets, "It's all good. I'm Neville- uh- if you want to know that is."
"Good to meet you Neville," said Dean.
After a good ten minutes of wandering and several backtracks, the four of them finally reached the Entrance Hall and went for breakfast. It was a bit humiliating to see that some of the people they'd seen in the Common Room had managed to make it downstairs before them, but none of them pointed it out.
After the feast that had been served last night, it was odd to see the Great Hall serving simple breakfast foods like toast and bacon, but none of it was any less delicious. Halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs on toast, Harry spotted a familiar blonde entering the hall. Daphne didn't spare him a single glance as she made her way over to the Slytherin Table, but he wasn't surprised. He had tried to catch her eye on the way up to the Common Room last night and she had ignored him then too. It seemed that she was one of those people who took the house system very seriously.
Scanning the rest of the hall, he saw Ron sat with the rest of the Hufflepuff First Years not far away. He seemed too occupied with his plate of bacon and beans to notice the people sat next to him, let alone someone on a different table.
On the Gryffindor Table, talk turned to families and Harry learned that Seamus was actually a half-blood, his father had only found out about magic after Seamus had started levitating his toys around the room. Neville was a pureblood, though Harry wasn't sure if that meant he was also a part of the Twenty-Eight, and he clumsily tried to avoid the topic of his parents by telling them that he lived with his grandmother. Dean admitted that he wasn't sure if he was a muggle-born or a half-blood, since he'd never known his father, but both his mother and step-father were muggles.
As he finished telling them this, Dean and Harry both jumped in surprise. A hundred owls had just appeared from above them. They had probably flown through high windows, but with the enchanted ceiling, it looked like they had just flown over the walls from outside. They began to drop packages and letters off to people around the hall. Harry, Dean and Seamus didn't get anything, but a tawny owl dropped a squashy parcel on Neville's lap, which turned out to be the pair of dragon hide gloves he had left at home. He hadn't even noticed he'd forgotten them.
Towards the end of breakfast, a pair of identical redheads slid down the bench from where they sat further up the hall, coming to a stop in front of the First Years. Although Harry now knew them as Fred and George Weasley, he couldn't for the life of him tell which was which.
"Hello Harry Potter," said the left one, grasping his hand.
"Welcome to Gryffindor," said the one the right, "That's Fred-"
"And I'm George," finished the one he'd called Fred.
Seamus and Dean introduced themselves, but Neville just looked confused.
"Wait, but-" he said, "Are you Fred or George? I don't get it."
"What's there not to get little firstie?" said the one on the left, "Like we said, he's George-"
"And I'm Fred."
The other three laughed at the perplexed look on Neville's face. He looked like his brain had just popped.
"I see that you're all fitting in quite nicely," came a sharp voice from behind them.
Turning around, Harry found Professor McGonagall stood holding a stack of parchment.
"Morning Professor," said one of the twins brightly.
"Did you see that excellent bit of Transfiguration we did at the end of last year?" asked the other, a glint in his eye.
Professor McGonagall's mouth twisted slightly, as if she couldn't quite decide whether to smile or scowl.
"It certainly was an impressive piece," she admitted, "In fact, you can both have five points for such excellent spell work."
Fred and George blinked, looking surprised at this reward.
"However," continued McGonagall, her eyes turning hard, "You can now both lose five points for testing such a spell upon another student. Next time, find a more appropriate subject for your experiment."
"Aw, come on Professor," whined one.
"They were only Slytherins," said the other.
"If the two of you think you can come up with a decent excuse to turn a student's robes into ice-water, then I would be happy to hear it, before removing another five points. Otherwise, here are your timetables for the year. I would try not to be late. Professor Snape does not take kindly to it, as you are no doubt aware."
The twins snatched the sheets from her hands and studied them with identical looks of horror.
"She's not joking," said one.
"Potions first thing on a Monday," said the other.
"Double Potions," amended the other.
"Well observed," said McGonagall, looking satisfied with their distress, "Now why don't you run along while I deal with these four."
The twins nodded and said a quick goodbye to Harry and the others, before dashing off towards the Entrance Hall. McGonagall was flicking through the sheets in her hands.
"Let's see then- ah, here we are," she said, "First Years- hmm, that's convenient, you are with me first today. If you are done eating, then you may as well come along with me so that none of you get lost."
