Ch 2: Settling In
Though he had the quieter turned high as he slept, Harry knew when Hedwig came to the window an hour before dawn, and woke to let her in. She chirped happily, conveying images of all the little mice she'd eaten, and Harry collapsed back into bed. After a moment, Hedwig fought through the curtains to join him and went to sleep on his hip, a position he'd gotten used to at home, and they slept together.
Then were woken two hours later by Ron inviting Harry to play a game.
The 10 first-year Gryffindor boys sat around introducing themselves and playing a card game called Exploding Snap, which depended mainly on being fast with your eyes and hands, though it was complicated by the occasional explosion of the cards.
Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Marco Mendez, Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Ben Nan, Tucker Rivett, Raymond Douglas, and Joshua Burns. He'd be dorming with them for the next seven years, so Harry hoped they got along.
Two pair, Harry slapped, just barely beating Dean's hand to it,
Two pair, higher suit. Harry slapped, just barely beating Ron.
Two pair, Marco got it.
Two pair, Harry. Two pair, Dean.
Neville dropped out, then Seamus and Joshua. Tucker, Raymond, Marco, Ben, till it was just Harry, Ron and Dean, Harry holding a little over half the remaining cards.
Harry had just slapped again, and Ron was on the edge of elimination, when there was a knock on the door and Percy entered. "Time for breakfast, first-years."
"Saved by big brother," said Dean, and they followed the Prefect to breakfast.
There were no classes the first day, just orientation, the school tour and organized games to get them to know each other, some with the Gryffindor girls, some without. Most of the others seemed to enjoy it, but Harry was impatient to learn magic.
Harry approached Shelby Blank, the TA who was administering the orientation alongside Percy. "Excuse me, when do we start classes?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "When?"
"Tomorrow," said Shelby. "You wish it were today?"
Harry, Hermione, and a few others nodded.
"You have your wand?"
All the students took theirs out. Shelby did not so much wave her wand as twitch it, and all the metal tips, the child locks, clattered to the floor. Her wand twitched again, and the tips flew into a wastebasket.
Percy said, "Shelby, I think this is very unw-"
"Stuff it Percy."
Percy stuffed it. Students graduated Hogwarts after 7 years, but some of them were invited to stay an extra year or two and work as TAs for the Professors. Harry had only vague ideas of how muggle college worked, based off movies, TV shows and overheard conversations, but he thought the TAs were like graduate students.
"Take a seat."
They sat in a semi-circle on a set of benches. Harry found himself with Ron on one side and Lavender Brown on the other, Hermione just on the other side of Lavender.
"What to teach you... I don't want to steal your Professors' lesson plans. We'll do something more general. The single most important skill a first-year must learn is to reliably draw forth magic. Actually performing spells is the easiest way. The incantations and wand movements are like pumps, drawing the magic up, and over time you get the hang of it. But there are more organic methods we might essay.
"Tell me, first-years, where in your body does your magic dwell?"
"Your stomach," said Ron.
"Your mind," said Lavender.
Shelby shook her head.
"It's nowhere," said Harry and Hermione together. "It's nowhere, and then it comes out of you."
Shelby said, "Correct. The rest of you, did only the muggle-born students read through Introduction to Magical Theory? Or the introduction of any of your wand classes?"
"I r-r-read them," said Neville, looking at his feet.
"Then why didn't you remember."
"I, I, I just-"
"Didn't remember," said Shelby. "Which is no surprise. To the wizard-born it's just one more dry fact, but to the muggle-born, or, in reference to Potter I suppose I should say, to the muggle-raised, it's a sentence to make you sit up and take notice. That magic exists in potentia in the realm of nothing, nowhere and nowhen, then you wave your wand and it's in front of you. So our task is to establish the connection with nowhere, invite the magic out."
Percy whispered in her ear.
"No Percy, it's not dangerous. A bunch of firsties will be lucky to create more than a few sparks, but tell me, firsties, why might Percy think it's dangerous?"
Hermione said, "Without a spell to name the potential, any magic might came out."
"Correct. One point for Gryffindor."
Percy said, "You need a professor's oversight to award points-"
"I'll clear it with McGonagall later. But there are other ways to name the magic. We will use visualization." This time Harry did not see the wand even twitch, but suspended in the air in front of the group, a light appeared. Small, a roiling spark of green and silver light, several feet off the ground.
"Watch carefully."
The silver and green moved about the spark in a short pattern that Harry had memorized by the seventh repetition.
