Heirs of the Founders
Author's Notes:
Again, thank you for following, favoriting and reviewing my efforts; it's very encouraging and inspiring. To my negative reviewers, you don't have to read this so why bother telling me you don't like it (I mean this especially for the people who think they can trash me but have no stories on FFN of their own for me to gain wisdom from), get a life or give me constructive criticism!
On another note: I've quoted and paraphrased throughout this chapter more than l like but it seemed the best way to handle certain things. I think I've got to the point that everything beyond this chapter should be 100% Animekitty2, we shall see I guess.
Keep the private messages and reviews flowing, I really appreciate them and wish my other story 'A Rainyday Tale' was as popular. Yeah, I know: that was a shameless plug; what can I say, working on something generating little interest isn't inspiring, even though I'm quite certain it can stand alone without needing to be being familiar with its source (although the source is about a preteen wizard with glasses and a bunch of pretty girls; anime and manga are much freer media)
Beat wishes,
Animekitty2
Obligatory blah blah blah:
I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.
Chapter Four
The door swung open at once to reveal a tall, stern faced, black-haired witch wearing a robe that matched Harry's eyes. Yikes, Harry thought as he looked at an older witch of severe appearance; don't wanna tick her off if I want my happy school life to end how it began: all bits still attached.
"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.
"Are they all here?" she asked as she studied the fresh-faced group milling beyond the threshold.
"O'course they are pr'fessor, all presen' an' accounted fer, I a'counted them m'self, an' all 'n one piece I might add." Hagid seemed proud of his achievement.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here," Professor McGonagall said before austerely instructing the children. "Follow me please."
After pulling the door fully open, she turned on her heel—crisp enough to satisfy the most stringent old drill-sergeant—and led the new students into an entrance hall so large it could house an average home and was lit entirely by bright torches: it was so high that its ceiling remained essentially invisible. It's other dominating feature—other than cavernously titanic—was the grand marble staircase reaching for the upper floors. Harry and Hermione, carefully ensconced in the midst of new students, gaped in wonder at the engineering impossibility, which stood defiantly against the structural conventions of their old world.
"How . . .?" Hermione whispered essentially to herself; not expecting an answer, which Harry provided nevertheless.
"Magic I assume," he said and both children concluded that that was an answer to internalize at once.
Without rejoinder, either witty or of rebuttal, Hermione remained silent. She wasn't the only one, the only sounds they heard were the steady footfalls against the well-worn flags of the floor and, to the right, hundreds of voices murmured in din but the witch they knew as Professor McGonagall led them into an empty side-chamber instead.
Addressing the new students for the first time, she began, "The start-of-term feast will soon commence but first you will be sorted into your houses. Your house will be an important part of your Hogwarts experience; it will be like your family, even after you graduate and likely into your futures as well."
Great, Harry dejectedly thought while considering that little implication, more family—that's just what I need—and just like family I don't get to choose who they are, wonderful. Still, I doubt it'll be as bad as the Dursleys—I hope—and sharing house with Hermione wouldn't be so bad; I'll keep my fingers crossed.
"While at Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall continued, "you'll earn your house points for triumphs and loses for rule-breaking. Come June, the house with the most points wins the coveted House Cup. With that, I'll leave you to tidy yourselves up before the Sorting begins.
With another crisp pivot, the green clad witch marched from the chamber as the children pondered her words. Hermione and Harry—with Neville and Ron nearby—stood as their only little group within the main body of others; nursing their own thoughts.
"I 'ope this sort'n thing don't take up too much time, I'm starving mate," Ron said overly loudly to the others dismay; it drew the unwelcome attention of the pointy faced blonde with the well-practiced scowl.
"For Merlin's sake, Potter," Draco Malfoy said loud enough for all to hear, "do you have to surround yourself with losers. Not content with a mudblood and a pauper, you hav'ta go'n add a squib to your entourage. Once more, let me give you some welcome advice; drop the dregs and join me where you belong. Morgana's knickers, it's embarrassing to be in the same school with them and with 'em so close, I'll need to air my robes to rid them of their stench. You'll be so much better with me letting you stay with me; the Malfoy name is about power and wealth and not to be trifled with . . ."
". . . says the voice of the prince who scurried from our chamber with his tail between his legs," Hermione quipped rather forthright and surprisingly—even to herself. "Did you have a good cry on your boyfriends' shoulders . . . ?"
". . . Listen Granger . . ." Draco began; she interrupted.
". . . Oh my, you remember my name—should I be honored that a low born such as me is worthy of your lofty delusions," the young witch oozed sarcastic.
"Why you filthy little mudblood! My father will hear of this!"
"Oh my! Daddy dearest has'ta protect his wee li'l baby from the big bad muggle-born witch?" Hermione's sneer was almost as good as Draco's; she got in his face and menacingly whispered, "your elitist ideals are disgusting and dim and antiquated."
My god, what am I doing! Hermione felt her ire doused by well-earned panic, she suddenly realized what she was saying; Draco Malfoy spinelessly retreated, only to stumble ignobly when he backed into his burly buddies.
"Hermione stop," Harry ordered, surprisingly sternly—especially for him, he thought.
The switch in the young witch, immediate and unquestioned, went unnoticed by the others but was obvious to Harry; he thought it odd yet oddly exciting: Hermione's eyes found the floor; her hands her back.
"Yes Harry," was her simple reply.