The four boys stood up and followed McGonagall down the line as she handed out timetables. They saw many people, who were probably in the same year as Fred and George, groan when they saw theirs. The three First Year girls joined their little group near the door and McGonagall led them all out of the hall.
Professor McGonagall seemed to know the castle perfectly. She made her way to the Transfiguration Department on the Fifth Floor without breaking her stride once or using any of the hidden passageways. She led them to a spacious classroom which had rows of hard wooden chairs and two-person desks. A few Hufflepuffs who were already waiting outside in the corridor followed them in and the rest of them arrived a few minutes later, Ron among them.
Harry, who had already found himself a desk with Dean near the front, felt a quiver of excitement run through him. He was about to learn magic.
"Welcome to the Study of Transfiguration," said Professor McGonagall, once everyone was seated, "The most complicated and dangerous branch of magic you will ever learn while at Hogwarts. The art of Transfiguration requires unparalleled focus. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not return. You have been warned."
The entire class was deathly silent as she paused to let that sink in.
"Now," she began, approaching the blackboard, "I should begin by informing you all that we will not be performing any magic during this lesson."
There was a quiet murmur of whispering that ceased immediately when McGonagall cleared her throat.
"Magic is a strange and wonderful tool," she explained, "If used by someone who does not understand it, it can be exceedingly unpredictable, dangerous, even deadly."
Again, she paused here to allow them to think about that.
"As such, I shall first be teaching you the basic theory and methodology behind magic itself," she said, "I assure you, you will all be thanking me when your wands do not explode on your first attempt of a spell."
There was scattered and uncertain laughter at this, but McGonagall looked and sounded deadly serious.
"We will start with the most logical question," she continued, "What is magic?"
Several people around the room raised their hands to answer, though neither Ron nor Harry were among them.
"Miss Brown?" prompted McGonagall.
"It's the ability to alter the physical part of the world on its most basic levels," said a girl at the back with curly hair.
"A portion of the answer," said McGonagall, "Magic does indeed give us the power to alter the physical existence of the world, however an equally important portion of the answer is from where this power is drawn. Does anyone know where that is?"
Fewer people raised their hands this time.
"Miss Bones?"
"Our souls?" said Susan Bones, sounding unsure.
"Correct," said McGonagall, "Five points to the both of you. Indeed, magic is an inherent ability possessed by witches and wizards, which allows us to alter our physical existence, our body if you will, using alterations in our magical existence, or souls."
She flicked her wand at the board and chalk lines began dashing across it, repeating the definition she had just recited in flowing script.
"Copy down anything I write on the board, if you please."
There was a short shuffle as everyone moved to retrieve quills, ink and parchment from their bags, followed by the sound of scratching quills as they wrote down her words.
"Now then," continued McGonagall, "These two sides of our existence, the physical and magical, provide the basis for the most widely accepted theory of how magic works."
She flicked her wand again and two large dots appeared on either side of the blackboard, beneath the definition. The left was labelled Body, while the right was labelled Soul.
"Should any of you decide to study further into the science of Alchemy, then you will learn of several other theories on the nature of magic, however today we shall only be focusing on the most simple of them. We have already discussed how magic is the ability to use our souls to affect our body. Logically then, there must be a connection between the two within us. Do any of you know what this is more commonly known as?"
Lots of people had the answer to this question, in fact Harry and Dean were among the only six people in the class of twenty-five not to raise their hands.
"Mr Macmillan?"
"Our magical core," said a blond-haired boy near the front.
"Excellent, five points to Hufflepuff," said McGonagall, "The magical core of a person is, quite simply, the ability of that person to transfer magical energy from their soul to their body."
These words appeared on the board and she paused to let everyone write them down.
"It exists as a web of connections between the two," she said, flicking her wand at the board again.
Lots of curving lines began to appear, connecting the two dots together. The lines wove around each other, forming a twisted pattern of knots and spirals.
"As you can see, these connections can form many distinctive shapes and markers," she said, "Each magical core will have its own unique pattern, which can be used to map the magical abilities of the individual in question. What does this diagram remind you of?"
This time, Harry was among the many people to raise their hands.
"Miss Patil?"
"A fingerprint," answered a girl with dark hair.
"Five points to Gryffindor," said McGonagall.
With another wave of her wand, the words Magical Fingerprint Theory appeared at the top of the board in large letters.
