Title: In Memory I
Author: Becka
Chapter 5: Lettered Awareness
o
As the students shuffled in, Gryffindor and Slytherin divided once more, each house sitting at the opposite ends of the room. The desks were paired, allowing two students at each section, and Harry noted that the stations were made of stone instead of wood.
Everyone immediately began laying out their cauldrons, phials, and scales, along with parchments, quills, and inks. Harry silently wished that students were allowed to use whatever cauldron they wanted, because the standard size two pewter cauldron was rather substandard compared to the ones he'd practiced with.
Professor Snape swept into the classroom, robes billowing impressively, and everyone instantly settled down. With the thunderously dark expression on his face, Harry thought the older man looked like a storm cloud.
Roll call was the first order of business, and Harry noted that the professor's voice was soft and low. He didn't need more than a whisper to keep students in line.
Once Professor Snape finished calling out the names, he began, "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving, many of you will hardly believe this is magic." He sneered, "I don't expect you to understand the beauty of what I teach, but I do expect you to learn. If you are willing, I can show you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren't as big a bunch of imbeciles as I usually have to teach."
"Potter," Professor Snape said sharply, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked and answered automatically, "If the wormwood is pure, you get The Draught of Living Death, sir. If there are any impurities, the potion created could be one of several variants, all of which are highly poisonous."
Without a pause, Snape barked, "Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"In the stomach of a goat, sir."
"And its purpose?"
"It's a vital ingredient in creating the antidote to most poisons."
Harry almost found himself enjoying the inquisition. Avery, the shadow who'd taught Harry about potions, had often drilled him in the same manner.
"What," Snape drawled, eyeing Harry shrewdly, "is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"There is no difference, sir. They –" Harry cut himself off abruptly, deciding it was better to only answer the question that was asked. Professor Snape was not the sort of man who seemed to want idle information.
"They what, Potter?"
"They're the same plant, sir," Harry finished softly, looking at his desk. "Monkshood or wolfsbane, also known as aconite, has little use unless brewing Wolfsbane, a potion designed to allow people with lycanthropy to retain their human awareness when in their transformed state."
Snape stared at him for a moment. Finally he said, "As you're part Slytherin, it's nice to see you're not completely hopeless." He glanced around at the rest of the class who'd been watching the exchange and barked, "Well? Why aren't you taking notes?"
The classroom was a flurry as students fumbled with their quills and parchments.
Draco leaned over to Harry and whispered, "I think you impressed him."
For some reason, the words had an ominous ring.
Before Harry could respond, Professor Snape said, "Take out your texts. You'll be making a simple cure for boils – instructions on page seventeen."
The students set to work quickly, and Draco quietly read the instructions. The potion was simple, but Harry decided to let Draco do the actual brewing; he offered to prepare the ingredients being used instead. He was curious to see if his blonde friend had been taught to the same extent as himself.
As they worked, Professor Snape wandered between students. He said little to Harry, but whenever he caught sight of Draco's cauldron, he often complimented the younger boy. Harry had to agree; though the potion was simple, Draco worked with the flawless ease of someone who'd been instructed by a master.
"We need a few more dried nettles," Draco muttered to Harry. "This is less than a quarter of an ounce."
"I'll get them," Harry said. He stood and headed for the table with the ingredients.
As he walked by where Ron and another Gryffindor were working, he noticed that the redhead was about to add the porcupine quills to the cauldron before taking it off the fire – an act that would result in the cauldron exploding with the still-corrosive potion.
"You don't want to do that," Harry said softly.
"What?" the Gryffindor Harry didn't recognize asked.
"You need to take the cauldron off of the fire before adding those," Harry replied, pointing at where Ron's hand was poised above the cauldron.
Ron sneered, "Whatever. You're just trying to fudge us up." He dropped the quills into the cauldron, and the surface of the potion exploded almost instantly. The yellow liquid splattered on both Ron and Harry, and Ron collapsed on the floor instantaneously, whimpering in pain. Angry, red boils puckered his skin.