"Point your wand at the spark," said Shelby. "Close your eyes, and imagine the spark, including, especially including, its pattern of blinking. Imagine nothing but the spark. The pattern of the spark's changing is not unlike the pattern of stresses and sounds in an incantation, or of wand movements. But, because you're not carrying out the pattern physically, the call to magic is much weaker. So you must let it grow in your mind till it is the only thing, till there is nothing in the world but the spark you are imagining."
Harry was vaguely aware that she was moving through among the first-years, offering advice and correction, but that awareness fell away.
A hand touched his back, and magic thrilled through him, then out his wand. For an instant, he was connected to... something. He thought Shelby had demonstrated the spell to him, but he did not follow the line of thought, just focusing on the spark he was imagining.
When the magic finally came, Harry could not have said where in him it started, but it went down his arm, through his hand, and out his wand.
Abruptly, in the middle of his mind, along with the spark of his imagining, another spark, and a tremendous ball of green and silver like the sun.
He started, lost the connection, and opened his eyes. Shelby's spark was exactly where it had been before, and another, even smaller spark had appeared, just barely touching it, reminding Harry of a docked ship. He thought it was Hermione's spark.
"Re-establish it," said Shelby. "And this time don't jerk."
By the time Harry had re-established, another spark had joined Hermione's. At first Harry kept all his attention on keeping his spark from winking out, but as minutes wore on he found it easier, and paid attention to the other sparks, which somehow suggested personalities.
Hermione's was bright, curious, and tense. The other spark that had beaten him to it was mellow, eager to please, and unplaceable. Harry didn't recognize anyone but Hermione till Ron joined, frenetic and inward-turned. Finally, a hesitant, timid, but somehow very persistent spark that Harry guessed was Neville appeared, and all 21 first year Gryffindors had managed the spell, all the sparks but Hermione's winking occasionally in and out.
At the center was the vast spark, which Harry thought was a window into the nothingness from which magic sprang. Vast, dark, ravenous, complicated and dangerous, but not unkind.
Shelby spoke. "What you feel from your classmates now is a shadow of what the sorting hat felt. Appropriate for getting to know one another. But no, it's not a spell you'll be able to cast yourselves. My hosting of it is greatly more complicated than your participating in it."
The central spark vanished, all the other sparks vanished with it, and Harry realized that the vast, ravenous magic had not been the nothingness from which magic sprang, but just Shelby's presence.
"That should give you a slight head start," she said.
#
#
Charms was their very first class, and Harry was so excited he couldn't sit still. He'd looked at spells in the textbook, descriptions of pronunciation and wand movements, and had been desperate to try it, and now he could.
When class started, Professor Flitwick called roll, talked about charms, safety, the importance of only practicing magic when supervised, the importance of proper pronunciation and mechanics, introduced his two TAs, told them to mind what the portraits, all former masters of charms, said, then gave them their first lesson.
"Epoximise," said Harry, waving his wand at the two brass knuts stacked on his desk. He picked the top one up, and there was no resistance between it and the other.
He put it back and tried again. Again and again, his wand occasionally shooting sparks, but not bonding the two coins together.
A row away, Hermione picked up her top coin, and the bottom coin came with it.
By the end of class, Harry thought there was some bonding between his two coins, but it was so slight he wasn't sure it was real. Ron and Dean, who were sitting on either side of him, did no better, which helped stave off the waking nightmare, the thought that he was part squib, that muggleness had come through from his mother's side, and he couldn't do wand magic at all.
In transfiguration, McGonagall lectured on safety, talked a little about theory, saying they'd spend a lot more time on it as the year went by, turned her desk into a horse, and turned it back, to great excitement from the students, then set them to turning matchsticks silver.
By the end of class, Harry, like most of the others, had given his matchstick a silvery gleam. Hermione had turned her match silver, turned it back, and done it again.
After that, lunch, then History of Magic, co-taught by a young witch named Cevita Falls and a ghost named Binns who had been the History of Magic Professor two hundred years ago. Binns kept finding ways to use going in and out of walls to illustrate his points, and Harry decided it would be a fun class.
After that they were done for the day, with no homework yet assigned except for readings that Harry had already done, and he, along with all the other first years, went to the practice room.
The practice room was run by Ms. Kransterry, a rotating cast of students in years 5-7, and whichever TAs were available. It was large, and had only students from years 1-3, as fourth-years and up could practice wherever they liked, but Harry thought it ought to be bigger.
