Chapter 7 – Stories and Surprises
Harry's POV
Between the time he took to make the sign and the long minutes spent just taking in every single detail of his room, lunchtime crept up on Harry before he realised.
He'd already sprung up from his bed when he remembered that cooking was probably Snappy's job. To be honest, he had no idea where meals were served at Hogwarts, or where all of the food was kept, so he couldn't go and help even if he wanted. It was a little weird to sit and wait for someone else to prepare his lunch, with absolutely nothing to do in the meantime. He didn't feel guilty, exactly; he wasn't used to it, that was all. It was just like when he knew he'd forgotten something, but didn't know what that something was: without his cooking duties, his day seemed to be missing a piece.
He went back to the Professor's office to ask her where he was supposed to eat, and had to rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things: her desk was gone and a table, with two matching chairs facing each other, had already been laid in the middle of the room instead. The only thing missing was the food, but he supposed Snappy was already busy with that.
"Surprised, Harry? Meals are usually served in the Great Hall downstairs, but I thought you'd like something a little bit more private this time. You've already had to handle a lot without me introducing you to several people at once."
"Thank you." Harry was pretty sure remembering all of her colleagues' names would be a nightmare, so he really appreciated it. It was one less chance to look stupid.
He guessed which one was his seat by the small vial of nutrient potion next to his plate, and they both took their places. That, too, was a pleasant surprise: he barely knew what it felt like to have a companion because he was used to eating what he could either before or after the rest of them―when he didn't skip meals altogether, that is.
Once again, Harry thought he was dreaming when Snappy came back with their lunch, but a few mouthfuls confirmed that the roast chicken was very much real. And if that weren't enough, the elf kept coming back with more courses, ending their private feast with some treacle tart. If that was regularly served at Hogwarts, Harry already knew he'd come to love it. He made it a point to try a bit of everything, but between the food and the potion, his stomach soon felt fuller than it ever had.
"That was the best lunch of my life!" The Professor gave a half-smile, but didn't seem to consider it much of a compliment.
"I'm glad you think so. With a few more square meals and Madam Pomfrey's help, you'll grow up in no time."
They both watched Snappy take the dirty dishes back to wherever they came from, then Professor McGonagall drew her wand. "Well, I'd better get my desk back. Is there anything else you want to ask me? It's a way like any other to pass the afternoon, and there are countless things I'm sure you're itching to know."
"There is one," said Harry, though 'a million' was closer to the truth. "Why does everyone seem to know me?"
The Professor stopped dead. Uh-oh. With his luck, he'd probably just asked the one question she didn't want to hear. Why did he always have to make mistakes?
But when she looked at him, her expression wasn't angry at all. She looked very serious, but not mad at him. Harry could feel something in the air change, though, as if the atmosphere in the room had just gotten a lot more tense all of a sudden. It was the sort of feeling that always preceded something important.
"It's a good thing the furniture isn't back to normal. We need to sit down for this one."
"Is... is it something I said?"
"No, Harry. I just didn't think this moment would come so soon."
He would have dearly loved to ask: 'What moment?', but decided not to risk it. Maybe she wouldn't want to answer anymore if he annoyed her.
"Now, Harry, I have to ask you for something that might be difficult for you. It's okay if you don't feel like answering. I need you to tell me exactly what they told you about your parents."
"Nothing. No one was allowed to talk about them, and I mean no one, not just me. But then, one day, someone in my class asked me about this," here he paused and brushed his hair away to show his scar, "before Dudley scared him away, I mean. And... well... since Aunt Petunia seemed to be in a good mood, I asked, even though I knew I shouldn't. She told me I'd gotten it in the car crash in which my parents died, and that was it. No more talking about them."
For the second time in a row, Harry was afraid he'd said something terribly wrong. The Professor looked outraged, her lips reduced to a thin line, so much fury emanating from her that he could very nearly see it as a third presence in the room.