With a frown, Harry scratched absently at one of the irritating marks on his own skin, and he wondered why the redhead was crying. The boils weren't _that_ painful.
Harry hesitated. He really didn't want to draw any more attention to himself, but Ron was still on the floor whimpering in pain, and no one had made a move to help him. Curiously, Harry glanced around the room to find that all eyes were on him.
Professor Snape came storming out of his office, growling, "Who added the porcupine quills before-" The Potions Master stopped short when he saw Harry.
"Excuse me, Professor," Harry said politely, "May I take Ron to the Hospital Wing?"
Mutely, Snape nodded. Harry knelt and pulled Ron to his feet easily, then draped the other boy's arm across his shoulder. Ron was in so much pain that he didn't even mutter any insults at Harry.
As the pair made their way through the door, Harry heard Snape bark, "Mr. Finnigan, would you care to tell me what happened?"
Harry supported the redhead as they limped through the halls, and Ron groaned, "Do you even know where you're going?"
"Yes," Harry replied softly, but he didn't elaborate. Hogwarts, A History had a generalized map of the main castle inside, and something had prompted him to memorize it.
As they reached the entrance of the Hospital, a small, plump woman with a round face greeted them. She took one look at Ron, did a double take at Harry, then quickly hurried them off to beds, despite Harry's protest that he was fine.
"What happened?" she asked as she reached for several bottled potions on her shelves.
"A cauldron exploded," Harry replied, having reached a compromise. He sat on the bed, but refused to lie down. "We were making a cure for boils."
The woman huffed, blowing a few graying strands of hair from her eyes. "Professor Snape's class, I imagine." She muttered softly, "Why can't he ever start the firsties off on something that _doesn't_ cause bodily harm to students when done wrong?"
Harry glanced at Ron who lay in the bed beside him. The redhead's eyes were tightly shut, and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.
With a small frown, Harry looked back at the mediwitch as she continued to tinker with a small vial of what appeared to be a healing potion. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and asked, "Excuse me, ah...?"
"My name is Madam Pomfrey, child," she replied, not looking at him.
Harry bristled a little. He wasn't a child. Instead of voicing the thought, he continued, "May I be excused now, Madam Pomfrey? I'd like to get back to class."
At this, the woman turned and stared at him incredulously. "You can't go back to class until I've healed you! I'm surprised you're not in the same state as your friend over there."
Harry blinked. "I'm fine."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head, turning back to her work. Harry heard her muttering, "Obviously in shock. Young man, when the adrenaline wears off, you'll be _most_ grateful I don't want to return you to class."
It only took a few moments for her to finish with her preparations. She made both Harry and Ron drink a foul tasting potion – Harry identified it as a second level healing draught – and insisted on them applying a salve on their burns and boils.
Harry applied the salve to himself while Madam Pomfrey assisted Ron. He was careful to make sure neither of them caught sight of the scarring on his arms. When he'd finished, the dull throbbing disappeared.
"Now then," Madam Pomfrey said, "you two just rest up here for a bit. I'll let you leave in time for dinner."
After cleaning up the area, she excused herself and retreated into her office. Harry sighed and settled back onto the bed, wondering why the mediwitch insisted on keeping him in the Hospital Wing. His Uncle had done far worse to him and usually set Harry back to work immediately.
Beside him, Ron cleared his throat.
Harry glanced over at the redhead.
Ron's eyes were fixed on the foot of his bed as he muttered curtly, "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
The redhead glared at him. "Don't think this means I like you or anything. You're still a slimy Slytherin git."
Harry shrugged, and the pair remained silent until Madam Pomfrey came back in and told them both to go to dinner.
o
After dinner that night, Harry excused himself and retreated to his room. He had too many questions on his mind, and he needed someone to ask. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and addressed it to his first Shadow.
He related the events of his first two days at Hogwarts – his dual sorting, his classes, having been made Seeker for both Slytherin and Gryffindor, and the Bloody Baron's interest in him. His questions ranged from wanting to know if ghosts could do magic to why Professor Snape seemed to dislike him. Last, he told Lucius about Professor Quirrell and how his scar had bled.