Even crowded as it was, Harry and Ron found a place to sit together, and each took out two bronze nuts and four wooden matchsticks.
The matchsticks first, since he'd already had some success with them.
He made progress, and Ron said, "You're pretty good."
"Thanks." His matchstick was mostly silver, though it had taken a few repetitions of the spell without reverting to get there.
"Any advice?" Ron's matchstick had just the faintest glimmer of silver and had sprouted small flowers.
Harry shrugged. "Practice the motion without attempting the spell. The spell works better when it feels smooth coming down your arm."
They kept at it, and the portrait on the wall above them, an old man in a white wig, said, "Red-head boy, are you the latest Weasley?"
"Yes," said Ron.
"Thought so. Go up a little more quickly, and when you bring the wand back around, make the curve wider. And black-haired boy, your curve is a little fast compared to the rest of your motion."
"Couldn't I just speed the rest up?"
"It's easier to make the curve slower. And you're making the right shape, but you're drawing it small. Eventually, smaller will be better, but for now, do it big and slow."
"I saw a witch yesterday whose wand barely moved when she did spells."
"Someday you may also internalize the motions. For now, do it properly. Like this." The wizard demonstrated, and the wood cup on the table next to him in the portrait turned silver.
Harry made his motions a little bigger and a little slower, especially the curve back around, and after a couple of tries, turned the matchstick completely silver. Then back to how it had been, then silver again.
Ron's match turned a bit more silvery.
Harry tried making the motion smaller and quicker, and almost turned a finger silver.
"Don't rush," said the portrait. "If you go fast before you're ready, you'll just make mistakes and hurt yourself."
He did it a few more times, just a little smaller and faster than the portrait had demonstrated, then started on the bronze knuts.
By the time the dinner bell rang, Harry had gotten the knuts to stick together well enough that it that he could drop them on the table without them coming apart, and Ron was changing his match to silver and back.
Across the room, other first years were having similar success.
He looked at Hermione's table. She'd been working with twigs, not matchsticks, and she'd turned one silver, one bronze, and one gold, and she'd stuck them together, then stuck them to the desk.
#
#
Having heard mutters about the teacher, and being especially wary on account of it being their first class with Slytherin, Gryffindor's traditional rival, Harry read his potion's book over the breakfast table. Most of it, being a list of a recipes, was boring, but the explanations were passable, occasionally even interesting, so he stuck to those.
"Seriously?" said Ben.
Harry nodded.
"You don't actually have to learn the material before class. That's what class is for."
He shrugged.
"I don't see anyone else reading their potions book."
"Hermione is."
"I mean, besides Hermione. Do you really want to be mentioned in the same sentence as her?"
Harry thought the answer was yes, if the sentence were about who the best students in the first year were, and he wasn't really sure what Ben was getting at.
Harry said, "Do you think Dumbledore was the type to read his potions book at the breakfast table?"
That shut Ben up, and Harry kept at it.
#
#
The dungeon was cold and drafty, and Harry felt an instinctive wariness toward the man who stalked around like a big crow. That was only heightened when the man referred to Harry as a 'celebrity' during roll.
Then the usual talk about safety, the introduction of himself as Severus Snape, and a speech about how potions was better than other magics and they were probably too dumb to learn it.
Harry listened with a detached fascination. Most of the teachers had had a certain element of performance to their introductions, but this was a level of stage acting so high Harry wasn't sure it wasn't real.
"...if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach," he concluded.
Then, "Potter, What would you get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hermione's hand shot up.
Wow. On the spot. "Something dangerous," said Harry.
"Really, something dangerous in a potions class?"
The class laughed, a white-haired Slytherin boy laughing especially hard.
Harry said, "I think it's a sleeping potion. A dangerous sleeping potion."
The class quieted, and Snape stepped a little closer. "Go on Potter. What's it called?"
His mouth worked. He remembered this one, it had a very simple recipe and a very flashy name, it was on the tip of his tongue. "Something of the living death?"
"Draught of the Living Death, Potter. 'Something of the living death' sounds like an obscure way to refer to a vampire's possessions." The class laughed again, but it was different. Most of them were thinking they wouldn't have known that.
"You've at least cracked open your textbooks. Tell me, Potter, what's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Monkshood and wolfsbane? "Wolfsbane, also called aconite, is the main ingredient in the wolfsbane potion, which helps werewolves control the change." His father had helped invent the wolfsbane potion. The biography had talked about it. "I don't remember what monkshood is."