In a strangely calm voice – 'the calm before the storm', he'd once heard say – she repeated, as if making sure: "A car crash. They told you your parents died in a car crash?"
"Yes, Professor. Is... is something wrong?"
"Oh, Harry... everything is wrong." There, she'd said it. What would happen now? Would she change her mind about being his guardian so soon?
His eyes must have gone wide at that, because she added in a rush: "Not with what you said, with them!"
Harry was so relieved he could have cried with happiness, but crying usually got him into trouble, so he managed to stop himself.
"W-what do you mean?"
She took a deep breath as if to steady herself. "Have you ever seen a car crash? On television, maybe?" He thought he'd heard her pause a little before saying 'television', but he wasn't sure what the hesitation meant.
"I think so. It wasn't pretty. The cars were in such a bad state you could barely tell what they were. I remember Uncle Vernon going on about people driving drunk..."
"Exactly. Now, Harry, how do you think you survived such a thing with just that scar?"
He thought hard, but how was he supposed to know how car accidents worked? He wasn't a doctor or anything! He'd just been lucky to get out of it almost unhurt, and that was it. He really couldn't picture how it had happened. And then there was that dream he always had, the one with the green light that always woke him up with a start. He'd always thought it could be a memory of the crash, since nothing of that sort had ever happened to him at the Dursleys', but he had no idea where the light came from. Headlights looked nothing like that.
"I... I suppose it's a bit small, but..."
"There is a reason why it's so small, Harry, and it's probably going to be your greatest shock yet. Believe me, I hate to tell you, but... your parents did not die in a car crash. Your relatives lied to you."
Harry didn't know what to think or feel. He just sat there in silence, caught in a whirl of so many different ideas at once that he didn't know where to start from. On the one hand, the Professor was convinced they'd lied to him about so many other things, this one should have been no surprise. On the other hand, it seemed impossible to him that everything they'd ever told him was a lie. How could anyone enjoy lying so much? Perhaps they really thought it had been a car crash, and they'd never noticed that his scar didn't match that story. For maybe a split second, Harry allowed himself to hope that the Professor meant to say they weren't dead at all, but then realised that it didn't make any sense. Had they been alive, he wouldn't have had to live with his aunt and uncle for all those years. He wasn't disappointed: he was already so used to accepting that he was 'Harry the orphan' that it really didn't make much of a difference. Crash or no crash, his parents stayed dead, and there was no point in getting his hopes up. But there was something that could make all the difference in the world.
"How... how did they die, then?"
"Remember when I told you that there are good wizards and bad wizards?"
Harry shivered a little. Did she mean... ? "Yes, Professor."
"The truth, Harry, is that your parents died at the hands of one of those evil wizards. The worst our world has ever seen, probably. I wish I had a way, any way, to be less harsh, but you have a right to know. He came to your parents' house on October 31st, 1981, and he killed them. He tried to kill you as well, but... he failed."
"The green light..." he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"You remember that?"
"A little, I think. But... Professor, who is he?"
Harry fought back the urge to cry, but he knew he would break down eventually. She'd been okay with many things before, so he hoped it would be the same with tears.
"Most wizards do not say his name. I normally hesitate to say it myself, but this calls for an exception. His name was Voldemort."
Harry caught on to the most important part. "'Was'? Is he dead too?"
"No one knows for sure. Some think he's dead, others disagree. What we do know is that he lost his powers and fled. He's probably hiding somewhere."
"Why did he do that?"
"Again, Harry, nobody can be certain. Your parents weren't the only ones. He killed other people as well, and it wasn't always clear why."
"How... how did I survive? I mean... why me, of all people? What do I have that none of the others had?" Maybe he'd just gotten something wrong when he tried to kill him... but no, he'd done it many times before, hadn't he? It couldn't possibly have been just a stroke of luck. Harry could use several words to describe himself, but up until very recently, he wouldn't have used the term 'lucky'. But then, if it wasn't because of that man, the only other option was for him to be different than all of the other people he'd killed. Did that make him – it was odd to think that – somehow special? That must be why everyone knew him before he introduced himself, but so far, he hadn't been able to tell whether their surprise had been of a good or bad kind.