He sealed the letter, three pages in total, muttering a soft spell so that only Lucius could open it, and hooted softly, {Beauty, would you deliver this for me?}
Hedwig swept from her perch, talons hooking around the creamy parchment. She nipped his ear in affirmation, and gracefully exited through the open window.
Harry settled himself down and began working through his Herbology assignment as he waited for her return. During class, he'd noted what the herbs were, so it was only a matter of describing them and listing their uses.
Almost an hour later, he'd completed nearly half of them. He was just finishing up the detailed properties of eucalyptus when Hedwig returned and dropped a note onto his desk. Harry opened it eagerly.
Mr. Potter:
You're a Slytherin. Act like it.
Harry stared at the scrap of paper. It only took him a moment to read into his Shadow's words.
It wasn't a good idea to contact his first Shadow directly. Not a problem. He could ask Draco to send his letters when he wrote to his father; after all, there wasn't anything suspicious about a son sending letters to his father, whereas Harry wasn't even supposed to know Lucius.
But Lucius was Slytherin too. The message meant more than just that.
He needed to make a conscious effort _not_ to say or do anything that would arouse suspicion, whereas for the past two days, he'd apparently done nothing but. He'd identified several herbs in Herbology without using his text. He'd transfigured a match into a needle with the same ease as a professor. He'd been made Seeker for both of his houses, and he'd answered Professor Snape's questions in Potions effortlessly.
Perhaps worst of all, he'd cast Alteralius in front of Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Snape.
Gryffindors didn't think about the consequences of their actions; Slytherins thought about nothing but.
But he could repair the damage.
It wasn't uncommon for a student to naturally excel at one or two things. Harry could – had to – work with that, because it wasn't as though he could show potential on the first day and subsequently become an abysmal failure.
There wasn't much he could do about becoming Seeker. He'd already agreed to that. And Professor McGonagall had called him a natural at Transfiguration in front of the entire class.
Toning down his knowledge of Herbology wouldn't be a problem. Only Gregory, Vincent, Neville, and Ron had seen the ease with which he'd worked on their project. Greg and Vince were both raised by Slytherins; they'd understand when he wasn't as forthcoming with his knowledge. Neville probably wouldn't say anything, and Ron was so focused on wanting to see Harry fail that he'd rejoice.
The Slytherins hadn't gone anywhere with Magical Theory or Charms yet. There wasn't any damage to repair.
So long as he didn't perform any magic as effortlessly as Alteralius, Dumbledore suspicion could be allayed. And if either Snape or McGonagall asked how he'd done it, he could answer that he honestly didn't know, but that he'd really wanted to be Seeker. One of the first things Lucius had taught him was that spells responded well to desire; the more someone wanted a spell to succeeded, the higher the chances it would.
Potions was the only class that presented a problem. On one hand, it didn't seem as though Professor Snape had any particular fondness for Harry, so if Harry began answering most questions with "I don't know," Snape would jump on the opportunity to call him a failure. On the other hand, the professor was a Slytherin; he would be suspicious of such a drastic change.
Harry was counting on Snape's dislike to override those suspicions, but he couldn't be sure. Only time would tell.
As he stared at the note, Harry remembered his questions regarding the Bloody Baron. Association with such a ghost would arouse suspicion, and yet, the Baron had the potential to be a valuable ally.
Perhaps he could ask the Baron to not show such an interest in him in public? The ghost had probably been a Slytherin – he would understand Harry's need for subterfuge.
And as for Quirrell, Harry sighed, there was little he could do. There was definitely something strange about the man, but until he further observed the D.A.D.A teacher, he had no concrete proof.
Silently, Harry stood and opened the sixth lock on his trunk. He descended into his study, pulling a Bertie Bott's jelly from his pocket. He transfigured the bean into a small picture frame and mounted Lucius' note.
As he set the frame on his desk, he smiled.