"Then you certainly can't tell me the difference. But no need to worry, there is no difference, monkshood is another name for wolfsbane. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"An old oak's roots next to-"
"A bezoar, Potter, not a bejore."
"I'm sorry sir, I have no idea."
"You don't even care to take a guess?"
"No, sir." He glanced at Hermione, who had raised her hand so high she was stretching her spine, but had had enough sense to not try and whisper the answer. "Maybe you should ask her Hermione, she seems to know."
There was a strange feeling, like a feather tickling the inside of his head, and Harry jerked involuntarily to the side, drawing more titters from the class.
Snape said, "Granger, in the future do not try and intrude yourself when I am asking a student questions. If I wanted to know what you knew, I would ask you. But go ahead and tell Potter where to find a bezoar."
"A goat's stomach."
"Accurately answered, Granger. Potter... you'll have to do better than that if you want to pass an exam. Everyone who couldn't have done so well, ask yourselves why two students who found out that there's such a thing as potions class two months ago know more than you. Zero points for Gryffindor."
#
#
"...Zero points for Gryffindor?..."
"...What does that mean? Why bother to say it?..."
"...it's Snape..."
"...Snape never gives points to Gryffindor..."
"...He still didn't..."
"...Yes, but this time he said he didn't..."
Harry and Hermione having gotten zero points for Gryffindor in potions was all anyone seemed to want to talk about at lunch, and Harry was having trouble understanding why.
"But we literally got zero points. People get zero points all the time. Every other Gryffindor besides Neville got zero points too." Neville had gotten minus five.
George or Fred Weasley, the twins apparently owning the right to explain how severely Severus Snape treated Gryffindors, said, "Yes, but the old bat didn't say it to them. He hates Gryffindor. Him asking you a question is an instant minus two. Getting a zero from him is a like getting a twenty from someone else. I've never heard of it happening before."
"How can he be a teacher if he hates a quarter of the students?"
"Ptah," said Fred or George. "This is Hogwarts. He shows it more, but all the teachers at least dislike a quarter of the students. The Ravenclaws hate the Hufflepuffs for being simple and small-minded. The Hufflepuffs hate the Ravenclaws for confusing philosophical navel gazing with being smart. The Gryffindors hate the Slytherins for being bigoted schemers, and the Slytherins hate the Gryffindors for being self-righteous idiots who win anyway."
"The natural order of the world," said George or Fred. "Though Gryffindor and Slytherin do hate each other more than Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff hate each other."
"Excuse me," said Harry. "You're George, and you're Fred?"
"Yes," they said.
"Good. I'm going to turn around, you'll both move a bit, then I'll see if I can still say who's who."
He turned, they shuffled, he turned again... "Fred and George."
The grins were getting a bit curious. "Is it something we're wearing?" They examined themselves. "Maybe it's a scuff on-"
"It's not what you're wearing," said Harry. "Again."
It was longer before they told him to turn around.
"Fred and George."
"Did you notice we'd changed our robes?" George said.
"I'm only looking at your faces."
"He is only looking at our faces. George, is there dirt on my nose?"
"It's not dirt on your nose." Harry shoved a last bread roll in his mouth. "I have to get to the practice room and practice transfiguring. Maybe then I can get an actual point for Gryffindor. Hermione, I'm leaving."
She said, "I'm talking to Lavender. I'll probably you see at the practice room in a little."
Ron said, "I'm coming," and he and Harry went together.
#
#
There were three adults in the Defense Against the Dark Arts room: Professor Quirrell, the turbaned man who'd been introduced at the opening dinner as the new Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Shelby Blank, and another TA who Quirrel introduced as Robert Nix once everyone had arrived.
Quirrell said, "Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts. I call it that, but that is largely not what you will be learning. 11 years-olds can not, by the end of one year of study, learn to defend themselves in any serious way against the dark arts. Nor should they put themselves in the position of having to try. Nevertheless, I am expected to teach you practical skills.
"The first and most important skill, which will account for half of your grade, is book learning. There is nothing you can do about a bogart, dementor or troll, or even a grendel, but you can learn to recognize it as such, know what not to do, and when you run to a teacher, convey some useful information. This book learning will account for two-fifths of your grade."
"You will learn spells. Spells to hide you, though not well, and spells to create a distraction so you can run away, though they will not be good distractions. You will learn a few spells which might immobilize enemies of your own level, of which there are precious few, and you will learn to deal with a few minor pests which have nothing to do with the dark arts, but have been placed in your textbook because dealing with them is within your capabilities. Your competency in these spells will account for three-tenths of your grade."