Harry leaned forward and whispered, his warm breath tickled her ear, "Hermione, Malfoy's a git—I know that—but he's git with wealth and a powerful family; while I don't need to worry about them, you do. I like your spark but remember your place—yes, I know it's not fair or right—but magical society remains archaic and mostly patriarchal; the wealthiest families wield extraordinary power over those of lesser means and, in their minds, lower castes. You must be cautious when you speak; even some moderate and modern families find muggle-born witches and wizards threatening to their place in the world."
"Yes Harry, I'll remember. Thank you for correcting me, I wasn't thinking."
"Good girl," Harry whispered and pulled away; Hermione felt her heart flutter.
"You better do a better job at keeping your pet mudblood in line from now on, Potter," Draco said with his trademark scowl returned.
"Malfoy, shut your gob you pathetic pompous ass and stick the 'my father will hear about this' tripe in your knickers: he doesn't scare or concern me. Now, listen to what I tell you—and you may pass this on to poppa peacock if you please—your daddy thinks he's untouchable and that his gold will buy license; he is wrong—very wrong. Time and history are nipping at your heels, my friend; I know what your daddy is Draco, send him my regards in your next letter: let him know we're watching."
As if dismissed by a Lord, which he was but it hadn't sunk in, the pinched faced blonde scampered away; his associates and he became anonymous within the crowd of nervous first years.
"Harry?" a quiet voice said from behind; he turned to face the owner.
"Hello, yes—Susan wasn't it?" he said remembering the girl Neville had introduced on the train, "can I help you?"
"I don't want to sound presumptuous or anything, but do you really know who you were just talking to?" she asked a little timidly.
"Most assuredly my friend," Harry replied, his manner of address bringing pink to her cheeks, "why else would I say it if I didn't know who he was—it would've been incredibly rude of me otherwise."
Um . . . mate," Neville began, knowing his societal mores having learned them at his 'very proper' grandma's knee, "not to put too fine a point on it but that was incredibly rude—no matter how you look at it."
"Not nearly as rude as it would've been if I'd mistaken his father for another's," Harry said with what could only be a roguish grin.
"Do you mind if I tell my aunt what you said to Malfoy?" Susan asked politely, "I'm sure she'd find it funny, even if she does send you a letter admonishing caution with the Malfoy scion."
"Sure, I don't mind. It would be nice to have someone to write to—I know very few adults in the Wizarding World; as it is, I have so few people to share correspondence with that I look forward to even a rebuttal."
"Um . . . Harry?" Hannah meekly asked.
"Hannah, right?" Harry replied; looking at the other girl Neville had introduced earlier.
"Yes, thank you for remembering me b . . . but do you know who Susan's aunt is?"
"Is it important?" Harry's response was surprisingly cavalier and yet sounded so innocent.
Neville, Susan and Hannah joined Hermione and her earlier silent question: Who is this Harry Potter Person? As they pondered, something happened which made everyone jump as several children suddenly screamed.
"What the . . .?" Harry gasped as about twenty ghost streamed through the back wall and over their heads. As they passed, he heard them arguing without noticing the room's young occupants.
"Forgive and forget," a little fat monk implored a ghost floating beside him.
"My dear Friar, haven't we given him more than enough chances?" the other ghost—clad in Tudor flare: ruffles and tights—replied, before noticing the new students, "I say, what are you all doing here?"
A resounding silence answered his question.
"New students to be sorted, I assume," the Fat Friar concluded with a smile.
"Move along now," Professor McGonagall, instructed with a sharp voice announcing her return and the ghosts drifted away, "The Sorting is about to begin. You will form a line and follow me."
Queuing as instructed, the young students followed the older witch until they passed through a set of double doors and into the Great Hall. Awed and silent, but for Hermione's comment that the ceiling was bewitched to look like the sky outside, they were led past four long tables, set with golden dinnerware, and brought to a long table at the top of the hall. Before that table, Professor McGonagall placed a stool near the first-years and on the stool sat a patched, frayed and dirty hat of wizard's kind. Unsure what to expect from the odd artifact, they waited. The hat twitched and then near the brim a rip opened like a mouth: the hat began to sing.
Harry hardly listened to the hat's song as his eyes roved ceaselessly around the hall and once it had finished, he'd heard naught but one word in five. He had heard enough, at least, to know it was about house traits and that was about it; he hoped he hadn't missed an important clue about what he was expected to do.
"So, I only gotta try it on," Harry heard Ron Weasley's loud relief.
"When I call your name you will step forward, put the hat on your head and sit on the stool," Professor McGonagall instructed before unrolling the scroll of parchment in her hand and announced, "Abbot, Hannah!"
Neville's friend with the blonde pigtails, who Harry had spoken to earlier, gave a little squeak before stumbling from the line. She put on the hat and sat; the too big cap fell over her eyes.
"HUFFLEPUFF!" the hat shouted and the sorting had well and truly begun. Upon her robes, the badge of her new house appeared and a black and yellow ascot appeared at her neck. Beaming, she skipped merrily and joined her new house only to be followed, almost immediately, by Susan Bones.
With each name called, the group of first years grew smaller as the hat sorted the children to their appropriate places. Briefly, Harry wondered how the hat knew where to put a student but quickly realized it wasn't really important; the only thing that was, was where it put Hermione and if he could join her.
"Granger, Hermione!" called Professor McGonagall.
Seeking support, she nervously glanced at Harry and saw him smile encouragement; strengthened, she stepped forward.
"I hope they wash the hat before I have to put it on my head," Draco Malfoy cruelly said and received a few unpleasant snickers for his wit.
At Draco's words, Harry reached out, gently took Hermione's arm and stopped her briefly. Once again, he leaned forward and whispered, "No matter where you are, I will be with you and protect you."
"Thanks Harry," she replied and felt a light tap, a bit above her right cuff, before he let her go; she stepped warily towards the stool.