He'd been acting like a Gryffindor; however, the current situation called for Slytherin subtlety. The note was a welcome reminder.
o
The next morning, Harry debated which house bathroom to use. Ultimately, he decided that until he managed to sort things out with the Gryffindors, he'd keep to the Slytherin rooms.
The mirror was already awake when he entered. "Morin,' sweetcheeks," came the chipper, teasing voice.
"Good morning," Harry replied quietly. He felt extremely self-conscious under the mirror's gaze, and he made it a point to bathe and dress as quickly as possible.
He had an hour to kill before breakfast, so the first thing he did was seek out the Bloody Baron. After fifteen minutes of fruitless searching, he ran into Peeves.
Peeves blew a raspberry at him and singsonged, "Oo-oh! Is the Ickle Firsty lo-oost?"
Harry shook his head, then politely asked, "Do you know where I can find the Bloody Baron?"
The poltergeist squinted at him. "What d'you want with his Bloodiness?"
Harry was about to reply when the Peeves let out a little shriek and waved his transparent hand at Harry frantically. "You's the one he took under his wing!" Peeves jerked his thumb towards one of the corridors, "Fourth door on the left, that's where his Bloodiness is!" He fled without another word.
Harry watched the ghost disappear through the nearest wall. He didn't understand why people didn't like the poltergeist; Peeves was a bit odd, but he'd seemed quite eager to help.
Following the poltergeist's instructions, he made his way to a heavy, oak door. He nibbled his lip and hesitantly knocked.
No one answered. Harry pulled the door open a crack and peeked his head inside. The room was small and furnished in tapestries and an upholstered bed and chair that looked like they'd seen better days. Cobwebs draped the corners of the ceiling, and there was a dark stain on the stone floor by the bed.
The Bloody Baron sat in a chair by the cold, empty fireplace, staring up at the portrait of a regal woman above the mantle.
At the door's creak, the Baron turned and fixed his gaunt eyes on Harry.
"Boy," he said quietly in greeting.
"Baron," Harry replied in the same tone.
The Baron gestured to the other chair by the fireplace, and Harry carefully closed the door behind him as he took a seat. The moment he touched the chair, a strange chill danced up his spine.
There was a moment of companionable silence where the boy and the ghost regarded one another. Finally Harry said formally, "I have a request, if you please."
"You are my prodigy, boy," the Baron replied, "If it is in my power, I will grant it."
Taking care with his words, Harry explained the delicate situation he was in – both the attention he seemed to be attracting, and why he needed fewer reasons for people to focus on him. For some reason, he trusted the bloody ghost with information he'd never revealed to anyone else at Hogwarts, including his Shadows and his true purpose in attending Hogwarts.
After Harry had finished his story, the Baron nodded slowly. "I take it you wish me to make my interest in you less... public."
Harry said softly, "I do."
"Very well, boy," the ghost replied. "You have my word. I shall not approach you at meals, nor where the eyes of this school may follow. In exchange, you will arrange one day a week to speak with me here."
Still unsure of what the Baron's interest in him entailed, Harry slowly agreed.
The Baron rested back into his chair, turning his gaze back onto the portrait. "Until next week, boy."
Recognizing the dismissal, Harry pulled himself from the chair and silently slipped from the room. He met up with Draco in the corridor, and they headed to breakfast.
During the meal, several owls fluttered in, dropping off letters to the students. Draco received a small package from home that contained several books, a carton of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and two letters. The rest of the Slytherins presumed one was from his mother and one was from his father.
Draco covertly slipped one of the letters to Harry. Glancing down, Harry saw his name on the front, written in his first Shadow's elegant script. Harry slipped the letter into his pocket and Draco graciously gave him three boxes of the Bertie Bott's Beans.
Once again, they were two of the first students to leave the Great Hall; only a few whispers followed them to their first class - Double D.A.D.A with Slytherin and Ravenclaw.
As they entered the classroom, Harry noticed that the tables were arranged to sit four students at each. Hermione Granger and Pansy Parkinson, two Ravenclaws, were already present, heads bowed together over The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.