"Finally, we will play Dagarary. This will be one-fifth of your grade."
Lavender Brown squealed, Neville Longbottom quailed, and Ron pumped his fist.
"Dagarary was first invented as a substitute for dueling, the idea being that if you lost to someone at dagarary, you would probably lose at dueling, so just try dagarary and no one would die. It is not, I regret to inform you, a perfect substitute for actual combat, but it is good enough that we may consider that, when we play dagarary, we are practicing the fundamental skills needed for a fight.
"Ms. Blank, take your position."
There were two circles draw on the floor, inside a long rectangle, and Shelby and Quirrel each took a circle, facing one another. "Dagarary Contentius," they both said. They pointed their wands at the red dots in the center of their respective circles, the silence tense, the students on the edge of their seats.
Hermione, who'd had her hand raised for a while, said, "Excuse me sir, that's only nine-tenths. What's the other one-tenth of our grade?"
"Participation."
And there was a beep.
In an instant, the dagarists' wands were pointed at each other. A ball of red light shot out of Shelby's, and was deflected by a hanging wedge of red light put out by Quirrell's wand. A moment later the wedge was destroyed by a blue light from Shelby, which hit, and was extinguished by a green wedge Quirrel had set up. Quirrell attacked with blue, was beat back with green, Shelby attacked with green, Quirrell's red wedge destroyed it, and was destroyed an instant later by the blue Shelby had followed the green with. The red was deflected by another red, which was destroyed by a blue, and Quirrell leaned out of the way to avoid being hit by it.
"Stop," said Quirrell, and Shelby stopped. "You've seen enough to get the idea. Green beats blue, blue beats red, and red beats green. A stationary wedge is useful for deflecting attacks. Attacks, deflected or otherwise, vanish when they reach the edge of the drawn court."
Harry hadn't noticed that. He'd been too intent on the game itself.
"When two of the same color meet, say, red and red, it's purely a competition of strength. Hypothetically, any color can beat its nemesis, such as green beating red, if the strength differential is large enough, but if that's the case you've already lost, and easily.
"Rather than deflecting with a wedge, it's best to destroy a green attack by driving your own red attack through it, but that requires extreme precision, especially since, as you will see in a moment, attacks don't have to move in straight lines. And these circles we stand in are large enough that moving about changes the angle non-trivially. Shelby and I are about to resume our demonstration, and this time you'll find it harder to follow what's happening. Ready, Shelby?"
"Whenever you are, Professor."
Quirrell struck first, and there was a profusion of flashing lights, curving around crazily, appearing as quickly as they disappeared, 10 or 20 at once, running into each other, exploding, coming out from blind spots, and the combatants themselves were moving, utilizing the full extent of their circles, dodging to let attacks fly by.
A green orb broke through, curving widely, straightened out, and as Quirrell moved aside, curved again, and struck the Professor on the side of his turban.
All the lights vanished, and the Professor glowed bright green.
"Dagarary Finitum," they both intoned.
The class was quiet, having just seen the Defense Professor beaten by his own TA, but Quirrell was smiling as the green faded away.
"Ms. Blank, tell them how you spent your summer."
"As I was Hogwarts Dagarary champion my 6th year, and my 7th year too, I spent the summer competing on the professional circuit. I won a few very minor tournaments in Britain and France, then made the third round at Manchester, the quarters at New York, and the semis at Shenzhen, and was widely tipped as a future champion. I might be fighting for the Bali title right now, and quite a lot of prize money, if I hadn't decided to come back to Hogwarts for an eighth."
Quirrell said, "You understand why, rather than being embarrassed, I'm just pleased I made her work hard."
The week went on. They practiced the basic spells needed to attempt dagarary. They learned the foundational telekinetic spell, Wingardium Levioso, and while Harry got his feather to stand up by the end of the class, Hermione's floated around her head, and she swished it around. She turned stacks of needles into tiny little chairs, made her first potion so well that Snape passed by and said nothing (Harry was lectured for having too many bubbles), got perfects on their first two quizzes, and Professor Sprout of Herbology read a section of her first report aloud to the class, all that with her spending less time at the practice room than he. Instead, she did supplementary reading.
It began to irritate Harry, and then came broomstick riding.
#
#
It was halfway through the second week. All the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years gathered on the field together and faced Madam Hooch for the first lesson broomsticks.