"What's that on your sleeve Miss Granger?" Professor McGonagall crossly challenged, "First years are not permitted adornment on their uniforms, unless there is extenuating or special circumstances, which warrant dispensation."
Hermione glanced at her sleeves and saw an ornate badge where Harry had touched her earlier, "I-I don't know Professor McGonagall; Harry must've put it there somehow. I don't know why."
"Let me see your sleeve, Miss Granger," the elder witch snapped her fingers with impatience and command; Hermione held out her arm.
Professor McGonagall turned the young witch's arm to see the offending alteration and gasped; it had been a long time since she had seen a Filial Protectum crest on a Hogwarts' robe, no less—never in her many years of teaching—but it was the family crest itself that robbed her of breath. There, as plain as day, the Potter Heraldry stood proudly borne upon the sleeve of a young muggle-born witch. The green robed witch turned and looked at the students still waiting for their sorting; standing forth was a boy with a mop of messy black hair and brilliant emerald eyes.
Stunned, Professor McGonagall looked back at Hermione and quietly asked, "Do you know the meaning of this crest, Miss Granger?"
Hermione nervously shook her head; worried, she thought she'd be sent home on the Hogwarts' Express, tonight.
"Is there a problem, Professor McGonagall?" an ancient looking wizard sitting at the center of the head table asked.
"No Headmaster," she replied.
"Very well then, carry on Professor."
"Miss Granger, please continue," the older witch instructed and released the young witch's arm.
With even greater foreboding than earlier, Hermione approached the stool and the hat; she placed it on her head and sat.
Hmmm . . . interesting, very interesting but I can't sort you, Hermione heard the Sorting Hat's voice in her head.
"Wh-What?" she whispered; fearing her worst nightmare had come true: she'd be sent, with disgrace, from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the mocking chorus of laughter, the least of which wouldn't be Malfoy's sneering guffaws.
You needn't whisper Miss Granger, I hear your thoughts but that doesn't mean I can sort you.
Why . . . Why not? She thought her reply, am I not worthy or talented enough?
Far from it, my young friend: in you, I sense intelligence worthy of Ravenclaw's diadem but I must see deeper to sort you.
I don't understand, Mr. Hat, Hermione thought.
Mr. Hat? How polite, my dear, the hat seemed to chuckle, but I remain at an impasse: do you know what I see in your mind?
N-No.
Books and more books, your mind is like a library—and I don't mean it metaphorically—it's like a real, physical, place but I can't find your index cards. If you'd been older I'd think you'd been trained by a Master Occlumens; how did you acquired such an extraordinary and ordered mind at such a young age, my dear?
I'm not sure what you mean but I have an eidetic memory; does that help?
Ah . . . That explains it then but I still have the same conundrum: how do I sort you? Perhaps, if you thought about your life generally instead of mnemonically it would provide me with a key of sorts: can you try that, dear?
I'll try, Hermione thought.
Better . . . much better—yes indeed—now let's see. Hmm . . . a wonderful mind, yes absolutely wondrous: you are the embodiment of the Ravenclaw edict, 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure' and would do well in Rowena's house, except . . .
. . . Except? Hermione experienced a stab of panic.
It's quite simple, never fear dear, most Ravenclaws' seek knowledge as an end in itself. Your parents are muggle healers, are they not?
They're both dentists if that's what you mean.
Indeed . . . Your love of learning and intelligence are inherited from them and like them, you seek knowledge as a means to an end and not 'an end' like Ravenclaws do: Ravenclaw is not the place for you. Hmm . . . let's see.
The Sorting Hat remained quiet for a bit.
No . . . No, not Hufflepuff. . . wrong . . . wrong. It wouldn't really suit your temperament. Still, I feel—of all houses—they'd be the most accepting but I think you'd find it quite limiting, my dear.
I'd like to be someplace accepting, Hermione silently ruminated.
I can see how you might crave that, Miss Granger, and for all I can tell you're exceptionally loyal, loyalty for you will always be confined to a very small circle of others—such as your parents; you're far too guarded for Hufflepuff type loyalty.
So . . . I guess that leaves Slytherin or Gryffindor.
O' for the days of our Founders where Salazar would embrace you as a daughter: but alas, his house is now the abode of fools and secrets—but for a few—and knows not the meaning of cunning or ambition by one's own effort. I can see from your memories the secrets you bear and you know how to hold your tongue, true Slytherins are uncommonly good at that and speak only when it's beneficial to their ambitions and schemes, but that is not enough, I assure you. I also see your thirst to prove yourself to others—no, make that one other, very interesting—and the Slytherin of old would see you onto magnificence. Regrettably, that house is now but a shadow of its former glory and would reject you immediately and off handedly, unable—as it where—to see past the circumstances of your birth: which leaves us Gryffindor.
So Gryffindor then, Hermione silently conceded.
Don't feel like I'm sorting you there because I have no place else to put you, my dear. You've traits in abundance for Godric's old house and your courage will see you through many trials that I foresee you'll face. Good luck Miss Granger.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
With that declaration, Hermione rose from the stool and, just before she took off the Sorting Hat, she heard its silent whisper; next time we speak, call me Gryff. With a smile, the young witch joined her house table to smiles and polite applause. The Sorting continued.
Now part of the audience, Hermione raptly watched the ceremony continue. She was thankful when Neville sorted to Gryffindor and near ecstatic when Draco Malfoy went to Slytherin—that had been funny; Gryff the Hat seemed unwilling to sully himself with the git's well-lubricated hair and called out the little ponce's affiliation before it alit on his head. Through Moon and Nott and Parkinson: past Patil and Patil and Perks, Sally-Anne; the person who interested her most at last had his turn.
