A/N: Look, another update in just six hours! I really do go a mile a minute when I write in Harry's PoV :)
Again ... please review? o.O
Four – A Tricky Thing
It's hate at first sight.
From the first minute of our first Potions class, I know that Severus Snape is out for my blood. It's true that Potions has never been my favourite subject – I never found the patience in me to follow each step to the word, and Merlin knows how much my old tutor has to say about that. In all honesty, however, I'm not pathetic in the subject, either.
Snape somehow makes it look like I can't tell a bazoar from a manelphil. Every class, I lose a healthy amount of House points for Gryffindor - for being too smart or too dumb when I speak, too loud or too quiet with my partner, too fast or too slow in my potion brewing – he always manages to finds something.
The first time he insults my father, I'm quite stunned. This man either has no idea who Father is, or has a very avid death wish. Wait, isn't Snape actually rumoured to be a Death Eater? Then I realize something – he's talking about James Potter.
That's so twisted! And unfair! I don't even know the man, and I'm paying for whatever he did to this deranged, children-hating professor all these years ago. And yes, if another adult comes up to me and coos about how much I look like James save for my eyes – I have 'my mother's eyes' – I might actually barf.
The only upside of my war of attrition with Snape is that I've become sort of a hero among first-year Gryffindors – even more of a hero, considering my Boy-Who-Lived status. The Lions are beyond pride that one of them is brave enough to stand up to the Greasy Git; they're even willing to overlook our hemorrhaging House points if it means Snape doesn't always get the last word. We take our losses in stride since Snape only pulls the professor card when he has no better comeback.
The first two weeks pass quickly.
I count the minutes, the hours, the days that go by, and Dumbledore still doesn't call me in for a talk. Surely he suspects something about my whereabouts for the last seven years? If not then what kind of a Light Lord is he? It takes all my self-control not to track down his office and demand answers to my questions.
The classes, especially the practical parts, don't pose any trouble for me since my old tutor has taught me well. But with Hermione and Draco outdoing themselves at every turn, I'm inclined to work hard as well.
Professor McGonagall is a fine teacher, even though her class is easy for me. She doesn't look like she wants to eat me anymore now that I'm all chummy with the Lions. And I have to admit that being able to turn into a sleek feline on a whim is pretty neat. Gives a whole new meaning to 'cat lady'.
Defence Against the Dark Arts has turned out to be disappointing. At the rate this class is going, I'll never be of any help to Father in a million years. Quirrell is passable at teaching – if passable can be interpreted as absolutely mediocre.
"Professor Quirrell, are you very familiar with the magic of Ancient India?"
"No … but I've been there once. Modern India also has a vibrant wizarding society."
"Then why do you wear a turban, Professor Quirrell?"
"Mr. P-Potter! That is n-none of your bu-business."
Sure, the man has travelled to interesting places and learned exotic magic, but he tends to stutter whenever students ask questions he can't answer. And I always ask questions that professors can't answer.
Draco, meanwhile, has an axe to grind with Hagrid, the Hogwarts groundskeeper and our Care for Magical Creatures teacher.
"What do you have against the half giant, anyway? It's not like you knew him from before."
"He's a half-giant working for the Light, Dumbledore's pawn. By all means, he and his people should side with us."
I make a face. The Malfoys and their politics. "Since when are you this political about everything?"
"And it's not just that. His class is simply the most useless thing we have to sit – stand through."
That might be true. Up till now, the only 'magical' creature we've learned to care for is rats; I don't find it very stimulating either.
"We have to start somewhere."
"We shouldn't need to know how to care for those foul creatures at all." Draco says venomously. "We have groundskeepers for this kind of thing, if we absolutely have to raise animals for one reason or another."
"Yeah, right. And what do you Malfoys keep those peacocks for? Security?"
"Aesthetics." Draco mutters darkly. "Not that you would know anything about that branch of philosophy."
I laugh casually, shrugging off the insult. Personally, I find Hagrid quite endearing - he seems to favour Gryffindors indiscriminately. Between Hermione and I, we manage to salvage some of the House points we lose in Potions. I would, of course, be more willing to spend time with the half giant had he not broken down in tears and recounted how he carried me in a bundle out of a burning house after our very first class. Melodramatic or not, I'm touched by his devotion to my birth parents and even me.
On Friday afternoon, we arrive at Care for Magical Creatures early. The half giant is lounging on the front porch of his hut, enjoying a long pull from his pipe. A large black dog sunbathes lazily beside him. When I approach, it jumps right up, tail wagging enthusiastically.
I reach out and rumple its unruly black fur all over. The dog really is large, reaching up to my shoulder easily with its muzzle. I bend down a little and get a sloppy dog kiss on the face.
"Eww, boy, you're friendly!" I wipe at my face with my sleeve and catch Draco's look of complete disgust. "What's his name, Professor Hagrid?"
The half giant beams down at me from his perch. "Padfoot's his name; a real gem, I tell ya."
The dog lies down before me, inviting me to scratch his stomach. I duly comply.
Draco settles himself beside me, a safe distance away from the canine. "Just what is with you and dogs?"
"Dogs are awesome. I wonder if Father will let me get one?" I make a move to pet Draco's hair, now glowing a brilliant silvery-gold in the afternoon sun. He flinches away in great alarm.
"You were just touching that dog!"
"I think I'll ask for a Golden Retriever pup, with the finest blond fur, and have Aunt Narcissa groom him; she has experience anyway …"
That earns me a rather painful punch in the arm.
"Forget it, Harry. Your father will never allow a dog in the house. Besides, Nagini would just eat the whelp on sight."
