Chapter Three: The Ways of the School
Harry was expecting to struggle in his classes from the word go, and he wasn't disappointed.
In his first class, Transfiguration, they were supposed to be conjuring birds. It wasn't the others' first class on this topic, but Harry was floundering, having only just managed to master Vanishing lizards for his OWL.
Professor Hopkirk was not much help. "This isn't hard, Evans," he snapped when Harry failed to produce a single feather. At the back of the classroom, Fawley sniggered. Harry adopted his Snape tactic: block out the teacher and read up on the theory later to try and figure out where he was going wrong. Hopkirk did not have Snape's bias and cruel streak, but he seemed to expect perfection from his students, with little patience for the ones who were having trouble keeping up. Harry was relieved to leave his class, and during break he made his way to Time Studies.
Harry did a double-take when Professor Ford turned up. At first he thought he was imagining things—glancing around the classroom, everyone seemed to be ignoring the fact that their teacher was sporting a monogrammed satin dressing-gown and a matching nightcap. And his glasses still seemed to be upside-down.
As Ford began taking the register, Harry decided that he wasn't imagining things. Ford really was dressed for bed. And judging by his classmates' lack of sniggering, it must be a normal occurrence.
Harry couldn't imagine why a strict disciplinarian like Umbridge would allow this. But since nobody batted an eyelid, he decided not to let it bother him either, and listened intently as Ford began the lesson.
Ford wasn't a bad teacher, but the subject was so complicated and by the end, Harry's head was swimming. He had followed maybe ten percent of the class, even with the textbook open in front of him.
When the class ended, Ford bade them all a good night and settled down in his desk chair as if preparing to go to sleep.
"You get used to it."
Harry jumped and whirled round. His dorm-mate that the others called 'Kid' was watching him.
"Does he always take the lesson in his nightclothes?"
"No, not always," Kid replied. "Maybe about a third of the time. And once last June he turned up wearing nothing at all, but that was a unique occurrence."
Harry really hoped so.
"It's nae his fault. He used to work as an Unspeakable. He won't confirm it, but rumour has it there was a nasty accident once and now his personal time is completely random."
Having seen the Time Room in the Department of Mysteries for himself, Harry had to admit he couldn't find any reason to doubt this story. "How does he get to class on time if he thinks it's the middle of the night?"
"He wouldn't if Professor Myers didn't help him." The two of them fell into step towards the Great Hall. "Between you and me, I reckon she's got a soft spot for him."
"What about the Headmistress?" Harry asked. "She didn't strike me as the type to keep on a teacher that … unpredictable."
Kid shrugged. "We've all wondered how long he can last, but maybe she's sweet on him too." Harry shuddered at the thought. "It would explain why he's still teaching after that June class. It was being inspected by the Ministry at the time."
Harry snorted with laughter, and Kid chuckled too. "Look, I'm sorry we didn' give you a warmer welcome, Evans."
"That's oka—all right," Harry hastily corrected. "I didn't catch your name?"
"Kid. Short for McKiddie."
"That's your last name?"
"Yes," Kid replied. "What about you? Do you prefer Evans or … Aberforth, isn't it?"
Harry missed a beat. "Oh—er—I don't mind. I get called both." Not that that was true, but Kid wasn't to know that.
"Aberforth it is then. Listen …" Kid hesitated. "What you did—standing up to Mace—"
"Mace?"
"Mace Fawley."
"Oh, him," Harry muttered darkly.
"It was very brave, of course, but you might want to watch your back. You publicly humiliated him; he is not going to forget it in a hurry. He has more brawn than brains but can still be rather … Slytherin if he thinks the opponent calls for it. You definitely call for it."
"I'm flattered."
"I'm serious, Aberforth." Kid grasped Harry's shoulder, stopping in the middle of the hall. "If you're smart, you'll stay far out of his way and keep your head down. It's the only way to survive in this school."
"Thanks for the advice," Harry said seriously, "but I'm more interested in keeping him from beating up first-years."
"Then you're dead," Kid said solemnly.
With that cheerful thought, Harry joined a solitary Albus at the lunch table. Kid hesitated for a moment, but went over to join Mace Fawley and friends further down. Harry chose not to watch them, but he could feel Fawley's glower on his back.
The next lesson was Herbology, with a Welsh man named Travers who seemed to have an almost Hagrid-like enthusiasm for the most dangerous plants, which the greenhouses were full of. The rest of the class were clearly used to it, but Harry narrowly avoided being swallowed by a Teryawoud—one of his classmates yanked him away by the scruff of his neck just in time.