"Potter, Harry!"
With butterflies fluttering strongly in his belly, Harry felt as if he was going to float his way to the stool. Thankfully, gravity refused to allow such a flagrant disregard for her rules and kept the boy's feet firmly on the floor as he stepped forward. As nervous as Hermione had been, Harry approached and put the hat on his head and took a seat. Like the majority of students already sorted this evening, the Sorting Hat fell over his eyes: Harry heard and yet, strangely, didn't hear a voice.
Hmm . . . Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting . . . But where to put you.
"Not Slytherin . . ." Harry whispered.
Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, no doubt about that.
"Not Slytherin, not Slytherin," his whisper was now fervent.
You needn't speak, I hear your thoughts just fine when you think. You're sure about 'not Slytherin' then . . . Are you sure I can't convince you to change your mind?
No. No. No! Harry thought emphatically.
Very well then; besides I don't really want to book odds on who'd kill who, first; but my Galleons would be placed on you if I was a betting hat: young Mister Malfoy is a fool who believes he's better than everyone else because of his name—like his father.
Do you really think I'd kill him?
Perhaps not . . .
Perhaps? You don't sound overly certain.
You have a bit of a temper; he has a bit of a temper. Unfortunately, for young Mr. Malfoy that is, if push came to shove, you'd be the one doing the pushing and shoving; it wouldn't end well for either of you. Since the death of a family scion would be bad news for everyone and the school's reputation, I'd best not put you two together any more than the castle and the classes, you share, will. More's the pity though, you are far more Slytherin than he and Salazar's house would benefit more from you than from him. Hmm . . . What about Hufflepuff?
What about Hufflepuff?
Helga's house is loyal and, for the most, trustworthy and might help you learn how to make friends but, when I look into your mind, I see someone who is slow to trust others and, for all you're loyal; your loyalty is hard earned and a narrow band at that. I see you at odds with that house if I sort you there. Let's see now, hmm . . . maybe Ravenclaw?
Ravenclaw?
You'd get on well with Rowena's house's head, I think; considering who your allies are—which is very surprising I might add; me being surprised is quite an accomplishment, considering how old I am.
I'd rather not speak of that and beg your discretion—others need not know of my private dealings unless I see fit to tell them.
Never fear, never fear, Lord Potter-Scion Black.
Harry mentally flinched.
Ah, I see, you don't want your affiliation with that Noble and Most Ancient House to become common knowledge; just like you don't want others to know what you were doing through the very long days of August just past. Never fear my young friend; I'm able to provide very little information—superficial at best—to others, Headmaster's prerogative notwithstanding.
Thank you, I appreciate that. Harry thought, mentally sighing in relief.
You need not thank me; I was enchanted that way but back to the matter at hand: where to put you. I see a mind suitable for Ravenclaw but you're ambitious beyond just acquiring knowledge and learning; it would likely place you at odds with that house as well. Besides, while Professor Flitwick may well know more of your recent dealings than Professor Dumbledore does, it's certainly not enough of a reason to overlook your preference for action versus observation. Besides, I know of a witch who'd welcome you, most surely, as housemate. Better be . . .
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Sorting Hat pronounced to the hall's bated breath.
Quickly, Harry removed the hat and looked at his new house's table; with an almost co-conspirators grin on her face, Hermione was looking at him, invitingly. He walked past the head table, across the Great Hall—feeling the stares and ignoring the murmurs which followed him; he reached his friend's side. Harry, generally adverse to another's touch, found that the young witch's unexpected hug that greeted him felt kind of okay—in a funny sort of way, like it had on the train. A few quiet catcalls and whistles later—mostly from two identical redheads and one young black wizard with dreadlocks—Harry and Hermione separated as if hit by an electric shock; their faces were very red. Self-conscious, Harry took the seat beside his bushy haired witch. The sorting continued.
With 'Turpin, Lisa' going to Ravenclaw, the boy known as Ron Weasley took the vacated seat on the stool and put on the hat.
"GRYFFINDOR!" The Sorting Hat announced; a collective but quiet groan rose from Hermione, Neville and Harry.
"At least I don't have to share a dorm with him," hoping her comment came across as amusing.
"Lucky you," Harry replied.
He thought their discreet words had gone unnoticed until he heard, "That's our baby bro you're dissing there mate, watch it."
"I . . . I'm sorry," Harry apologized to the identical redheads; he didn't know which had spoken.
"He's a bit of a git but he is family after all," one of the redheads commented, not overly angry sounding.
"I take it—from your reaction—you've already met li'l Ronniekins," the second redhead surmised on the verbal heels of the first. "He told us he had met you—it was pretty hard to understand because he was speaking so fast: did you really do what he said you did to Malfoy?"
"Um . . . what did he say?" Harry asked cagily, "I didn't do anything special, I'm sure; he must've exaggerated."
"Harry, what you did on the train was positively amaz . . ." Hermione stopped when Harry glared at her; she recovered with, "you're right, I'm sure he was just exaggerating."
The two redheads looked skeptically at the first year witch and wizard; meanwhile, further up the table another redhead—the prefect from the Hogwarts express, no less—spoke out, chastising the other two, "Fred, George, be quiet the Sorting Ceremony isn't over yet."
"Who cares, perfect prefect Percy, the last boy looks Slytherin anyways," Fred or George—Harry wasn't sure which—said.
"That's completely beside the point," the redhead known as Percy said, pompously, as Ron joined the table.