"Your magical fingerprint describes the alignment which your magical core takes. It is why different people excel in different fields of magic. For example, one wizard may have a particular aptitude for curses, but find it incredibly difficult to work a proper charm. Similarly, a charms master may struggle with hexes or jinxes."
"It is important to understand this when learning magic," she continued, "As it is vital for you to be aware of your own strengths and weaknesses. Otherwise, you may find yourself suffering from what we call magical exhaustion. Just as any physical task you may do requires strength from your body, magical tasks require strength from your soul. Using too much too quickly will leave it tired and fatigued. This will mute your emotions somewhat, as well as making it far more difficult to draw upon your magic."
The definitions for magical fingerprint and magical exhaustion appeared on the board and they all copied them down.
"Now, aside from not knowing your own limits, does anyone know what the most important part of using magic is?"
Only two people at the back raised their hands this time.
"Mr Smith?"
"Pronouncing the spell correctly," said one of them.
"Not quite," said McGonagall, "Though that is also important. Anyone else?"
Only one person raised their hand. A boy with blond, curly hair who was sat next to Ron.
"Mr Finch-Fletchley?"
"Knowing what you want to do?" he said, though it sounded like a guess.
"Intention will be important later," admitted McGonagall, "However, I am thinking of the most vital part of learning magic. Does anyone have any other ideas?"
Nobody moved to answer.
"Disappointing," said McGonagall, "I would think that it is obvious. Perhaps it would help if I mentioned that it is a physical object."
Harry raised his hand, along with several others.
"Mr Potter?"
"A wand," he said, remembering how everyone had reacted to him doing magic without one.
"Correct, five points to Gryffindor," she said, "And why exactly is your wand so important?"
Nobody else in the room raised their hands, so Harry took this as a sign to continue his answer.
"Er- because your magic needs a way to get out of your body?" he guessed, thinking of his experience in Cokeworth.
"In a sense," said McGonagall, "I will accept that, take another five points."
'I just won us ten points,' thought Harry. He couldn't remember ever winning anything at muggle school.
"Magic, as I stated earlier, is very powerful and very, very dangerous," she said, making the last part very clear, "It must be given intention, a goal for it to accomplish. When you perform accidental magic, your emotions decide this goal for you, and it is they that carry the magical energy safely out of your body."
"However, a conscious decision to perform magic must be given very clear, distinct orders, otherwise it may become trapped within your body. Raw magical energy is nothing less than pure, unbiased potential, the ability to do anything. No body can withstand it in such quantities. Either it must be released as a spell, or it will destroy the body in its efforts to escape."
'Is that what would have happened?' thought Harry, 'If I hadn't stopped it in the hotel room.' His mind produced an image of him screaming and exploding into green light, and he quickly ended that line of thought.
"The simplest and most effective way to give your magic an intention is with a spell," continued McGonagall, "Just as you have both a physical and magical existence, your wand also has an equivalent of a body and a soul, as well as a magical core connecting them."
"This core," she said, "Is how your wand chose you. Wands have a magical fingerprint, just as witches and wizards do, and they are drawn to those who have similar fingerprints to them. They are far more changeable in their alignments than we are however, and will alter their fingerprint until it is perfectly matched with their chosen witch or wizard. This is why it is of the utmost importance for you to have a wand which has chosen you."
"Once a wand has matched itself to you," she continued, "Your magical core will consider it an extension of your body, which means that the magic can flow through the wand, rather than through your actual body."
"When they are crafted, wands are given the ability to recognise and translate certain movements and incantations," she said, "This is how one casts a spell. You will first find the magic within you and give it an intention. You will then perform the correct wand movement and incantation, and your wand will draw the magic out of your soul and release it, causing the desired effect upon the world."
"The incantation and wand motion are the simplest parts of this," she explained, "The most difficult part is forming your intention. You must truly believe in what you are trying to make happen. This is why Transfiguration magic is so difficult. You must look at something which exists before you and see something else entirely. You must look at a lamp and see a goblet. You must look at a rodent and see a lizard. You must look at my desk and see a pig."
And so, with a complex gesture of her wand and a long line of what sounded like gibberish, Professor McGonagall transformed her desk into a fat pig, releasing a loud bang and a flash of orange light from the wand tip as she did so.