Unobtrusively, Harry slipped into the seat next to her. Draco sat beside him, a small frown on his face. Harry thought he was probably wondering why he'd chosen to sit beside the two girls when every other table was empty.
Hermione glanced at him. "You're Harry Potter," she said as she studied him. "I've read all about you."
"You're Hermione Granger," he replied. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Same."
"Draco Malfoy," the blonde said, unwilling to be excluded from the conversation. He extended his hand and Hermione shook it politely.
"Pansy Parkinson," Pansy said. She was staring at Harry with something akin to awe.
As the rest of the students shuffled in, Hermione said softly, "I heard you transfigured a match into a needle in your first Transfiguration class. Some of the upperclassmen wouldn't shut up about it."
Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I wish they would. I was probably just lucky." He ignored the incredulous look that both Pansy and Draco gave him.
"I did it in my first class, too," Hermione said. "Did Professor McGonagall assign you to try and transfigure it back?"
"She did," Harry replied. Then he lied, "I haven't been able to, though."
"Really? Neither have I." Suddenly Hermione graced him with a wide smile. "Would you care to work together on it?"
Harry nodded.
Professor Quirrell entered the classroom, followed by the thick scent of garlic. Harry noticed that his right eye twitched uncontrollably, and he seemed extremely nervous.
"H-hello," he greeted the class. "My name is P-p-professor Quirrell. There are all s-s-sorts of d-dangerous c-c-creatures in the wizarding world, and hopefully this c-class will help to p-p-prepare you for them."
The class wasn't nearly as exciting or informative as the ones his shadows had taught him. Professor Quirrell relied heavily on the texts, occasionally lapsing into stories about the creatures he'd encountered. His information wasn't incorrect, but it wasn't nearly in-depth enough to be useful if anyone in the class _did_ have a run-in with a vampire or a hag.
About halfway through the class, Harry decided that the following weeks would probably be more interesting. Professor Quirrell promised that they'd study one common dark creature each week in more detail.
It was about that time that Harry began to think that he'd been wrong about Quirrell. Though there was a thick cloud of dark energy billowing around the man's head, nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Perhaps the professor had been cursed during his travels and didn't know about it?
Quirrell turned to write something on the chalkboard, and Harry was presented with the back of the man's turban. Searing pain – the kind Harry had come to associate with Uncle Vernon burning his arm on the stove – lanced through his scar.
Harry couldn't contain the small whimper that forced its way from the back of his throat, and he smacked his palm against his forehead.
Draco, Hermione, and Pansy all turned to look at him, and Hermione whispered, "Are you all right?"
"My head hurts," Harry managed to get out, strangely proud that his voice didn't tremble.
"Let me see," Draco said, reaching out to tug Harry's hand away from his head.
The blonde gasped, as did both girls, and Draco called out, "Professor!"
Professor Quirrell turned back to the class and the pain subsided to a dull throb. Quirrell hurried to where they sat, and his eyes went wide.
"Y-you're b-b-bleeding!" the professor stuttered.
The rest of the class all turned to stare, and the whispering that Harry hated so much started up.
Thoughtfully, Harry frowned and wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. It came away smeared with blood.
"I am," Harry stated softly. As an afterthought, he added, "Sorry."
"N-nothing 's-s-sorry' about it!" Professor Quirrell replied. He turned to Draco. "W-would you t-t-take Mr. P-p-potter to the H-hospital Wing?"
"Yes, Professor," Draco replied absently, already pulling Harry towards the door. Once in the halls, he asked, "What was all that about?"
"I'm not exactly sure," Harry replied, uncomfortable that Draco had grabbed his hand in class. Politely, he extracted his hand from the blonde's grip under the pretense of having to rub his forehead. "After dinner, come to my room. We can talk about it there."
"Sure," Draco replied easily. Suddenly he slapped his own forehead. "Wait! I wanted to meet Greg and Vince in the Library! How about I talk to them for say, an hour or so, and then I'll meet you in your room. Deal?"
Harry nodded. A few minutes later, they were in the Hospital Wing; Madam Pomfrey greeted them cheerily. "Why Mr. Potter, two visits in as many days? Better not make it three, or I'll start to think you like me."