"There are theories, Harry, one more unlikely than the next, but I can't give you a definite answer yet."
'Hate', like 'love', was one of those words that were much bigger than they sounded. Harry wasn't sure he'd ever truly hated anyone, even his relatives when they were at their worst―they didn't like him, but they'd at least given him a place to stay. But this wizard, Voldemort (and what a strange name it was)... he didn't even remember his face, he'd never seen him again after that day, but he was pretty sure he hated him. He was the reason he had no one to call Mum or Dad, and that was it. He knew nothing else about him, not even the tiniest little thing that could make him correct himself and think that 'hate' was too much. How could he not hate the person who took his parents away from him? He had no one to tuck him into bed and kiss him goodnight, no one who would swell with pride on his first day of school, no one to hug him and say 'I love you'... all because of him. If it was possible to decide to hate someone, Harry had just done that. What he felt towards the faceless figure that was Voldemort wasn't at all like his feelings towards the Dursleys: with them, all he ever wanted was to make them stop, but for one reason or another, he never truly thought he could get back at them. This time, however, was different. For the first time in his life, Harry knew what it felt like to want to hurt someone. He remembered very little of the day his parents died, but he needed no details to be sure that if the wizard were right there in front of him, no matter how much older or stronger than him he was, he would... he would just...
Crash.
The next thing he knew, his empty glass had fallen to a million little pieces.
"Sorry! I'm so sorry, Professor, I won't do it again, I promise!"
Thoughts chased each other in his mind without really getting anywhere. He'd apologised without even fully realising it, but then he told himself that maybe she wouldn't want him to be sorry for doing one of his freaky things; about half a second later, though, he changed his mind again, because if magic itself needed no apology (it's magic, Harry, not freaky things, get used to it!), breaking a glass that wasn't his definitely did.
"There's no need to be sorry. To be fair, I was just waiting for something like this to happen."
"But... but..." That wasn't the reaction he had expected at all.
"Oh, come on, Harry! Magic broke it, and magic will fix it. Reparo!" Hey, that sounded the same as the strange word she'd said to repair his glasses. He felt sort of proud of himself for remembering it.
As the tiny shards all flew back together as if they'd never been scattered all over the place, he even went as far as to suppose it could fix pretty much anything. Whoever invented it must have been very smart.
"You've been doing that a lot around me," he commented with just a little hint of a smile. "Are you sure you're not mad?"
"I'm not, but something tells me that you were." And she said she couldn't read minds? "Before you say anything, Harry, accidental magic happens mostly when young wizards are either angry or scared."
"Okay, then, maybe I was. When you told me about him, I just... I wanted to hurt him." Then an unpleasant little voice in his head whispered: You're not much better than him if you want that... Harry shivered at the idea. Hoping it had gone unnoticed, he added weakly: "Is that a bad thing?"
"After what he's done? You have every right in the world to hate him, Harry."
He let out a sigh of relief. Hate wasn't a nice feeling at all. It burned and hurt as if a living creature were clawing at the inside of his chest. Now that the Professor had said it was okay, maybe he would be able to bear it. But still, it made him want to do something, anything, and all he could do was sit around and wait without even knowing what exactly he was waiting for. It was really strange to feel powerless so shortly after he'd found out he definitely wasn't.
"Thanks for saying that. I think I needed to hear it."
"Don't mention it. By the way, Harry... that was pretty impressive for your age." The Professor paused, stood up and turned the table back into her usual desk as if it weren't something incredible to do in the middle of a conversation at all. The only reason he wasn't startled was that she'd already said she wanted to do it – or maybe he was just too busy being happy for the compliment. It was all the more meaningful because it was the first time he'd ever gotten praise instead of punishment for doing magic.