"Up," said Harry, without quite the volume that Madam Hooch had recommended, and the handle of the broom smacked into his palm. Holding it, he watched the other students struggle. Ron's wouldn't come all the way up, and Hermione's broom lolled around on the ground, reminiscent of Harry's attempts to get the feather to rise. She finally stooped to get it.
Draco Malfoy, the white-haired Slytherin boy who'd laughed at him especially hard in potions, was the only other student who got the broom immediately up.
Madam Hooch had them swing their legs over the broomsticks, and instructed them on mounting. Neville, with his face pale and knees trembling slightly, rocketed into the air.
"Get down from there, you silly boy," yelled Madam Hooch.
He got down through the simplest manner: he fell off his broom. Landing, there was a crack, and Neville screamed.
Madam Hooch ran to him.
"You've broken your wrist," he heard her telling Neville. "The rest of you, don't go anywhere, and don't get on a broom, or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch'."
Harry couldn't take that threat seriously. As he understood it, being expelled from Hogwarts very nearly made you a second-class citizen, never to be a real witch or wizard; the administration couldn't possibly expel students so casually.
Madam Hooch helped Neville hobble off, and Draco picked a pinkish glass ball off the ground where Neville had fallen. "The stupid thing his gran sent him."
Harry said, "Nicely spotted, Draco. His remembrall. Toss it here, and I'll get it back to him." He was smiling friendlily, but Draco's returning smile wasn't friendly at all.
"I've got a better idea."
"Give it here!" said Ron, white-faced, advancing toward Malfoy, who backpedaled.
Harry held the red-haired boy back. "Ron, calm down. Going incandescent won't help."
"But he's not going to give it back."
"Malfoy, are you going to give it back?"
"No."
"See Ron. He's not going to give it back, so there's nothing to worry about. In a few minutes Madam Hooch will come back, and we'll all say that Malfoy took Neville's remembrall and won't give it back. Madam Hooch will find it on him, and it will be resolved very quickly. He'll spend an unknown time in detention, which ought to warm the heart of anyone who doesn't like him, as it seems you don't."
Draco bit his lip, and Harry met his eyes, trying to convey the sense that the thing to do was to toss the ball at Harry's feet. That would be sufficiently contemptuous to save face with Slytherin, and all anyone would be able to accuse Malfoy of was picking up Neville's remembrall and giving it to Harry to return to Neville.
Instead, Malfoy slung his leg over the broom and shot into the air. Thirty feet up, he turned. "If you want it, come and get it."
Harry looked at the broom he still held, and dropped it. "I'll let you suffer through detention by yourself, thanks very much."
Ron started for his own broom, and Harry kicked it away. "Ron, our defense book gives instructions on the leglocker curse. I don't want to try it out on you. Keep your feet on the ground."
"But-"
"Ben, keep a hold of Ron, please."
Hermione, who was taller than either of them, grabbed Ron by the arm.
Harry stared at Malfoy, doing circles in the air, and waited for him to work out that, if he didn't do something, when Madam Hooch came back she'd find Malfoy flying on a broomstick holding an injured boy's possession.
From the strain in Malfoy's voice when he said, "You're a coward, Potter," Harry thought he'd already realized. "A cowardly Gryffindor."
"An imprudent Slytherin. Whose idea of clever is this?"
"I'm going to throw it."
Harry fished his wand out of his pocket, keeping it hidden at his side.
"Longbottom can get it from the top of a tree, or broken off the ground."
Harry said nothing. Trying to get Malfoy to come meekly back to the ground and hand him the remembrall wouldn't work.
Malfoy threw it, and Harry raised his wand. "Wingardium Levioso."
The spell missed.
Another voice said, "Wingardium Levioso!" and the Remembrall stopped, rose slightly, and plunged again.
Harry was already running.
Again Hermione said, "Wingardium Levioso," and the remembrall's fall stopped, then rose a little.
Malfoy dove for it, and Hermione jerked it aside, even though they hadn't learned that yet, and Malfoy went streaking by.
It fell the remaining five feet to Harry, who caught it cleanly, and pocketed it.
"Thank you Hermione. I don't know if you could've done that without me, but I couldn't have done it without you." She had done that while still holding on to Ron with her offhand. He smiled at Malfoy, who was only a little ways off the ground. "Thanks for tossing it to me, but work on your aim."
"DRACO MALFOY!" Madam Hooch's voice. "GET DOWN FROM THERE."
Malfoy hurried to the turf, dropped the broom, and Madam Hooch kept on yelling, asking him what he was doing up there without giving him the chance to reply, the voices of the other Slytherins a confused babble around them.