"Thanks," Harry gasped, backing up hurriedly and looking round to see who had helped him. The others all appeared to be absorbed in their work, so his rescuer's identity was a mystery.
Harry was partly dreading Potions, but hoped that Ealing might be more helpful than Snape was.
"No supplies?" Ealing queried at the beginning of his first class. Harry squirmed with embarrassment as a few people tittered.
"Um, no sir."
"The store cupboard is back there," Ealing said briskly, with a frown in the direction of Fawley. "I will find you a spare cauldron. The rest of you, turn to page two hundred and three."
Harry took the only free seat next to Suco Leben, with a slightly dented but useable cauldron, a falling-apart textbook and a set of ingredients. Suco didn't spare him a glance, his eyes fixed on his textbook. Harry wasn't sure what it was, but something about the other boy made him nervous.
"For the benefit of those of you who were absent last lesson …"
Hmm, already his teaching methods went far beyond Snape's. Harry felt rather more hopeful.
"… we are going to make another attempt at the Blood-Replenishing Potion today." A few people groaned. "Enough of that at the back, thank you. It is a very difficult potion to get right, but once you have all managed it, you will find the rest of the NEWT much easier, so it is worth persisting at. As before, you must include a drop of your own blood in the mixture. Has everyone got a phial and a knife?"
Harry hoped Ealing was joking, until he saw a tiny crystal phial and a small penknife on the desk in front of him. Looking around, he saw other people were nodding.
"Good. Mr Evans, since you haven't done this previously, you will need to identify your blood type as well for the potion. I will instruct you in a moment."
Next to Harry, Suco raised his hand.
"Yes, Mr Leben, I will provide for yours. Does everyone have the instructions? … Good. Any questions, just put your hand up. Class, begin."
Ealing approached Harry's table. "I will be with you in one moment, Mr Evans." He picked up the knife in front of Suco, and before Harry's eyes pricked his finger and deposited a few drops of blood into Suco's phial before performing a quick Healing spell. Suco was watching with an almost hungry look in his eyes. "There you are, Mr Leben."
"Thank you, sir." Suco tore his eyes away and got to work.
"Now, Mr Evans, would I be right in thinking you have not made this potion before?"
"Yeah," Harry replied.
As the rest of the class started working, Ealing took Harry through the theory. He explained patiently, asked Harry if he understood, and happily repeated it when Harry said no. What was more, he managed to put it in much plainer terms than the textbook, so after a while Harry thought he had actually grasped it.
"You still have half the lesson," Ealing said, glancing at the clock. "Have a try. Don't worry if you don't manage it. No-one else in this class has yet."
He showed Harry how to magically identify his blood type, which would go on the potion label if the result was acceptable (unlikely) and then left him to start brewing.
As Harry worked, he felt a lot more confident. For once he felt like he actually understood what he was doing, rather than relying on parroting what Snape and the textbooks said. That essay he had been stressing about would now never be finished—Harry quickly quelled the thought, lest he resume dwelling on his lost life—but before he had met Snape, Harry had been rather looking forward to the subject. Snape had then spoilt it for him. Maybe with a better teacher …
He was getting ahead of himself. With no greasy gits breathing down the back of his neck and distracting him, Harry managed to absorb himself fully in what he was doing. He had just added his carefully shredded Valerian roots when a voice spoke next to him, making him start. "How did you do that?"
"Sorry?" Harry turned to look at Suco, who was staring into Harry's cauldron. "Do what?"
"Progress so far. Your potion is practically perfect. I haven't been able to get past the Flitterbloom tentacles without something going wrong."
"Oh," Harry said, too surprised to formulate anything else. He glanced down at his textbook. His potion wasn't exactly the pearly blue it was supposed to be, but it was definitely closer to blue than Suco's. "I don't know. I never used to be good at Potions."
"My goodness, Mr Evans," a voice said behind him, and he looked around to see Ealing staring in astonishment at his half-completed potion. "I thought you said you were no good at Potions?"
"I'm not," Harry mumbled, painfully aware of the entire class eavesdropping.
"I beg to differ. A remarkable effort. I don't think I've seen a student grasp Quisenberry's Technique so quickly." Harry's mouth fell open in shock. "Place your potion under a stasis charm, and you can continue it next lesson."
Maybe it was a fluke, Harry thought as he followed Ealing's orders and then began clearing up with everyone else, only a couple of whom had had the honour of being told to put their efforts in stasis for the next class. Most cauldrons were just disaster areas, and Harry was once again on the receiving end of scowls, not just from Fawley this time.