She sat down again so that the re-Transfigured desk formed a sort of barrier between them; if Hogwarts worked anything like Muggle schools, he supposed many students had been in his place before, only for getting in trouble, not because they'd just had lunch with her.
"In fact, I have the perfect way to get your mind off things. Why don't we exchange some stories?"
"Exchange stories? What do you mean by that?" If she was going to tell him more interesting things about magic, then he was all for it, but it was the word 'exchange' that puzzled him. He didn't really have much to tell her. His life so far had been a lot less exciting than anything she had in store.
"I'd like you to tell me more about your other outbursts of accidental magic. I know it will probably bring back some bad memories, and it's perfectly okay if you don't want to, but as a teacher, I think it might be useful. And then, perhaps, I can tell you about your parents. I taught them, so I used to know them well, and while I'm aware that no story can replace them, I thought you'd like to know anyway."
His feelings about the exchange were mixed. He couldn't wait to hear about his mother and his father, of course: apart from that one detail, that he had her eyes, he had no idea what they looked like, let alone what sort of people they'd been. But there was a huge problem in sight: try as he might, he couldn't think back to any of those episodes (accidental magic, Harry! They're just two words, learn them already!) without remembering the pain that came with them, too. Without that, it could have been a pleasant way to spend the afternoon: some of the things that had happened were even funny, if one looked at them for what they were. What wasn't funny at all were the consequences.
"Er, okay. Once, I found myself on a roof with no idea how I'd gotten there. It did get me away from Dudley, I guess, but I got in trouble later. None of the teachers could figure it out either, so they called my aunt and uncle, and... well..."
"You don't have to tell me that. In fact, the less you talk about what happened after you did magic, the better it is for both of us. What I want to know is what you did and why you think you did it. We can save everything else for another time. For example, do you remember what it felt like? You said you 'found yourself' on the roof. Do you mean that one moment you were on the ground, and the next you were there?"
"Not really, but I don't remember much. I was too surprised to think straight. When they asked me about it, the first thing that came to my mind was that the wind must have caught me mid-jump, so... I guess I sort of flew to the roof or something."
"Ah, that explains a lot. You see, Apparating – that is, going to one place to another in the blink of an eye, kind of like Snappy does – is a skill that people much older than you find very hard. I would have been most surprised to know you'd done it without anyone teaching you. Flying, instead, is something you've got in your blood. From both sides of the family, I'd say."
"Really?" Without even realising, Harry leant forward to listen closely.
"I remember overhearing Lily talking about a very similar episode―something about jumping off of a swing without getting hurt. And your father, well... if left to himself, he would spend more time flying than walking. He was a Quidditch star in his school days, and Quidditch is played on flying broomsticks. That's why the rings on the pitch are placed so high in the air, if you were wondering."
"Flying broomsticks are real too? Will I be able to ride one someday?"
"We could arrange that sometime in the future. I'm glad to see such enthusiasm. You really are your father's son, Harry. Most students with a Muggle background are more afraid to fall off than excited."
"But I like heights. The world always looks beautiful from there, no matter how many bad things are actually happening down below."
"I'm sure you'll enjoy the view from a broomstick, then. From that distance, someone looking at you might even think they're seeing a little James. Apart from your eyes, you look exactly like him, but who can see your eye colour from the ground when you're flying?"
"Wow! Thank you so much!"
"What for?"
"I can picture them better now. I've tried before, but I didn't know what to imagine, so they were always sort of faceless in my daydreams. And now they aren't, so... thank you."
The Professor gave a tiny, sad smile. "I can try and get you some photos of them. I'll contact some people who might have them as soon as possible. Oh, and by the way... wizarding photos move, too."
"Like the portraits?"
"That's the idea."
Harry swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat was still there. Maybe it was just because she was doing so much for him, but deep down he knew there was another reason. He was afraid to voice it because he was sure it was so sentimental it'd sound silly, but he risked it: "So... I'm going to be able to see them smile at me."
