A/N: Not the most exciting chapter, but I hope it's still fun most of the time?
In the next instalment, Harry meets a Very Important Person, and there's is a lot more snark. I'll probably post it tomorrow.
Review please? :P
Three – Searching
"Harry …" Ron stutters with utter mortification. "Th-that's a s-snake … on your bed."
"An Indian Cobra, actually." I glance at Hedwig; she's still asleep, I think. "But all right, I guess a snake is an accurate description." All my dorm mates have their eyes on me now, varying degrees of horror on their faces. "Hedwig is my familiar." I explain.
"But, but you're not allowed snakes at Hogwarts!" Dean cries.
"Don't tell anybody then." I reply nonchalantly.
Poor Neville looks like he might faint, but he still blurts out. "But there's a reason why they're not allowed! Snakes are, are deadly!"
"Hedwig won't bite unless I tell her to." The boys don't look reassured at all, somehow. Stirring from sweet dreams upon hearing her name, Hedwig senses the four boys staring at her. Immediately, she draws up to her full height and flares her hood, fangs bare and red eyes gleaming. Funny; Father has an eerily similar expression when he's mad. My roommates all yelp and step back, as expected.
"Hedwig, down! Do you fancy getting us both expelled on the first day?"
"But Master –"
"No buts! To your box!" The cobra gives me a rueful look – a serpentine pout? - before slithering off my bed. Last night before lights out, I set up a self-refreshing miniature snake habitat beside my bed. Calling it a 'box' is a great understatement. Hedwig's getting used to being pampered already.
Grinning at my strict discipline, I turn back to my dorm mates. "See? She listens to me." The looks on the boys' faces tell me that I've just traumatized them for life.
"You can speak to snakes." Ron whispers.
"I've noticed. So?" Nobody answers.
"All right!" I make a sloppy loop with my hideous red and gold tie. "Are you fellows not starving?"
Breakfast, thankfully, is a much tamer event that last night's Welcoming Feast. I break off from the Gryffindors and walk straight to the far end of the Slytherin table, where Draco and his two bodyguards sit.
"Harry! Still alive after a night with the pride?" Draco smirks evilly. I smirk right back.
"Still at the bottom of the Slytherin hierarchy, Drakey?" Unlike the Lions, the Snakes have their seating arrangements strictly according to social standing in the House; it's obvious if you know what to look for. The first years are near the end of the long table, only higher in hierarchy than the odd balls and occasional muggleborns that somehow made it into Salazar's House.
"It's only been one night." Draco grunts vehemently.
"It's all right, Draco. I still love you, as does Pansy." He grimaces. "Although, if you sew your family name on your lapel, it might help your social ascension." I duck and easily evade a swat on the head by a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Too bad; swatting puppies and obnoxious friends is about the only thing that paper is good for.
Before Draco can strike again, a woman's voice sends chills down my spine. "Mr. Potter, you're not sitting with your housemates."
"No, Professor McGonagall, I'm sorry." I school my features into that befitting a reprimanded little boy. "I just wanted to talk with Draco here; trade stories, you know. We've known each other since forever and it's a little hard to be in different Houses." I know better than to antagonize professors on my first day, although it seems that my very presence causes strong emotions in certain people.
McGonagall's still regarding me skeptically, but she lets it go with the simple advice that I should try making more friends in my own House too. I nod eagerly until she's out of earshot.
"Suave." Draco mouths.
"Of course. But what does she have against me?"
"Oh I don't think she's against you personally. Just suspicious, probably." Draco offers sagely. I sigh.
A great commotion breaks out as I poke at the sausage on my plate miserably. Post owls of every colour and breed swoop into the Great Hall, most of them bearing packages containing items the students forgot at home. Draco's mighty eagle owl drops a letter on his lap, then asks for my piece of sausage by perching near my plate politely. I offer it to him with a chuckle; only the Malfoys can possibly own owls that have perfect table manners. "Good boy, Aragorn."
Draco starts shooting me murder. "For the last time, Harry, it's bad enough for your snake but you're NOT naming my owl after a muggle novel character!"