He couldn't have suddenly got good at Potions. He knew he wasn't as bad as Snape had always said (well, no-one could be that bad), but he'd always struggled with the theory. Maybe that was just because no-one had explained it properly to him—not even Hermione, although she'd tried her best. Now, however, Harry felt as if a light bulb had gone off inside his head and a lot of things made much more sense.
Despite the sour looks aimed in his direction, Harry felt somewhat better.
Harry's first few days passed, and he learnt quickly.
Wands couldn't be used in corridors or common rooms. There was some kind of ward blocking the magic. Which Harry considered could be a good idea in theory, as it prevented wizard duels blowing up all the time, but in fact led to physical fighting—and on a very regular basis.
"It's all about power," Albus had explained to Harry over lunch on the second day. "Not just magical power, that will do you no good if you're ever without a wand. Power is in politics, money, blood status, the mind, and if necessary in the fist."
"And the teachers just let them get on with it?" Harry asked, dumbstruck.
"It's supposed to be good training for adult life. You learn what the real world is like early enough to adapt to it, so you don't fall under when you're pushed out there."
Which again could be okay in theory, but as far as Harry could see it regularly got too rough for his liking. Albus wasn't the only younger student being picked on, although he seemed to be one of the more regular victims. According to the twelve-year-old, since the ban on magic outside the classroom had been enforced magically nearly seven decades ago, several students had died from injuries sustained in between-class fights, and most were in first or second year with Muggle blood.
Overall, Harry was strongly reminded of his primary school days when Dudley's gang were the kings of the playground and no-one dared stand up to them. Albus also reminded him of himself a lot: he too was short and skinny, with a pale, pinched face and something in his eyes that unsettled him—they looked haunted, and Harry wondered why but dared not ask. Although he had let Harry befriend him, he also seemed shy and unwilling—or incapable—to trust easily.
So far, Harry had managed to avoid Fawley. The boy always seemed to be with at least one of their dorm-mates, usually all of them save for Suco, who tended to keep to himself. Since their conversations on the first day, neither Suco nor Kid had made any effort to talk to Harry again.
Well, fine. He had Albus. He didn't need other friends. Especially not ones who were buddies with a violent bully or just plain gave Harry the shivers.
All the same, Harry felt incredibly lonely. He tried his best not to think about his friends back at home, but he couldn't help being reminded of them constantly. Albus was the only one he could talk to, but he didn't want to burden the twelve-year-old with his problems. Albus seemed troubled enough without Harry adding to whatever it was that haunted him.
There was a silver lining, though it was a rather depressing one. Without social time or Quidditch practise, Harry had far more time for homework, and with Albus' help was slowly catching up.
"I need a break," Harry muttered, finally putting down his Potions text and rubbing his eyes. He had been studying non-stop for four hours. His brain had already been fizzling out when the Quidditch team had trudged in from their latest practise. Harry tried not to look in the corner, where his dorm-mate Byrd Rushman was telling anyone who would listen about his latest record capture of the Snitch. Even Harry smugly knowing that he would beat Byrd's eight-minute record in his second ever game wasn't enough to quell the burning jealousy.
"You miss it?"
Harry jumped and looked around at Albus. "Sorry?"
"Playing Quidditch. It was obvious from your expression."
Harry sighed. "Yeah, I miss it. I miss flying, period. I wish I still had my broom."
"I wish I could help with that," Albus said quietly, "but I might have an idea where you could get some money. Although it would be risky."
Harry brightened. "Sounds like my kinda plan. What idea?"
Albus rifled in his bag and pulled out that morning's copy of the Daily Prophet before flicking to a page near the back. "There's a job on offer in Hogsmeade in the Post Office, weekends only."
Harry looked down at the advert. Getting a job did seem to be the only way he was going to get any money, but that would require leaving the school. Upon his pointing that out, Albus bit his lip.
"It was just a thought. I don't think asking for permission would be a good idea, since it would draw attention to your financial situation. But I know there are ways out of the castle …"
"Yeah, there are," Harry said thoughtfully, thinking of the secret passages. "But if I don't get permission, and get caught …"
"Hardly anyone in Hogwarts uses the Post Office, because of all the school owls," Albus said. "It would still be a risk, but not as big as working anywhere else."
"I suppose … Well, I could give it a go. Hang on …" Harry scanned the advert for the salary, and his heart sank. "A Galleon a year?"
"That's not bad," Albus said.
"Oh." Of course—he was in the past. Harry still kept forgetting. Obviously wizarding money was like Muggle money in that its value changed over time. "So, how much is a year's school fees?"
There was a pause. "Four Galleons."
Harry groaned and slumped in his chair. Robbing Gringotts was looking more and more attractive.
TBC …