"Exactly."
Harry didn't say it, but he'd already decided that as soon as he got those pictures, he would fall into the habit of looking at them first thing in the morning and every night before bed. Probably for the rest of his life.
"Thank you, Professor." Then he was struck by a brilliant idea. It was one story in exchange for another, right? What would she tell him for the episode he believed she'd find most interesting of all? "I have more stories, if you want them. And you sound like you've got plenty, so... we really could go on all day, couldn't we?"
"I'm all ears, Harry. What makes you so eager to talk?"
The prize, for one thing – if remembering accidental magic gave such great rewards, then it was definitely worth it. And then there was the fact that he was happier than before, and he was always more talkative when he was happy, but there was no need to tell her that. He was sure his face showed it enough.
"Well, it is an exchange of stories, right? I think I have one you might like. Does making things change colour count as Transfiguration?"
She visibly perked up. Ha! That had been a smart choice, then. "It might. Why?"
"Because once, I turned my teacher's wig blue after I got yelled at for something I hadn't done." Not the best story to tell another teacher, but he hoped she wouldn't get mad at him for making a Muggle 'colleague' of hers look ridiculous. He still had the decency to look a little sheepish, though.
"A wig? You're not in luck, Harry. Had it been your teacher's real hair, it would have been similar to an exercise in human Transfiguration that I require my students to do, but as it was, it counts as a Colour Change Charm. Not my field, but Professor Flitwick would take his hat off to you. Not that I'm disappointed, though―human Transfiguration with no training is almost unheard of. Only sixth years and upper can do that, and education at Hogwarts lasts seven."
Ah, well. Almost there. He couldn't be expected to know that little difference.
"I should say something about the fact that you technically played a prank on your teacher, but as it was unintentional, I won't. Do try not to be as troublesome as James and his friends, though, for both of our sakes."
"My Dad caused trouble at school?" He almost slipped and said 'sorry', but he couldn't do anything about things that had happened before he was even born, right? "I'll try not to, I promise. I couldn't hold myself that one time, though. Everyone laughed so hard I almost told them it had been me. It would have scared them off even more, now that I think about it, but for a second, I thought I'd become their hero if I confessed." Harry allowed himself to laugh a little at the memory, too. He'd been the only one not to back then, so this sort of counted, even if it was late. It was the first time he'd ever laughed at the thought of having done magic – most of the effects had been rather humorous, actually, but he'd never seen the amusing side before.
"I can imagine. All things considered, it was wise of you not to tell an entire class: witches and wizards do everything they possibly can to keep their existence hidden from Muggles. It is one of our most important rules, and you followed it unknowingly. You probably saved us some trouble, too."
"Really? How?" Before he could feel proud of himself for that, he wanted to understand it exactly.
"Remember when I made them forget ever seeing me in human form?"
"Yes, Professor."
"That's called a Memory Charm, and we have people who are trained to do just that when magic happens in front of Muggles. A small squad probably went to your school anyway, but if you'd told your classmates you'd done that, their job would have been more complicated."
"It's kind of weird to find out I helped some strangers, or that I followed a rule that I didn't even know existed. It's... it's as if this is what I was meant to do all along. Becoming a wizard, I mean."
"You could say that. Only, Harry, you don't become a wizard overnight. Either you are or you aren't. What Hogwarts does is to make you improve."
"Were my parents good?"
"Each in their own way, they were. Your mother, especially, was a dedicated student, Charms and Potions being her best subjects. Not that she was bad at mine, but out of the two, it was James who was a little more enthusiastic about it."
"I hope I take after him," said Harry. He didn't know exactly if it was because he wanted to please Professor McGonagall somehow, or because it would be one more thing he had in common with his father, but when his time to begin studying came, he knew he would end up paying special attention to her lessons.