"SLYTHERIN!" the hat announced; as the one redhead twin predicted, 'Zabini, Blaise' was indeed the newest snake.
Professor McGonagall rolled up the scroll and took the Sorting Hat and stool away. She quickly returned and sat—in the primmest of manners—near the center of the head table and looked at the bearded, silver haired wizard with the up-most attention. That's got to be Dumbledore, Harry silently reasoned.
"Welcome!" he said once standing and opened his arms wide, "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin the feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
Harry and Hermione looked at each other in confusion; once more, the same thoughts crossed their minds, what the . . . Is he mad? What was that all about?
The pondering on the enigma that was Professor Dumbledore was supplanted by the arrival of food—lots of food. Harry had never seen so much but, there, sitting before him were heaps of succulent roast beef, chicken, pork and lamb—steaming enticingly on overloaded platters and beckoning his full attention; his stomach growled in anticipation. He filled his plate with a little of everything and began eating the best meal of his life. Surprisingly, he found himself actually thanking the Dursleys for the one useful thing they had imparted to him, table manners: Ron Weasley wasn't so gifted; the way he ate would've earned him bread and water and month in Harry's old cupboard at 4 Privet Drive. As loathsome as it was, like seeing a horrid accident, you had to look no matter how disgusting it might be; Harry looked on for a time. Thankfully his willpower won through and his attention returned to his own plate. He ate, gingerly, and with a sidelong glance at Hermione, he noticed her plate remained empty.
"What's wrong, Hermione?" he asked quite loudly, even though—relative to the noise in the Great Hall—was quite quiet. "I know Weasley's eating habits suck but don't let that put you off your food; you need to eat too."
"It's not that, Harry," she began then halted for a second when she glimpsed the gorging redhead, "well maybe a little—ugh; I don't know what to have, it all looks so good."
"The roast beef and yorkshires are incredible, try them," Harry suggested.
"Yes Harry, I will—thank you," she replied; stunned by her overtone and the word in her mind she hadn't spoken. Did Harry hear that the way I did—oh no, what must he think!—what should I do? I really need to write mom as soon as I can.
"Are you feeling okay, Hermione, you look a little flush," he asked with concern as he studied his friend.
"I . . . I'm fine, Harry, just a bit overwhelmed I guess; a lot happened today." She answered, her eyes refused to budge from her plate.
"You sure?"
"Yeah . . . yeah, I'm sure Harry thanks for asking," she summoned the courage for a quick glance at the green-eyed boy and offered a weak smile; then turned her attention to the roast beef and yorkshires he had mentioned. It does look good, she thought before, woodenly serving herself a meager portion and taking a bite. It is good!
As they ate, the Gryffindor house ghost visited their table—he seemed quite offended when Ron called him Nearly Headless Nick. When asked how he could be 'nearly headless' he pulled his head to the side and displayed the stub of his incompletely severed neck. Hermione declared she was finished eating after that unpleasant sight; Ron Weasley, began shoveling dessert into his mouth.
"I'm done too," Harry said at this new display of gluttony and pushed his plate away.
"Me too," chorused Neville, sharing Harry's revulsion that Ron's eating habits had engendered. Grans would skin me alive if I ate like that, the timid boy thought and shivered. By Merlin, she wouldn't hesitate; wouldn't blame her either.
Harry, having eaten a comfortable amount, began visually exploring the Great Hall. His eyes fell upon the head table and a blinding stab of pain erupted in his forehead when he recognized the back of a turbaned head: it was the teacher, introduced by Hagrid while at the Leaky Cauldron. He was speaking to another who had greasy black hair, a hooked nose and pallid skin. As if sensing Harry's glance, Quirrell's companion turned his gaze to the young wizard and glared.
"What's wrong, Potter?" Percy the prefect asked, he noticed Harry's rubbing his scar.
He still sounds like he has a stick up his butt but at least he noticed I was in pain, Harry thought a little more charitably than formerly and answered, "A bit of a headache I guess, I'm not really used to big crowds, maybe it's getting to me; nothing to worry about but thanks for asking. By the way, who's the teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?"
Percy glanced at the head table before answering, "That's Professor Snape; he teaches potions but everyone knows he doesn't want to. We all know he wants the Defense position that Quirrell teaches; I'm told Professor Snape knows a lot about the Dark Arts: not surprising really, he heads Slytherin too."
"He's a git, too," Fred—or was that George? Harry wondered—commented without a hint of respect; whoever it was, drew the scandalized glare from a witch named Hermione.
"He's a Hogwarts' teacher; you will show him the proper respect," Percy demanded portentously in the same vein as Hermione's glower; Hermione would soon learn better.
"Doesn't make him any less of a git, though," the student with dreadlocks added.
"Jordan!" Percy's exclaimed; his tone warning.
"Stick a sock in it, Percy!" one of the twins almost shouted, "Snape doesn't treat you much better than he treats us so take your lips off his pasty ass—are you trying to become an honorary snake or something? It won't do you any good, you must know it too; we know you're not dumb but sometimes you're dim and way too stiff: besides, it's embarrassing to your brothers."
The battle of the redheads threatened to spiral out of control—Ron looked bored, however, and ignored the family spat; the treacle tarts were far more compelling—but before reaching hex exchange levels they were interrupted by Professor Dumbledore's intentionally loud, "Ahem . . ."
The Headmaster paused long enough for the three brothers to cease the verbal mêlée, before continuing, "Now we are all fed and watered I have a few start of term notices to pass on. One, first years should note that the forest on the ground is forbidden to all students. Two, our ever faithful caretaker, Mr. Filch, asked me to remind you that magic is prohibited between classes and in the corridors. Three, Quidditch trials begin in the second week of term. And finally, I must tell you that the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to anyone not wishing for a most painful death."