"But it suits him – lone ranger of the North, no?" I pout. "Do you have a better name?"
Draco draws up blank. He's not overly adept at naming things and he aspires to join the ranks of Body Snatchers.
"On the other hand, are your parents seriously writing you letters already?"
"What, jealous?" Draco tears into the envelope eagerly. "And I have to report on your every move too, don't I?"
Figured.
"Have you talked to your father at all?"
"No." I answer shortly. "Not planning on doing it anytime soon."
Draco lowers his voice. "You should really write to him, or do your mind link thing, whatever. Just do it before he does something drastic, yeah?"
"Drastic? What's he gonna do – blow up the school?" I laugh a bit too loudly. "Now that would be fun, wouldn't it?" Several other Slytherins are shooting us odd looks. At this point, Daphne, Pansy, Theo, and Blaise saunter over to join us.
"What did you say to the Hat to land yourself in Gryffindor, Harry?" Pansy opens with a sneer that's reserved for me. "Called it ugly?"
"Why, Pansy, I don't think the Hat would've minded even if I'd called it ugly – unlike you, I might add." Pansy glares and Draco snickers. I do hope these two don't end up getting married.
"You should play nice with the ladies, Potter." Blaise admonishes, a little too serious for my liking. His use of my other name, I definitely don't approve of.
"Don't call me that, Zabini." I lower my voice somewhat dangerously and Blaise doesn't press it.
The baby Death Eaters and I share an intricate relationship. In some ways, we go way back, but I only see them several times a year, usually when we're all trapped in the Kiddie Room at some elite social gathering of European purebloods. They've never quite accepted me as a friend. Theo Nott and Milly Bulstrode are as spoiled as they come. Blaise tends to engage in unnecessary power struggles with Draco. Vince Crabbe and Greg Goyle don't quite have the capacity to think for themselves; they do whatever their fathers tell them to do, and have the unfortunate tendency to defer to Draco as well. I actually find Daphne Greengrass quite tolerable, but Pansy – Pansy is on another level. She sometimes reminds me of Aunt Bella and I can't talk to her for two minutes without my self-preservation instincts kicking in.
I've always attributed their coldness towards me to my dubious origins and blood integrity – Uncle Lucius introduced me as the adopted charge of one of Aunt Narcissa's distant relatives, here to learn the intricacies of British pureblood Society. Throwing in the Harry Potter persona, I can certainly see why they've never been eager to be friends with me.
Quite tired of this crowd's power plays by now, I ask casually. "What's first period?"
"Harry, we don't have class together. Lions and Snakes, remember?"
I grumble all the way as I head to the Gryffindor table. All the red and gold clad first year boys are eyeing me warily.
"Your, your snake …" Ron begins. "Won't eat my rat, will she?"
"Nah, Hedwig is a very picky eater." I wave it off, not the least bit concerned. "She doesn't like house rats; says they're way too chewy and not nearly juicy enough. Can't blame her, yeah?" I notice that nobody within earshot touches the sausages after that.
"What's first period?" I ask again.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts." Neville reads out from his schedule, grimacing. "With the Slytherins." Draco, that moron. We're having first period together after all.
"Defence against the dark arts? Wouldn't that be fun!" I declare. "Ron, walk with me." The redhead seems like he doesn't want to be anywhere near me, but I drag him by the sleeve so he hardly has a choice.
At the end of the first school day, I find myself at the entrance of the Hogwarts library. If I'm lucky, this place holds the secret to my life.
I need to know why Father targeted my parents and I all those years ago. I mean, sure, the Potters were Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix, pesky things for the Dark side. But why would the Dark Lord himself, at the height of the first war, feel to need to carry out a hit like that alone? There's something more to it, I'm sure. But since I can't just up and ask anyone on either side without giving away too much, I decide to start with the printed word.
My eyes light up as I walk further in and take in rows upon rows of books and periodicals, holding so many of the secrets of the world – until I realize I don't know the first thing about searching spells. I have my own study at home and Father's private collection is off-limits for me since most of those books can be detrimental to my health. Sighing, I retrace my steps and think up a plan to cozy up to the librarian.