"I can only hope you have James's natural skills and Lily's diligence. Those two combined would make any teacher happy. This is not to say I expect you to be their copy. You are your own person, and no matter how much you look like them on the outside, you are free to be whoever you want on the inside. My fingers are crossed, though. I remember your father never studied quite as much as he could have, and still managed to pass with flying colours. He would never memorise the finest details, but his sheer talent succeeded where his efforts failed. One of the best I've ever taught, I say―not everyone else would agree, but as far as Transfiguration goes, you'd really be lucky to take after him."
"Is your subject very difficult?"
"There is a lot of theory involved, and you won't get very far if you don't study that, but there are always a few lucky people who can afford to rely on instinct. So yes, it is difficult, all things considered, but I wouldn't listen to older students if I were you. It's not as bad as they make it out to be. Besides, maybe the gift runs in the family."
"Would it be unfair if you told me some more? I mean, I'd feel bad if I had too much of a head start..."
"You're right, Harry, full private lessons are an advantage I can't give you. Most of my books are about Transfiguration, though, so by all means, you can read them if you're so interested. I would be glad if you did. Just as a tip, I keep the simplest ones on the lower shelves, so start from the bottom. We'll see what stops you first, your height or the difficulty of your readings."
"I'll give it a try right away!"
Harry sprung up from his chair and immediately started scanning the bottom shelf. Aware that Professor McGonagall was watching his every move, he tried to look like he knew what he was doing, but wasn't very successful. At last, he found a title that seemed more promising than the others: A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, by Emeric Switch. And what was he if not a beginner? He'd spent most of his life not even knowing about magic, let alone all the different kinds of it! He picked it up and noticed that it looked old and worn, as though it had been opened and closed so many times it risked falling apart at his touch. Very, very carefully, he looked for the beginning of the first chapter. The first thing he saw was that some sentences were underlined and that the margins were literally covered in hand-written notes and little arrows pointing to one paragraph or another. Maybe it was a required textbook or something, because by the tone of those notes, it was easy to guess they were supposed to help her with her lessons.
"Is this one okay?" he asked, holding it up so she could read the title.
"I couldn't have chosen a better one myself. You'll have to get one of your own for your first year, so it's a perfect starting point. It should keep you occupied for a while, but I'll go get you something lighter in case you get bored with it. Why don't you go to your room and write down what isn't clear, so you can ask me later?"
"Will you be gone very long?" Harry didn't like the thought of being without her one bit, even if he had no intention to go off exploring Hogwarts on his own.
"I'll make it quick, I promise, and I'll be back with a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, which is admittedly more exciting than that. You won't have to hide your preference, really – I'm a fan myself, I can understand."
And with that, she left. Harry considered chasing after her and asking to tag along, if only for an excuse to see some more of the castle, but – not for the first time – his curiosity was torn between two things, the wonders outside and the ones contained in the book he was holding. He decided it was wiser to let the latter win for once. Reading was a nice, harmless activity that would keep him busy until she came back, and he really wanted to prove to her that she'd made the right choice in becoming his guardian, not just because it was what he'd heard Aunt Petunia's friends call an act of generosity, but because he could be a good boy if he really tried hard. He would go through the first chapter and probably understand about half of it, and then he would write down loads of questions about the other half. With some luck, the Professor would read the notes, smile and say they were actually intelligent questions. Maybe.
Harry went to his desk, not without a certain spring in his step at the thought that it was his, set all of the miserably failed signs aside with a mental note to throw them away later, found a blank piece of parchment in the middle of all that mess and finally got to work. It wasn't something he would have done in normal conditions: if anyone else told him to sit and read, he would do it because he had to, but get bored with it pretty quickly. He really had to strain his memory to remember the last time he'd been so excited about a book. This, however, wasn't at all like homework: being told to do something he already wanted to do in the first place wasn't as unpleasant as being forced.