"Is he serious?" Hermione quietly asked, her confidence in the faculty waning, "What kind of fool tells a bunch of children not to go someplace; if what he said is true, by the end of our first week half the student body will have died most painfully. It doesn't make a lick of sense."
Frowning, Percy Weasley heard the young witch's discreet remarks and answered, "Well the Forbidden Forest is home to many dangerous creatures, magical and non-magical alike, and magic has never been allowed in the corridors; it's a school rule but I don't understand that bit about the third floor: you'd think he'd at least tell his prefects why."
"Prefects, please gather and escort your new charges to their dorms and with that, I bid you good night." Headmaster Dumbledore announced in dismissal.
Professor Dumbledore and the teachers rose from the head table and once they had cleared it, the students rose and made their way from the Great Hall. Harry looked about and noticed that while some teachers left immediately a few remained to take a good look at the students; of these, Professor Snape was one—Harry watched him walk to the hall's doors, linger and suspiciously eye the odd student who passed. Unknowingly, Harry departed the Gryffindor table holding Hermione's hand and, of all people, Draco Malfoy was the one who noticed; he had chosen to linger with Professor Snape by the door.
"Hey Potter," he began, emboldened by the presence of his Head of House, "I hope your pet mudblood is house broken, I'd hate to clean up her mess—I think she smells enough now, I'd not want to have to deal with that too."
Professor Snape did nothing to halt or discipline his student for his reproachful remarks; he didn't care. A few other Slytherins joined them and shared a laugh at Hermione's expense; Harry was livid.
"You will apologize to Hermione, immediately, Malfoy!" Harry demanded; his voice wasn't loud but it held chilling menace: Draco didn't notice, Professor Snape did, he thought it juvenile bluster at first until he shivered unexpectedly—it was not cold in the Great Hall, by any standard.
"Why should I, she's a muggle-born for Merlin's sake; even a half-blood like you has got to know what that means—so make me!" Draco said as he dug himself deeper.
"Look at her sleeve and reconsider your words, Scion Malfoy!"
Draco's eyes fell to the crest on Hermione's sleeve, it didn't mean anything to him; Professor Snape sneered and looked, he had been curious about what had ruffled the usually staid Minerva McGonagall's feathers when the Granger girl was sorted: the Potions Master somehow managed to grow paler.
"You will apologize to Miss Granger immediately, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape ordered to the disbelief and shock of the gathered Slytherins and Draco Malfoy.
"Uncle Severus," Draco whined, "she's just a filthy little mudblood, I'll not apologize to it—I'm a Malfoy and the next Lord of my family; I won't demean myself for that thing."
"It is Professor Snape while you are in this castle Mr. Malfoy and you will do what you are told, apologize now!" Draco faced the scowl that his Head of House usually reserved for students who were not Slytherin—generally Gryffindor: Fred and George Weasley, in particular. His uncharacteristic rant attracted the attention of a number of other students in the Great Hall; unfortunately, most were not members of the House of Snake and their snickers invited the Potions Master's fiercest glare.
"I'll not!" Draco was petulant. "My father will hear of this outrage!"
"You will!" Professor Snape furiously snapped at his serpents and godson.
"No!"
"Wait over there," Professor Snape instructed Draco and pointed to their house table, "now!"
At least he followed that order, the Potions Master thought and found himself looking at a very familiar set of green eyes and a head of messy black hair. He calmed himself with great effort.
"Lord Potter," he managed without sounding scornful; he couldn't believe he was doing this, he hated it but he didn't have a choice, "please forgive my godson and hold not the Malfoy name at fault; he is both young and foolish and knows not what he's saying."
"I'm not convinced, Professor Snape," Harry replied, lordly, "his verbiage and insults—especially towards Miss Granger, who has done nothing to warrant his unpleasant and bigoted blustering—was first experienced on the Hogwarts' Express and has dogged us since. At no time did young Mr. Malfoy seem unaware of what he was saying and seemed to actively choose words that were the most hurtful to my companion. Once spoken a word can't be unspoken; an apology from a quarter not involved is not an apology. Why should I or the lovely Miss Granger here by my side, deserve any less?"
Severus Snape was sweating; only two other wizards had ever done that to him.
"I'll speak to my charge, Lord Potter?"
"As I expect you to, goodnight Professor Snape," Harry said and, still holding her hand, exited the Great Hall with Hermione. The remaining students were confused and, surprisingly uncomfortable for their Potions Master's predicament; they didn't know what to make of this new student. Very angry, Professor Snape turned to his house's table and, with robes billowing, walked towards an unrepentant Draco Malfoy.
"Are you a fool?" he hissed.
"I will not be cowed by a mudblood or a half-blood—I am a Malfoy."
"You may be a Malfoy but you are not a Lord yet and if that little encounter is how you deal with things I fear for your House's future; you must grow up and you must do it soon. By Merlin, you're Slytherin act like one."
"You actually sound scared, uncle," his tone horridly disrespectful to his godfather, "what can Potter and his mudblood do; they're up against the Noble House of Malfoy."
"You'd be best scared too, lest you find your father on his knees before the Wizengamot, head bowed before Granger and Potter because of your stupidity: he'll not like that, I assure you."
"Father is Lord Malfoy of the Noble House of Malfoy, he would never bow; especially not to a mudblood and only a girl at that," Draco announced proudly.
Severus Snape shook his head and thought, unkindly; can my godson be any more obtuse?