Beside him, Draco snickered softly. Rather than answer the friendly jibe, Harry said, "Professor Quirrell sent me here because my scar started bleeding in class."
Madam Pomfrey's demeanor changed instantly. Her face was white as a sheet as she led him to one of the beds and ordered Draco to stay with him. "I'll be back in just a moment," she said shakily. She disappeared into her office, and Harry heard her whispering frantically to someone.
Draco leaned in close to him and said softly, "So, what happened yesterday?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"Well, in Potions. I saw the Weasel talking to you, and then the cauldron blew up, and when everything settled down, he was on the ground and you were just _standing_ there, and you both looked terrible-"
"It wasn't that bad," Harry protested.
Draco quirked a brow, reminding Harry of Lucius. "Not that bad? Even if I don't like him, I'll admit that Weasley had every reason to be crying. Question is – why weren't you?"
"Madam Pomfrey said it was shock," Harry replied. Inwardly, he was groaning. He could control not standing out in class without a problem, but how was he supposed to fake a "normal" reaction to pain? It _hadn't_ hurt, really, not like his scar had, and he had the feeling he'd look like a complete idiot if he tried to cry or whimper next time a cauldron exploded.
"Huh," Draco replied, completely unaware of Harry's internal battle.
Madam Pomfrey appeared in the doorway of her office. She marched over to where they sat and said sternly, "I've just informed the Headmaster, and he's insistent that you stay here and rest up for a bit."
"But–" Harry definitely didn't want to miss another class.
"No 'buts,' young man," the mediwitch said sternly. "Though I'm afraid I'm going to have to kick your friend out. I need to perform a few tests."
Draco bristled. "I can't stay?"
Madam Pomfrey shook her head. "Back to class with you, and give your professor this-" She handed the blonde an excuse-note. "You'll see Mr. Potter at lunch."
After Draco grudgingly left, the mediwitch performed a series of strange tests on Harry, ranging from pressing different colored strips of paper to his scar, to muttering several nonsensical incantations over it. After a while, Harry started to get the feeling that the mediwitch was just wasting time, but he couldn't imagine why she'd want to do so.
When she was through, she told him, "It will take me awhile to get the results from the tests, but if your scar bleeds again, you come directly to see me. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said. She dismissed him.
After Draco grilled him about what had happened during lunch, the Slytherins headed to Magical Theory. Apparently Draco had talked to Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode, because the two first years flanked either side of him as they walked through the halls, glaring at anyone who so much as gave Harry a second look.
The whispers were still there, but somehow Harry found he didn't mind them nearly as much.
Magical Theory was a bit of a bore. Professor Binns had them read off their assignment – the pronunciation of the first ten incantations on their list. Harry received five points (to Gryffindor and Slytherin) for his flawless pronunciation, though he'd had to consciously remember to not actually _cast_ the spells.
After class, he and Draco parted ways. It wasn't difficult for Harry to find Gregory and Vincent because the two bulky Hufflepuffs were waiting for him outside the Slytherin dorms.
"Hey, Harry," Vince greeted him with a grin. "Neville forgot to bring the box of herbs along, so he went back to the dorm to get them. I told him we'd meet him there."
Harry nodded and they began walking towards the Hufflepuff dorms. He said softly, "I talked to Draco. He asked you to meet him in the Library after dinner tonight."
"Really? Thanks, Harry," Vince said, still grinning.
"Thanks," Greg echoed.
They reached the Hufflepuff dorms just as Neville slipped through the portrait with the box in his hands. He was red-faced and breathing hard. "Sorry 'bout that," he gasped out.
"Say," Vince said suddenly, "Since we're already here, do you want to just work on the project in the Hufflepuff common room?"
Greg blinked. "That would be easier. Are other houses allowed in, though?"
Harry tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. He couldn't remember reading anything in the rulebook against it. "I think so," he finally said.
"Great!" Neville exclaimed.
When Vince and Greg looked at him, Neville blushed, "'Cause I forgot my book bag..."