Everyone applauded her and she quickly transformed it back into a desk, which was identical to the original in every way, even down to the burns and marks marring its surface.
The rest of lesson was taken up by Professor McGonagall teaching them how to use a wand correctly. She taught them the proper ways to hold a wand in different circumstances, as well as how to perform various wand movements. Harry had had no idea that there was such a big difference between a swish, a wave and a sweep. She also taught them the importance of matching intention with incantation. Apparently, having even a slightly incorrect or incomplete intention could lead to drastically different effects than what you expected.
Eventually, a bell rang to signal the end of lesson and Professor McGonagall dismissed them. The majority of the class, being Hufflepuffs, had Defence Against the Dark Arts next and so made their way to the Third Floor. The seven Gryffindors, on the other hand, had Potions, which meant they had to return to their Common Rooms for their cauldrons and potions kits.
On their way back down to the Entrance Hall, the three girls introduced themselves as Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil and Fay Dunbar. Thankfully, the trip downstairs didn't take nearly as long as it had that morning, although Harry could have sworn that some of the corridors led to different places than they had before.
Parvati, who had found out where the Potions Labs were from a Second Year girl, led them all down a long stone corridor and a steep spiral staircase. The room at the bottom led to two identical corridors, one of which housed the Potions Department, while the other led to the gigantic labyrinth that was the Hogwarts Dungeons.
The Gryffindors made their way to the First Year lab and found the Slytherins already set up inside, waiting for them. The workstations looked like they were meant to be shared by three people, but since they were only a class of fifteen, most of the space went unused. This time, Harry ended up next to Neville, while Dean and Seamus shared another desk. The girls all took up one desk, as did Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. A pair of Slytherins Harry didn't know had another desk, while Daphne shared with a snobbish-looking girl and another girl who rivalled Crabbe and Goyle in size.
Once again, Daphne was completely ignoring Harry. It seemed she took this house system very seriously indeed. He would be lying if he said that it didn't irritate him at all.
o0o0o0o
By the end of her first lesson, Daphne could honestly say that she should have put more consideration into the Sorting Hat's offer to put her in Ravenclaw.
After a painful breakfast that morning, where she had struggled to hold a conversation with her new housemates, the Slytherins had been handed their timetables by Professor Snape. To the dismay of most and the relief of a few, their first lesson of the day was not Potions, it was Herbology.
The Herbology Greenhouses were at the very bottom of the hill on which Hogwarts stood. They had been built near both the lake and the edge of the forest, so Daphne got a very good look at the Hogwarts grounds on her way there. The image of the castle in the morning sun was certainly striking, but the rest of the school looked just as magnificent. On a small hill in the outskirts of the forest to the west, the Owlery Tower stood tall and proud, and Daphne glimpsed several of its feathered residents swooping overhead. To the south, in the distance, she spotted the colourful stands of the Quidditch Pitch. She even caught a short glimpse of the famous giant squid which lived in the lake.
Sadly, the mood was ruined by Pansy Parkinson, who kept complaining about Herbology being a core subject. Then again, there were few things she didn't complain about. The black-haired girl was the only child of the Parkinson Family, who were about as pureblooded as a family could get. Unlike other purebloods however, the Parkinsons did not harbour any more contempt for muggles or muggle-borns than they did for most wizards. They despised them all equally.
The only families they deemed worth their attention were other Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Though they didn't have nearly as dark a history as some other nobles, this outlook on people had made them very unpopular with the general public. Indeed, Daphne's father often said that, out of all the families he associated with, the Parkinsons were the only family he truly disliked. That being said, the family was still very old, wealthy and influential within the Ministry of Magic, so Daphne had met Pansy several times before at various occasions they had both been dragged along to. The girl had always been spoiled rotten and Daphne hadn't expected that to change one bit when they went to Hogwarts.
Sometimes, Daphne hated being right all the time.
The lesson itself had been just as horrible. Parkinson had continued her complaining under her breath for the entirety of it. She complained about the dirt on her robes, the lack of magic, the amount of rules they had to follow. Daphne tried her hardest to block the whining out and focus on what Professor Sprout was saying, but the rest of her housemates weren't helping much either. Malfoy was complaining just as much as Parkinson, though his complaints were more focused on the fact that they had to share a class with another house. Crabbe and Goyle kept knocking things over or bumping into people and nearly knocking them over. Bulstrode just nodded along with Parkinson or hummed in agreement, while the dark-skinned boy and auburn-haired girl, whose names Daphne didn't know, worked silently.