"Listen and listen well young Draco Malfoy and heed my words: your daddy may be the head of the Noble House of Malfoy but Potter is the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter—neither you nor I are his peers, only your father ranks and you'd best heed Miss Granger and your manner towards her, too."
"She's just a mudblood," Draco remained defiant.
"Yes, she's a mudblood but she's a mudblood bearing House Potter Heraldry." Severus Snape was becoming increasingly frustrated with his godson. "Did you not look at the crest on her sleeve when Potter told you to?"
"I looked, so?"
"Are you really your father's son?"
"Of course I am."
"It was a rhetorical question, you needn't have answered it." Professor Snape, rubbed his temples, he felt the beginnings of a massive headache; it had a name too: Potter. "Do you understand what that crest signifies?"
"I've never seen it before: what is it? How important can it be?" they were innocent but exasperating question that successfully upset Serverus' stomach.
"That crest is the Filial Protectum for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter; it means that Miss Granger is a 'friend of' and 'protected by' House Potter and is essentially a 'Potter'; the only things that would bring her closer to that ancient house now is a betrothal ring, an engagement ring or a wedding ring. Do you get it now, Draco? When you insult or do anything to Granger, you are basically doing it to the freshly minted Miss Hermione Potter! Now, off with you, I don't want to see you until tomorrow."
Firmly dismissed by his godfather and Head of House, Draco left the Great Hall with a bad taste in his mouth and vowing to 'tell his father' on the morrow: he'll tell me what to do, I'm sure, Draco thought.
—}{—
Harry Potter and a flummoxed companioning young witch called Hermione, turned their backs on the sputtering Potions Master and—essentially—promenaded from the Great Hall. Still hand in hand, they caught up with the rest of the Gryffindors; a sharp-eyed fellow first year named Lavender Brown noticed their arrival. She glanced at Harry and Hermione, noticed their linked hands and uttered a high-pitched squeak, which attracted the attention of Parvati Patil, another first year. Lavender leaned towards the girl and whispered something; Parvati jerked her head to the young couple. Hermione and Harry almost suffered sympathetic whiplash when they saw Miss Patil turn her head so quickly, they smiled bashfully The tan skinned witch studied the young couple intently and began spinning threads for future gossip—at least that's what it looked like to the hand-holding duo.
"This is the fastest way to the Gryffindor Tower from the Great Hall," Percy announced imperiously, "I expect you to remember this because I will not allow you to embarrass me or my prefects by having my firsties asking other houses for directions, so pay attention."
They followed the redhead down corridors, up stairs and through doors hidden by tapestries and mirrors and by the time they stopped before a portrait of a fat lady wearing pink Harry was thoroughly and absolutely lost.
"Um, Hermione?" he asked quietly.
"What is it?"
"Will you remember how we got here?"
"Of course I will it's easy; why, weren't you paying attention?"
Harry placed his fingers on his forehead and gave his head a little shake and whispered, "I'll just follow you for the next little bit, if that's okay with you."
"Password?" the woman in the portrait asked.
"Caput Draconis," said Percy and the picture swung open like a door.
Through the opening the new Gryffindors scurried and found themselves in a large room filled with chairs, sofas and tables but the first thing that really struck the eye was the color scheme; if it wasn't made of wood or stone it was red, gold, or—more commonly—red and gold. Tapestries, upholstery, throw pillows and area rugs frequently held motifs of lions and griffins and little else; even the balustrades on the stairs, opposite the portrait door, carried that theme as did the ornate mantle of the very large fireplace that dominated one wall.
"Welcome to the Gryffindor Common Room," the redhead said proudly. "The girls' dorm is upstairs, to the right; the boys up and to the left. You'll find your belongings by the beds in your dorms. I suggest you all head to bed, now, and get a good night's sleep; you'll be very busy tomorrow and Hogwarts is very large, she requires a fair bit stamina to navigate quickly and efficiently. Good night now."
Bone weary students began to trudge up the stairs and head to their rooms; at the landing were the stairs branched right and left, Harry and Hermione parted for the first time since the Hogwarts Express.
"G'night Mione," Harry said and yawned.
"Good night, Harry," she replied with a smile before disappearing at the top of stairs leading to her dorm.
Both had hoped to head straight to bed but were intercepted immediately upon entering their rooms. Harry faced his dorm-mates and found himself answering questions about being the-boy-who-lived and what Ron had seen on the Hogwarts' Express. It was much the same for Hermione; her dorm-mates staccato asked her questions about how long she had known Harry Potter and how she had managed to snag the-boy-who-lived so quickly after having only met him on the train this morning. Both were totally exhausted and hoarse by the time they climbed into their beds that night.
—}{—
"That's number four, Severus my old friend," said Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, his eyes merrily twinkling, as his Potions Master topped off his tumbler from the bottle of firewhisky sitting on the Headmaster's desk. "Is something vexing you? I've not seen you down this many drinks in a very long time."
"One word 'Harry Potter'," he virtually spat out the name.
"That's two words, my friend," Albus Dumbledore said with a good natured chuckle.
Severus Snape glowered at the Headmaster and tipped back half his tumbler's contents when it touched his lips before he crossly said, "The boy is as arrogant as his father was—no, he's worse!"
"Now, now Severus I'm sure you're just exaggerating," Dumbledore soothed, "I spoke with Hagrid after his trip to Diagon Ally with the boy; he said young Harry was quite timid and unassuming and very polite."
"That oaf! Potter played your grounds keeper for the fool that he is—you should've sent someone else. I'm telling you Albus, Potter is trouble and he's already flaunting himself."