"You'd forget your head if it wasn't attached to your shoulders," Vince said fondly, reaching out to tussle Neville's hair. Something like envy flicked across Greg's face, but it was gone so fast that Harry thought he might have imagined it.
"Eh," Vince looked at Harry. "Would you mind covering your ears for a second? Password, and all that."
Harry obediently pressed his palms to his ears. Vincent said the password, and the four of them entered the Hufflepuff common room.
Having only seen the inside of the Slytherin common room, Harry took a moment to study his surroundings. The house colors, yellow and black, were evident in the thick, shaggy carpet and the neatly trimmed walls. The chairs and couches that were arranged in the room were plush and welcoming, and there were several stained-glass windows portraying famous Hufflepuffs of the past.
"So," Vince said, settling down onto one of the chairs, "Did you get a chance to research the properties of eucalyptus?"
o
Almost two hours later, Harry, Vince, Greg, and Neville had nearly completed their assignment. All they needed to do was find one uncommon use for each herb and fungi. They'd all agreed to divide the research, each of them looking up forty of the herbs. Neville had volunteered to talk to Ron about his part of the project.
Overall, the time Harry had spent with the Hufflepuffs had been pleasant. He'd even gotten a chance to meet a few upperclassmen; unlike most of the second and third years, the upperclassmen hadn't been completely in awe of him just because he was "the" Harry Potter.
Surprisingly, Zacharias Smith, a fourth year, had pulled him aside on his way out, and told him what a pleasure it was to meet him. Apparently Zacharias' parents were both shadows, and they'd refused to give him Harry's mark. The Hufflepuff had said they wanted him to earn the mark from Harry himself, and Zacharias vowed he would support Harry in every way possible.
The conversation had been a bit uncomfortable; Zacharias' fanatical zeal had caused Harry to wonder how many of his shadows wanted their children to "earn" his mark.
Once outside the Hufflepuff dorms, Harry wove through the throngs of students headed towards the Great Hall. He wasn't really hungry, but he decided he should probably attend dinner anyway. Draco had made such a huge fuss when Harry missed breakfast, after all. Besides, he needed to tell the Slytherin that Greg and Vince had agreed to meet him in the library.
o
After dinner, Harry returned to the Slytherin dorms. The letter from Lucius had weighed heavily in his pocket throughout the entire day, and he was anxious to see what his first Shadow had to say. Hopefully some of the questions he'd asked would be answered.
As he entered his room, Hedwig hooted, {You look tired, fledge.}
{I'm fine, beauty,} he replied, sitting on his bed. Samson wiggled out from beneath the covers at the foot of the bed and slithered up Harry's arm. The snake curled around Harry's neck and sighed contentedly.
Harry stroked Samson's head fondly, then opened his letter from Lucius, eagerly scanning its contents.
Harry -
Only two days at Hogwarts and you already have people talking. Some of it's to be expected, I suppose. Try and keep a low profile until the novelty of the "Boy-Who-Lived" wears off.
A dual sorting? I'm impressed, though I can't say it took me entirely by surprise. You are the heir of both Gryffindor and Slytherin; the Sorting Hat may have sensed that inherently. From what I recall, there hasn't been a dual sorting in nearly one hundred years. I trust you will make the most of it.
Congratulations on your position as Seeker. I know that you will make me proud, though I must admit, coupled with your dual sorting, you will have some difficulty redirecting the public's eye.
Now, to answer a few of your questions. I am not sure why the Bloody Baron is so interested in you, and I don't believe it's possible for a ghost to perform magic, but in the package I sent to Draco, I've enclosed a book for you. It's a history of the various ghosts that reside at Hogwarts, and it goes a bit more in-depth than what's listed in Hogwarts, A History. Perhaps you might find it useful.
As for Severus' dislike of you, I believe I can shed a little light on that. Both of your parents, as well as Peter, Black, and a man named Remus Lupin, attended Hogwarts the same year as Severus and I. Your father and his friends were quite cruel to Severus, but beyond that, there was an incident in... oh, our fifth years, perhaps? Lupin is a werewolf, you see, and Black thought if might be amusing to show Severus how to get into the pen they kept him in during his transformation.