The old tome really was intended for beginners, as none of the words were too difficult if taken one by one, but the sentences those words formed were a different story: he thought he was grasping the concept pretty well, but he had the sinking feeling that he was misunderstanding it all and really couldn't get it without her help. It was meant for an audience of people who had never Transfigured anything before, sure, but the way terms such as 'wand' and 'spell' were thrown in almost carelessly every few lines suggested that readers normally knew a lot more about magic in general than he did. He wasn't ready for this. Out of everything he'd read so far, he was only comforted a bit by the part about 'forming a clear mental picture' of what one wanted to Transfigure. That he could definitely do. He'd formed plenty of those before. The few teachers who hadn't fully believed his relatives when they told them to keep an eye on him said he had a great imagination. No surprise there―when reality was too much to take, he would dream up one of his own. Perhaps Transfiguration was just taking it one step further: before he met Professor McGonagall, he could only make things different in his head, but now she would teach him to take those differences out and into the real world.
The rest of the text was full of little technicalities he wouldn't have thought of even in his wildest dreams, but the basic concept wasn't that hard once he got used to it. First of all, he had to come to terms with the idea that turning something into something else at will was not only possible, but even quite common. No one stared in awe when that happened, unless it was a very difficult case or the result was particularly nice to look at. He would do well to remember that, so he wouldn't look stupid when he met other wizards. Secondly, there was the small matter of the spells. Harry had to write down a lot of those, because the book threatened that terrible things would happen if he got the pronunciation wrong, but seeing them on paper wasn't always enough to be sure how to say them properly. He would have to listen to someone who already knew, namely the Professor. He was pleasantly surprised to find out that he hadn't stained the parchment too much, and that copying those strange words carefully, always checking his spelling once or twice more than strictly necessary, had even helped him memorise them. Hopefully she would be proud of him... but no, he mustn't think that. It was a nice daydream, but he wouldn't get very far if he indulged in it and didn't keep working.
As it turned out, Harry managed to read more than he had hoped for. He was well into the second chapter when the distant sound of the main door opening and closing put an end to the study session: either he was a faster reader than he thought, or he'd been alone longer than he realised. He shut the book a bit more forcefully than he should have, rolled up the parchment and dashed to the office. He had the perfect way to welcome her back.
"You're back!"
"And you're excited. Care to show me your questions?"
"Yeah, about that, I was just thinking... was it very hard to get that table ready for lunch?"
"Not really, but let's say I have different standards than most people. Why?"
"Well... because it was really big, but a table and a desk aren't very different to start with, so I wasn't sure if the size alone made it difficult or not." There, he'd said it. He crossed his fingers, hoping he hadn't messed up.
"Well, well, well, it looks like someone has learnt a lot! By the way, the answer is no. I'm used to dealing with large objects by now."
"And you say it like that? Wow! All of the first-year exercises I've seen so far have to do with really tiny things..."
"You've got to start somewhere, right? Anyway, you look like you need a break. Here's the other book, if you're not tired of reading. And... there is a very good reason why it took me so long. Let's just say I had something else to do as well as go to the library."
Her tone was practically begging him to ask what it was, but by the look on her face, she wanted to tell him anyway, so he just waited.
"I made a quick stop along the way to talk to an old friend of mine. Floo Powder can also be used for that, not just to go places. And guess what she told me?"
Harry shook his head in defeat. "I have no idea, Professor."
"Well, you see, this friend has a grandson who is the same age as you are. In fact, his birthday is the day before yours, and if I'm not very much mistaken, the big day is approaching. Long story short, we have arranged a double party for the two of you. What do you say to that?"
Author's Note: I know I haven't updated in ages, but reality has been chaos lately, forgive me. Let's just say a period of my life has ended and another has begun, and I still have to adjust. Don't worry, it's a very good thing, but it also means I'm insanely busy. On a side note, I'm not one to beg for reviews, but I can feel the one hundred mark coming closer... come on, you can do it, I'm sure you're just that awesome.