"Mr. Potter, what can I help you with?" Madam Pince, as the placard suggests, looks up from a heavy tome on her desk. She looks nice enough – for a librarian that is.
"Madam, I wonder if you'll be so kind to show me how to find things in the library?" I give her my most winning smile.
"Oh, that'd be my pleasure, but there is really no need, Mr. Potter." She replies. "You'll be learning how to use the library with one of your classes, in about … two weeks' time."
Two weeks? I can't wait that long! This is life and death for me, witch! Can't you see? But of course she can't; she has no idea I have a potentially homicidal parent and guardian. Father wanted me dead a decade ago, but somehow he doesn't want that anymore – probably doesn't want that anymore, or else he's wasted seven long years of excruciating co-existence with a growing boy. Father seems like the kind of person that hated children even when he was one of them. So the only question is why? What has changed? What made the Potters special?
"But, Madam, I started this very interesting project on wizarding history back in the summer, and I just can't wait to keep working on it. I'd find so many useful books in this amazing library!" I try on my 'puppy dog eyes'; they always seemed to work on Aunt Narcissa. "If you don't mind, could you just teach me how to search for things? I'm a fast learner, promise."
It works. For the next hour and a half, I trail after Madam Pince as she explains to me useful spells and the wonders of the library. Once she gets started on the latter part, she can't stop. I nod eagerly every step on the way, and have to come up with random facts about my research on the spot. By the end of the tour, I have a very promising fake project on the effects of Grindelwald's war on half-blooded children.
As most students and even the librarian herself leave for dinner, I make my way to the periodicals section. "Present Lily Potter or James Potter or Harry Potter or Boy-Who-Lived in 1981." I intone and neon green highlights go up like fireworks. Without a second though, I tear into the articles with the fervour of a mad scientist. I put back newspaper after newspaper and wave off the search markers one by one until I finally realize -
It's no use. The articles don't help at all. I'm fed up with proclamations of the heroic defeat of You-Know-Who by a one-year-old Harry Potter and the end of the war. I've gained ample information on the life and death of Lily Evans and James Potter: graduating from Hogwarts in 1976, a happy marriage one year later, top of their classes in Auror training, valued members of Dumbledore's Order, yada yada.
Yet nothing answers my question on why the Dark Lord would want the Potter family dead in particular. I'm no closer to the truth than when I started.
Looking around me with frustration, I notice that there is one neon green highlight left. It's a funny looking magazine on the bottom shelf, and I have to almost crawl to get at it. One look at the cover page have me laughing hysterically – the irony! I'm holding in my hands a prized copy of the Quibbler. Doubting if there is ever anything of value printed under that title, I give the funky magazine a try anyway.
The article is not long, but it takes me a while to get the gist of it because the words, in true Quibbler fashion, are moving around the page in an imitation of a conga line. "A prophecy?" I squint harder. "A prophecy about … Harry Potter … and – and Neville Longbottom?"
So it was about me and not my birth parents after all? But I can't see how Neville possibly has anything to do with this. Moreover, prophecies are lies for the faint-hearted, aren't they? Father himself has always despised Divination. Surely at the height of his power, he wouldn't have acted rashly based on a prophecy?
Dismissing such an outlandish idea, I put the old magazine back in the little dark corner where it belongs. Perhaps I need to have a talk with Dumbledore after all. If anyone has an inkling of the Dark Lord's motives – and I can't ask Father or any of his trusted advisors - it's probably the leader of the Light.
By this point, it's already pitch dark outside and the older students are well into their evening study halls. I slowly pad back to library entrance, where Madam Pince gives me an amused look.
"Doing research all this time?"
"Yes, Madam, I found a lot of interesting articles." I smile tiredly.
"Good boy! Now are you sure you shouldn't be in Ravenclaw?"
Well I wish I was! As it is, I head towards Gryffindor Tower, with a furiously growling stomach to match my crappy mood.