The Ravenclaws mainly just got on with their work, but occasionally one would shoot a dark look at Malfoy or Parkinson for something they said. Hermione Granger was so focused on her work that she didn't even seem to notice that there was anyone else in the room. She answered almost every question, made all of her notes faster than everyone and did every task put to her without complaint. Daphne couldn't help but envy the bushy-haired girl whenever Parkinson opened her mouth.
'It'll get easier,' she encouraged herself, 'And dealing with a bit of complaining is far better than being on their bad sides.'
Not that she was scared of Malfoy or Parkinson, of course. It was her father's reaction that worried her. She remembered something he'd told her not long before she had left for Hogwarts.
"It doesn't matter how you feel," he'd said, "Whether you want to curse them into oblivion or smother them with love, it doesn't matter. What matters is how they see you, what you say, how you act. Your image is what gets you allies and when you end up needing some favour desperately, you will be glad that you sat through such pain and effort to get them. Allies are worth far more to you than friends ever will be."
So, she sat through it. She kept her chin up and spoke politely to them all, telling herself it would be worth it in the end. She'd never be friends with them, but it was wasteful to stay as their enemies.
'Besides,' she thought, 'I've never made any real friends anyway. I wouldn't know where to start.'
She had gotten very good at lying to herself since she'd arrived at this school.
After Herbology was over, the class made their way back up the path to the castle. To Daphne's relief, the next class was Potions, something neither Malfoy or Parkinson could find anything to complain about. Upon arriving back at the school, they turned right and went down the now familiar path to the Dungeons Entrance. The Ravenclaws turned left and disappeared up the marble stairs.
Daphne retrieved her Potions equipment with everyone else and carried it to the First Year lab. It was a low, square room, lit by flickering green torchlight and filled with clammy, pungent air.
The Gryffindors arrived a minute or two later. Daphne tried not to react to the looks she knew Potter was sending her way. He didn't seem to understand just what it meant for him to be in Gryffindor when she was in Slytherin. She knew he'd be getting a rude awakening very soon, though she couldn't say she was looking forward to it.
Professor Snape arrived not long after, swooping through the door like a bat and stalking towards the front of the class. He paid no attention to the eleven-year-olds who filled the room until he reached his desk, where he turned on his heel and loomed over them. His black eyes were like cold pits, and for once Daphne had no idea what this man might be thinking.
"You are here," he said, quite suddenly, "To learn a very subtle and exact art. Potion-making is a magic unlike any other. There will be no bright lights or loud noises in here. Instead, we shall be observing the softly simmering cauldron, the gentle rise of the delicate fumes, the musical bubbling of liquid power that can be drawn from carefully selected and prepared ingredients. I expect that the true beauty and subtlety of this work shall be lost upon many of you."
His voice was no higher than a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a knife. No one dared to speak up while he was in the room. His mere presence inspired a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"Should any of you manage to grasp what it is I speak of, then I can teach you to bewitch minds and ensnare senses; how to bottle fame, brew glory, put a stopper in death. A true potioneer understands that a wand is only the first and most obvious tool of magic they possess."
After allowing them to soak in his words, he withdrew a sheet of parchment from his desk and began to take the register, marking off their names with an enormous black feather quill. He paused at the names Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy and looked up at the student in question, his eyes narrowing briefly. He did the same when he reached the name Potter, though this one he looked at with a completely blank face.
Once the register had been taken, he strode the length of the room and stopped by the door, before turning and pointing his wand at the board. The words Cure for Boils appeared underlined on the surface, then long lines of instructions in tight handwriting dashed from left to right beneath it.
"This is a most simple potion," said Snape, "It is barely more than ten steps. I expect even the dimmest of you to produce adequate results. I shall be inspecting your work and evaluating your use of the laboratory. I would hope that you have all studied the Rules of Potioneering section in Chapter One of Magical Drafts and Potions. I shall be distributing punishment to any of you who violate these rules. You may begin now."