"Come now, he can't be that bad; by Merlin, he's spent most of his life with his muggle relatives, what does he know of our world or his heritage for that matter?" the Headmaster said trying mollify his aggrieved friend.
"Doesn't know about our world or his heritage!" Professor Snape roared. "Are you intentionally being blind or have you gone senile?"
"My, my, I'm hurt that you'd think that Severus," Dumbledore feigned insult but his eyes kept their twinkle. "Give me an example of young Harry's precociousness; who would have taught him—surely not his magic hating muggle relations."
"You want an example, I'll give you an example and you might want to start rethinking your plans for the 'Greater Good' because the timid, unassuming and polite boy you claim he is has already begun—like a dog—to mark territory in your castle, Albus. I suggest you open your eyes."
"Whatever do you mean, Severus?" The Headmaster countered.
"Remember when the Granger girl was sorted, by Merlin man, you even asked Minerva if something was wrong—didn't you ask your Deputy Headmistress what happened? Did you even think to ask?"
"Dear me, I meant to; I must've gotten caught up in the excitement of the feast and forgotten to—so, what does Miss Granger's sorting have to do with young Harry?"
"Miss Granger—a muggle born witch in her first year at Hogwarts—is sporting the Potter Filial Protectum on her right sleeve; tell me Albus, how does that sit in regards to your 'Greater Good' and grand schemes, I'd like to know?"
"You . . . you must be mistaken, Severus; only a Lord from a noble family can give 'friend of' or 'protected by' status to another—young Harry is far too young," Professor Dumbledore replied; a worried tone working into his words, "mind you, he is the last Potter—but still."
"Well obviously Potter knows more than he should; even his egotistical father never played the Potter name card while he was at Hogwarts," said Severus Snape with obvious hatred.
"What do you mean by played 'the Potter name card', Severus, did something else happen?"
"Your unassuming and timid boy called out Draco Malfoy in the Great Hall and very publicly demanded that he apologize to Granger—I assume you know how that would play out don't you?"
"Oh my . . ."
"It would be hard enough to get my godson to apologize to a pureblood peer, never mind a mudblood . . ."
". . . Severus, I expect better of you—Miss Granger is a Hogwarts' student; she should not been demeaned by that vulgar word, especially passing the lips of a teacher."
"Fine . . . fine, I'll be more guarded in the future but that is not important; what is important is Draco's outright refusal and continuing debasement of Granger in front of her Lord—though I don't think she knows that Potter is now her Lord, at least not yet—and in public forum no less. I had to apologize, on my godson's behalf, for the honor of the Malfoy family and Slytherin House."
"Wonderful, you apologized—I'm sure young Harry and Miss Granger will forgive and forget," the Headmaster's twinkle was back and he sounded annoyingly chipper again.
"Headmaster, Potter in a most infuriatingly polite manner did not accept the apology—he basically told me it was worthless because I was not involved in the incidents relating to this slight."
"Oh dear . . . did you speak to the Malfoy Scion about his manners?"
"Of course I did; I am his godfather and Head of House. I even told him that if he continued in this fashion towards Potter and Granger that his father could be called to task and forced to publicly apologize—on his knees—to Granger and Potter before the Wizengamot; he didn't listen."
"Oh my . . . Lord Malfoy will be most displeased," Dumbledore pointlessly observed.
"Indeed," Severus Snape simply replied.
"Gryff, can you cast some light on today's sorting?" Dumbledore asked the Sorting Hat sitting quietly on its self.
"I take it you are really asking about our two new Slythindors, Albus?" The hat asked.
"Slythindors? What do you mean?" The Headmaster asked in confusion.
Gryff the hat replied, "All I can say, Headmaster, is that it is a very sorry state of affairs when the two most Slytherin of all are not in Slytherin at all."
—}{—
Many, many miles South of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in a roughly hewn cavern beneath London, the true seat of goblin kind, found three keepers of Wizarding Wealth meeting a fourth.
"Report Chronicler Griphook," ordered a rough and battle-scarred goblin from the head of a gold table.
"Lord Potter will now be at Hogwarts and his mother's machinations continue to pop up but otherwise things have not really changed, Overlord Ragnok," Griphook replied.
"What has the late Lady Lillian arranged for us this time," Ragnok replied in disdained amusement from his seat at the head, "how I wish she were alive and of the people—as queen she would be exemplar and bear strong children; I'd even welcome a daughter by her."
"It looks like a set of memory marbles and a letter, M'Lord, we have sent them to Lord Potter."
"Very good, anything else?"
"Lord Potter has named one Miss Hermione Granger—a muggle born witch of no regard before now—as a Potter Filial Protectum, we will be dispatching warders to Miss Granger's home tomorrow—I think Cursebreaker Weasley should attend as well, I'm sure as muggles Miss Granger's parents would find dealing with a human much easier," Vaultlord Goldenfang reported.
"What ward schemes have you considered, Vaultlord Goldenfang, since Lord Potter is by default Scion-Black at this time; his actions make the Grangers also Black Filial Protectum—ironic to say the least," chuckled Vaultlord Diamondwill.
"For now we think anti-apparition, anti-magic-detection—I'm sure Maiden Granger would like to practice magic when not at school—and Darkmark detection and detention," Griphook replied.
"That should be sufficient for now; we'll reassess as needed," Overlord Ragnok agreed. "What of Lord Black?"
"He remains in Azkaban and we have yet to find collaborating or compelling evidence to warrant his incarceration," Vaultlord Diamondwill reported, "we've queried the Ministry but they are being obfuscating as a dwarf."
"Very well then, we shall meet in thirty days unless something happens," Overlord Ragnok said in dismissal.