Severus was nearly killed that night, but your father rescued him. As a result, he owes your father a wizard's debt. As your father is dead, by the hand of the Dark Lord who Severus followed, he probably feels the only way to repay that debt is to protect you. Peter has often told you how much you look like your father. I imagine it irks Severus that he has to repay his debt to a virtual carbon copy of the man he loathed.
I am very distressed about what you've told me of Professor Quirrell. As far as I know, he is not connected to the Dark Lord in any way. I will look into the matter. Perhaps all you can do at the moment is to observe him. Please keep me informed.
As you've probably deduced, it will be far less suspicious if you send your letters to me through Draco. Likewise, all of my letters, as well as the letters of your other shadows, will be sent through him.
I'm very proud of you, Harry, and I find myself truly missing our lessons together. I look forward to seeing you during Christmas, and I ask that you forgive the numerous letters I know I will likely be sending.
Your faithful Shadow,
Lucius
Harry smiled, touched by his Shadow's concern.
The letter was quite informative, and it reinforced the conclusions he'd come to. He needed a lower profile, certainly. He needed to figure out why the Bloody Baron was so interested in him, and above all, he needed to know why Quirrell made his scar bleed.
A knock on one of his doors interrupted his thoughts, and Harry was momentarily at a loss. Which of the three doors was he supposed to answer?
Finally he decided that the Gryffindors didn't know where his room was, and it was highly unlikely that Dumbledore would do anything so polite as to knock. He stood, tucked the letter into his pocket, and opened the door to the Slytherin dorms.
Draco grinned impishly at him.
"Hey, Harry," the blonde said, sounding out of breath. "Can I come in?"
Wordlessly, Harry stood back from the door and allowed Draco to enter.
Harry shut the door, and Draco immediately went to Hedwig's perch. He reached out and gently stroked the top of her feathery head.
"So," Draco said, looking up, though his hand continued to pet the beautiful owl, "what was all that about with your scar bleeding?"
It took Harry a moment to decide how much to reveal to the other Slytherin. As always, his thoughts looped in the mantra that Draco was Lucius' son, and if he couldn't trust a Malfoy, who could he trust?
"I'm not sure, honestly," Harry said as he sat on the edge of his bed. "It's something to do with Professor Quirrell."
"What do you mean?" Draco asked. He reluctantly let his hand fall away from Hedwig and sat next to Harry.
"During the Sorting Feast, I noticed he had a lot of dark energy around him. You know Professor Snape was a Death Eater, right?"
"Yeah. My father told me."
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Quirrell was leeching off of the energy from Snape's Dark Mark. My scar bled then, too."
Draco frowned. "And the only other time it bled was in Quirrell's class. I see what you mean."
With another sigh, Harry flopped back onto the large bed. It felt rather sinful, because he'd never had such a comfortable bed before. He looked up at Draco, only to find the blonde staring at him with the strangest expression on his angular face.
Draco blushed and looked away. "Well," he said, "We'll have to watch him. I'll talk to the other Slytherins and tell them to keep an eye out."
"Thank you, Draco," Harry said softly.
"Why don't you ever call me Dray?" the blonde asked suddenly. "Draco is so... formal. I mean, we're friends, right?"
Harry didn't understand why the difference in names was so important to Draco, but he immediately responded, "We're friends."
Draco's face broke out into a wide grin. "Right. Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning, then?"
Harry nodded. As Draco pulled the door open, he grinned and called back, "G'night, Harry."
Softly, Harry responded, "Goodnight, Dray." The name seemed a little strange on his tongue, and it took him a moment to realize that other then Gregory and Vincent, no one had ever really _wanted_ to be that familiar with him.
Hedwig hooted softly, {I like him, fledge. Will you be keeping him, then?}
Harry stared at the door, and his heart skipped a beat. It was a strange feeling. Quietly he responded, {Only if he wants to be kept.}
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