Daphne quickly realised that Professor Snape had been greatly exaggerating how simple this potion was. Though it did indeed consist of only eleven steps, each step had to be performed perfectly, with exactly the right time left between each. This became apparent very soon, when everyone's potions began to look and smell wildly different. Malfoy's had gone an ugly shade of blue-grey and smelled oddly metallic. Crabbe and Goyle had attempted to copy him, but theirs were foul green and muddy brown respectively, neither of them had any distinct smell. Daphne's had turned a pale violet, which wasn't quite the deep, plum purple that it was supposed to be, but it smelled correct at least.
Professor Snape himself stalked the room, peering into cauldrons and looming over people to watch their preparations. Every now and then, he would point out a mistake someone had made and take points from them for it. Daphne noticed that, while he took only one point per failure from the Slytherins, he took five from the Gryffindors. It seemed that their head of house was just as obsessed with this House Cup as their Head Boy was.
The only two who seemed to be having no trouble were Bulstrode, who had her face scrunched up so tight that it was a wonder she could keep her eyes open, and Potter, who kept tapping something with his wand for some reason. The key to Potter's success soon became clear, as Professor Snape swooped down on him while he crushed some seeds for step five.
"Potter," he said darkly, "What is this?"
Daphne tried to concentrate on her potion, but she wasn't the only one who distracted by the sudden confrontation.
"Er- the cure for boils, sir?" replied Potter.
"Don't play dumb with me Potter," said Professor Snape calmly, "That in your hand, what is it?"
"My mortar and pestle, sir."
The pale man took the tool in his hands and held it up to the light, inspecting it closely. Glancing at it, Daphne noticed that it was much nicer than the one she had found in the cupboard, it must have belonged to Potter himself.
"Where did you get this, Potter?" asked Professor Snape, still strangely calm.
"At Mulpepper's, sir. In Diagon Alley."
"And you thought to bring it here with you?"
"Well- I-" said Potter, realising he must have done something wrong.
"This is self-cleaning," observed Snape, "A simple tap-to-activate enchantment it would seem. Quite useful, I would think."
He looked back down at Potter, his face still blank.
"I'm sure you all recognise Mr Potter," he said to the room at large, "The famous hero, who defeated the last Dark Lord ten years ago. It would seem that this fame places him above the rest of you. He does not need to learn how to use his equipment properly, for he has brought his own toys to do it for him."
"I didn't-" began Potter.
"Silence," said Snape sharply, "While you are in my class Potter, do not make the mistake of thinking that you are above anyone else. I will not permit you to use such a blatant disregard for your own learning. You will use the equipment I provide you, nothing else. Now, go and get a new one, before your potion boils away."
Potter looked like he wanted to protest, but he smartly kept his mouth shut and went to the store cupboard, searching inside for a replacement. From nearby, Daphne heard Malfoy snickering.
"You will lose five points and I shall be confiscating this, Potter," said Snape coolly, "To ensure that you do not decide that your fame places you above such standard equipment again."
"What! You can't-" exclaimed Potter.
"I cannot what, Potter?" interrupted Snape.
The whole class was silent now, and nobody was watching their cauldrons. The green half seemed to be watching Snape eagerly, while the Gryffindors were rooting for Harry. Daphne wasn't quite sure which side she should be on.
Potter and Professor Snape didn't seem to notice their new audience.
"You can't confiscate it, it's mine!" Potter protested.
"I can and I am Potter," said Snape, "I believe I will take another five points from you, for questioning my decision. If you allow your potion to boil itself to ruin, then I will make it another ten. Now return to work, all of you."
He looked up sharply as he said the last part and everyone quickly turned their eyes back to their cauldrons.
Even after losing his mortar and pestle, Potter's head-start allowed him to produce a much better result than most people in the room, although he seemed to make a few more slip-ups in his anger at the confiscation. At the end of the lesson, Professor Snape passed over Potter's cauldron without a word, perhaps to emphasise that he believed the boy had been cheating. He removed a point each from Crabbe and Goyle for their abysmal efforts, but awarded ten to Bulstrode, who had made a near perfect concoction. He awarded no points to the Gryffindors, though he did remove another five after he sniffed one of their cauldrons with a look of distaste.
"A poor display," said Professor Snape, once he had checked everyone, "I expected far better from a class which contains my own house. Crabbe, Goyle," he pointed at the two of them, "You will both follow me to my office, as will you, Longbottom," he turned to the Gryffindor boy who he had taken points from at the end, "The rest of you are dismissed."