He's probably right about the last part. Padfoot, who's been listening to our conversation with a dog's attentiveness, suddenly shies away.
"What's wrong, boy?" I ask with worry.
The dog steps back. I might be imagining things, but when Padfoot looks into my eyes, he seems … incredibly sad. By now, most students have arrived. The dog runs back into Hagrid's hut without a backward glance, and I have to go join my Gryffindor crew.
On Friday night, I have trouble falling sleep. My dorm mates have the most unfortunate tendency to snore, and after I grab my wand and cast silencing charms around my bed, I don't feel so sleepy anymore. The next moment, I'm struck by another Very Bright Idea – these ideas usually end very badly, but I never learn – and make my way to the common room. Once there, I cast a Disillusionment Spell on myself. This is the hardest spell I've mastered so far. Father taught it to me over the summer, and it took me weeks to get it right – we both expected that it would come in very handy once I get to school.
And now I'm free to explore the castle after hours. I don't have a particular destination in mind, but finding the entrance to the kitchen might be nice. These days, I'm always hungry, and the next time I forget to grab dinner, I won't have to go without. Father told me he visited the kitchen elves sometimes when he worked late into the night, but apparently the entrance has moved places. I tried the old spot on my first day and was sorely disappointed.
I don't make it very far on my quest. On the third floor, a classroom has its door ajar. That's odd since classrooms are supposed to be locked after curfew. Peering in cautiously, I see a rectangular shape in the otherwise empty room. There is no light in the room, yet the shape seems emit a soft glow, strong enough for me to make out that it's a full-body mirror. Stepping into the room, I can now see the intricate runes and carvings and it's suddenly clear – I have in front of me the Mirror of Erised! The subject of so many wizarding fairy tales; an artefact infused with such powerful Old Magic that it can see straight into one's heart. Giddy with excitement, I let my disillusionment drop and step in front of the mirror.
The scene that stares back at me takes my breath away. I see myself, surrounded by people. A clan of messy black hair, some with glasses. The woman with the flaming hair and emerald eyes stand out like a goddess. Lily Evans, I realize with a hitch. Mum. She looks absolutely beautiful. The man beside her has to be James Potter. Those remarkably annoying adults are right for once – I do look exactly like him, save for the eyes. In the mirror, I wear round glasses, exactly the same as James'. The man has his hands on my shoulders; winking, he messes up my hair with playfulness more fitting for an older brother than a dad. Father would never do something like that, I realize. The way these two look at the mirror Harry can only be described as … love. Love is a weakness – isn't it? But this woman and man gave their lives for me … The people behind them are all talking and laughing, completely relaxed. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins … a family. I start to panic.
But that's not what I desire! It can't be! I don't even know these people! I take a deep breath and concentrate very hard. When I open my eyes, the scene in the mirror has changed.
Father is waiting for me on the King's Cross platform at the end of June, standing tall and proud without a glamour on. The Dark has taken over and we no longer need to stay in the shadows. I show him the Top of Form medal around my neck, and Father smiles that genuine smile that's only meant for me and whispers: "One down, six to go…"
I sense powerful auras behind me. Turning around, I find myself face to face the Headmaster.
"Harry."
"Professor Dumbledore." I stand up slowly, keeping calm even though I've just been caught out of bed after curfew. Dumbledore doesn't seem to care.
"My boy, do you know what this mirror does?" He walks toward me but stops at a comfortable distance.
"Yes, sir. It shows one's deepest desire." I glance back at the mirror, frowning. "But, sir, it didn't show my deepest desire, well, at least not at f-"
Dumbledore breaks me off with a chuckle. "Ah, but sometimes we don't know what we truly desire, do we? It's buried deep in our hearts, and the heart is a tricky thing."
But I made the mirror change what it shows me! I wanted to say. It's my choice. I control my heart and I know what I wish for. Then I remind myself that the old coot doesn't need to know. "I guess it is, sir." I look down at the ground as if at a loss.
"You'll see when you're older, Harry." The Headmaster smiles indulgently. "Now, we have a little problem in the form of curfew…"
I snap to attention quickly. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I'm heading right back."
"Make sure you do, my boy." I make to leave but the old man calls out again. "And Harry? The mirror can't give you what you desire, but remember what you see in it so you can find it someday."
I whisper a "Yes, sir" and runs all the way to the Gryffindor Tower. I'm never going back to that room again.
The next morning, I'm still rather shaken by my encounter with the Mirror of Erised. I pointedly walk past the Gryffindor table and sit down on the far end of the Slytherin one. With no appetite whatsoever, I conjure a piece of parchment and start to write.
Father,
Draco has convinced me to write to you before you do anything drastic, like sending a howler. Uncle Lucius must have told you about my new position in the House of Rabid Lions. I assure you it was not my intention. I did argue with the Sorting Hat over not wanting to be in Slytherin since I was very angry with you then, but I fully expected to be in Ravenclaw. I'll make sure to burn the talking Hat at some point.
Life is all right. Classes are easy. I'm still mad at you, by the way. Don't expect me back for Christmas.
Harry
P.S.: Can you tell me how to get to the Chamber of Secrets?
Draco stands beside me and shamelessly reads over my shoulder. That little prat.
"But you have to go back – you are coming to the Yule Ball, remember? We are supposed to make our debuts this winter."
I groan. It is a pureblood tradition to have their children, boys and girls alike, make a debut to society after their first term at their magical school. This year is our year, and I fully suspect Father will take this chance to make public my identity as his heir. He's dramatic like that.
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." I sagely impart my life motto; one of them, at least. "It's nice out today. Quidditch?"
Draco never says no to that.