"Excuse me," said Harry. "Excuse me, Madam Hooch." He tugged on her sleeve. She turned to him, looking ready to yell, and stopped as she recognized him, though Harry wasn't sure whether that was because he was Harry Potter or just because he was a Gryffindor.
Harry, speaking nothing but the truth, said, "He wasn't happy to be up there, Professor. He was holding the broom, and then he rocketed up there, without really thinking about it, I'm sure, and once he was up there, he was afraid to come down. After what just happened with Neville shooting up by accident, I wonder if someone shouldn't check over these brooms."
The Gryffindors stared, the Slytherins too, but after a moment the Slytherins adopted and adapted the story. Malfoy had been holding the broom, trying out the mounting position Madam Hooch had demonstrated, when all of a sudden he'd risen into the air, and it had taken some time for him to get back down.
Draco started crying, which impressed Harry, who'd never managed pretend tears.
Madam Hooch sighed, rested her head in her palm, and said, "Class dismissed!"
#
#
Walking to the nursing hall to visit Neville, the Gryffindors were a hotbed of distrust and accusation. At the center of it, Ron and Harry.
"Why did you do that?!" said Ron, still angry, but now angry at Harry.
"Because I don't need to make Draco Malfoy my enemy."
"He stole Neville's remembrall. He tried to break it. He should've gotten into trouble. You didn't even have to do anything."
"No. Because Draco would've said something, his friends would've backed him up, and then Madam Hooch would've asked us. So. We could've sent Draco to detention. He would've disliked it. He would've been bored. Then what? He tries to retaliate. Then we retaliate. Then he retaliates. This continues on, maybe for seven years. That's not how I want to spend the next seven years. So I took this chance to maybe, maybe, nip it in the bud."
Ron said, "But he's evil."
Hermione said, "Draco is eleven. He isn't evil. He's just a jerk. He could grow out of it, or into it. Which would you rather contribute to?"
"Yes," said Harry. "That's everything I meant, and more."
Ron and Seamus said together, "But he's in Slytherin."
"And you're in Gryffindor," said Harry. "That's, it's, is there some rude word for muggle-borns to use against wizard-borns? Because I really want to use one. You don't get it." He waved a hand, pleading time to gather his thoughts.
Hermione said, "You know he deserves it because he's your enemy, and you know he's your enemy because he's in Slytherin. But Draco knows that Neville deserves it because Neville's his enemy, and he knows Neville's his enemy because he's in Gryffindor."
"Yes," said Harry. "I should go everywhere with Hermione, and let her do my talking for me, she's so much better at it."
"He's a bully," said Parvati.
"Sure," said Harry. "I've had to spend a lot of time with bullies," he was thinking mostly of Dudley and his friends. "And I'd rather calm them down than hype them up."
Hermione said, "Sending Draco to detention will only make him a worse bully. Putting him in our debt might make him less of one. It's worth a shot. If it doesn't work, ah well, we'll have seven years to fight fire with fire. I wouldn't have done it, since I wouldn't try to fool a teacher, but it made sense."
#
#
At the end of the second week, Professor Quirrell took them out to the dagarary courts, a dagarary court being just two circles of equal radius facing each other from across a distance-in this case, the distance was 20 feet. The class was once more doubled-up with Slytherin, and the Gryffindors took three of the six courts, the Slytherins the other three.
Harry was paired up first with Neville.
They both cast Dagarary Contentius, which would stop them from using any non-dagarary moves till they'd cast Dagarary Finitum, then took the starting stance, which was with your dueling hand dangling at your side, tip of the wand pointing at the starting point. Once both wands were pointed properly, the court beeped, and Harry had flashed Neville three times before the other boy had gotten his wand pointed in the right direction.
"You only have to flash him once," said Shelby, and the two boys took their places at the end of the lines, Neville quickly returning to his natural skin tone rather than the bright glowing red Harry had turned him.
Neville's line had four people, and Harry's three, so that each time you went through the line, you'd face a different person.
Tucker was next. Harry got him on the first try too, though Tucker got his wand most of the way out first.
On the third time through Lavender Brown deflected his first flash, but turned red under his second.
He tried a counter the next time, his red flash missing Ben Nan's green, which turned Harry green an instant later, but that was his only loss till the TA called for it to be King of the Hill. If you won, you stayed, though after you'd won three times you went to the back of the line.