He left the room, the three boys following behind him glumly. The rest of the class packed everything into their bags and made their way to the Dungeons Entrance. It was about five minutes until lunch, so they had time to spare.
"I knew he'd be brilliant," Malfoy was saying loudly, "My father's good friends with him. It's good to have a teacher that knows who the right sort are."
Daphne did her best to tune him out and caught the end of something Potter was saying nearby.
"-unfair, how was I supposed to know that?"
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he hates you," said another Gryffindor boy.
"I'm telling you, there's something about him," argued Potter, "You didn't see him at the Feast. There's something- I don't know, I- I just can't put my finger on it, but I don't like it."
"He hates all Gryffindors," pointed out a girl with dark hair, "Everyone knows that. Didn't you notice how unfair he was being with the points?"
"Aww," mocked Pansy Parkinson, who had also been listening, "Are the poor little lions upset that they lost all their points so quickly?"
"You shouldn't be surprised, Parkinson," added Malfoy with a smirk, "Theirs has always been a house of sore losers."
"Shut up Malfoy," snapped Potter.
"Why should I?" said Malfoy, "You know what, I'm with the Professor. There's really nothing that special about you is there Potter? I mean, I knew you weren't that smart from the moment you said the Dark Lord's name. Only a fool would be so disrespectful."
Potter paused at that. Daphne actually thought he might back off for a moment, but he took a deep breath and looked Malfoy dead in the eye.
"Why shouldn't I call him Voldemort?"
Everyone flinched and several people gasped. Potter had squared his jaw and seemed to be fighting to keep himself from retching.
"You- you-" spluttered Malfoy, "Who do you think you are to say that name?"
"Why do I need to be anyone?" spat Potter, "It doesn't matter any more. He's dead. Voldemort's dead."
The second naming seemed to build on the first, doubling the terror in the air. Potter was breathing heavily and his face was very pale, making him look like he was ill.
"Stop it!" screamed Pansy, clapping her hands over her ears, "Stop saying it!"
"Harry, maybe you should- uh-" said one of the Gryffindors, looking quite scared.
"You think you can just say that name and it makes you special?" mocked Malfoy, who was shaking, "You're just a sad little orphan who doesn't understand how unimportant he is."
"You think I care what you think Malfoy?" asked Potter, "I don't. I really don't. I've dealt with people like you before. I don't care if you have some fancy name, you're just a coward."
Malfoy's wand was out in a flash and Potter's wasn't far behind. Their cauldrons fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Everyone backed away quickly as the two faced each other down.
Everyone except for Daphne that is, who moved forward and grabbed Malfoy by the wand arm, forcing it downwards.
"Leave it Malfoy," she said, "Remember what Renshaw-"
"Who cares what that puffed up half-blood said," snapped Malfoy, "Someone needs to teach Potter here a lesson."
"I said leave it!" she said harshly, giving him a cold glare, "He isn't worth it."
That seemed to reach something in Malfoy, and he pulled his arm away from her roughly, sticking his wand back in his robes.
"I guess you're lucky you aren't as important as you think Potter," said Malfoy, "She's right. You're not worth my wand."
Daphne glanced at Potter and immediately wished that she hadn't. The look of betrayal on his face was evident. She hadn't expected that his rude awakening would come from her, but it made a perverse kind of sense.
'It's his own fault,' part of her argued feebly, 'If he'd been in Slytherin then we could have been friends. This is just the way things are.'
That line of argument left her feeling dirty and she quickly turned away from him.
"Come on Harry," one of the Gryffindors was saying, "Let's go to lunch. They aren't worth it either."
"Yeah. Yeah let's- let's go," replied Potter. Now that the anger was gone from his voice, the effects of naming You-Know-Who twice were obvious.
Daphne looked back at him, but his back was turned as he climbed the stairs back to the Ground Floor. Suddenly, she felt a strange surge of guilt. She wanted to go to him and tell him that she didn't mean it. She wanted to explain it all to him, about how she needed to make nice with Malfoy and the others. She wanted to tell him that she was still his friend.
'This is silly,' she thought, 'I was never his friend to begin with. We just shared a compartment on the train. I didn't have any problem with this before the Sorting. I knew that I wouldn't end up in the same house as any of them. Not Potter, not Weasley, not Granger. I accepted that. I never wanted to be friends with any of them.'
She had gotten very good at lying to herself indeed.