They ran through that three times, and Harry won seven of eight, losing to Tucker in the middle. He began to feel a bit giddy. He'd been nothing special so far at spells, but this... The spells were very simple. After you'd cast Dagarary Contentius, the actual moves were the simplest, most natural spells they'd learned. Speed and recognition were what was important, and he had that. It was a lot like Exploding Snap, really.
Professor Quirrell's tremulous voice came from the sky, telling them that anyone who'd won three in a row should move toward 0, and anyone who hadn't won twice in a row should move toward infinity.
Harry, who'd started at the outermost Gryffindor court, court 3, moved to court 2.
Harry paired off against Ron, who'd either won two in a row on court two or failed to do so on court 1.
Ron deflected his first flash, deflected his second, managed his own flash, but Harry, seeing that it would go well wide, didn't deflect but simply flashed Ron.
Three wins, back of the line, two wins, a loss, and a win and a loss. A 6-2 record and he moved to court 1, glancing at the Slytherins on court -1, but more concerned with the other Gryffindors on court 1. Hermione had started there and hadn't moved up, having no place to go.
He won his first two, then faced Hermione, feeling nervous.
Beep, and he struck first, she deflected, an overly broad parry, he struck again, she tried to counter, mistimed, his own flash was off and she managed to parry but slowly, he flashed again, she deflected, but it was weak and rushed and his flash broke through it. Hermione, bright red, went to the back of his line.
They went through five times. Two wins and a loss, two wins and a loss, three wins, two wins and a loss, three wins, and a loss. 12-4, with none of the losses coming to Hermione. He thought he might have gone 15-0 if he'd been as serious against the others as against her. Though maybe not.
"Potter," said Quirrel. "Malfoy. Move to court 0.
Harry faced the white-haired boy as all the students from both houses watched. "First to three," said Quirrell.
Beep.
An instant, and both had been flashed. "Draw," said Quirrell. "Replay the point."
The second time Draco's flash turned into a deflection, and Harry's own deflection was placed wrong.
"1-0 Draco."
A quick exchange which ended when Draco stepped aside to avoid Harry's flash then flashed Harry.
"2-0. Draco."
Draco was a little confident, a little careless, a little slow, and Harry got him off the draw.
"2-1 Draco."
Draco looked angry, and a little ridiculous with the bright green glow, and Harry figured there wouldn't be any more carelessness.
The fourth one was the longest. Flash, deflect, flash, deflect, double flashed, both dodged, coming to the edges of their circles, Harry flashing three times straight, Draco extinguishing each time, Harry needing an instant to reset, Draco starting his own flash, then desperately switching to deflect as Harry pause proved but a feint, and Draco's hurried red deflection broke under Harry's blue flash.
"2-2," said Professor Quirrell. Draco, overly confident a moment before, seemed shaken, and stepped outside the circle, taking a moment.
Draco stepped back into the circle.
Beep.
And it looked to Harry like Draco's wand was starting to move an instant before the beep...
Beep-beep.
Quirrell said, "Early start, Draco, if it happens again there'll be a penalty."
He nodded, and bowed. "My apologies. I'm tense." But Harry wondered if that was really it.
Beep.
Draco was first on the attack, but fairly. Harry blocked, deflected, blocked, and saw his chance. His blue flash went straight through Draco's red, a perfect counter, and Draco was flashed.
"3-2, Potter wins."
Harry stepped forward to shake hands with Draco. Draco, still blue, stepped forward, said, softly, "son of a mudblood," and stalked back to his housemates without shaking hands.
Harry smiled, and accepted the congratulations of his peers.
"Great," said Ron, "really great." Seamus shook his hand, and Harry looked for Hermione, to see how she was taking not being the best.
She patted his shoulder, as pleased as any of the others. "Well done, Harry."
Harry's smile faded.
Professor Quirrell's voice came from the sky again.
"Dagarary is a useful game, but it's just a game. Playing it is not studying. On the other hand, playing it is not not studying either. Five points for Gryffindor. Class dismissed."
#
#
All through lunch Harry received occasional congratulations from his fellow Gryffindors, even the older ones, less for having won five points than for having beaten the first year Slytherin champion, and there was a lot of talk about how he'd have to practice hard to represent the Gryffindor first-years at year-end games.
He had a piece of pie, and thought about how nice it was to be the best. He'd never been the best at anything halfway meaningful in a group larger than 10. Among the best, yes, occasionally, from to time, but not the best at a single thing, whereas Hermione seemed to be the best at almost everything.
After lunch, Gryffindor went to Herbology, and Harry realized he was the best at something else.