Running the Gauntlet

The Slytherin common room was located deep in the dungeons of the castle, hidden behind a bare stretch of wall. Gemma Farley, the female prefect leading the first years, stopped them in the middle of the passageway and murmured something to the bricks. There was a moment of confusion before the body of a massive stone serpent rose from the floor and formed an archway against the wall, under which a door suddenly appeared.

Harry grinned. They got points for style.

"The password is changed at the end of each month," Gemma explained, pointing at a cork board hanging beside the door. "The new one will be posted here. Make sure you're aware of it at all times. Keep it secret from people in the other Houses, and try not to reveal where the entrance is. We don't like outsiders snooping around."

The common room itself was long and low. Round, greenish lamps hung from chains fixed to the ceiling and tapestries of famous Slytherins decorated the walls. Antique furniture sat in all the corners of the room and in front of the crackling fireplace, which featured a rather large mantelpiece in the form of an elaborately carved serpent. There were display cases filled with strange skeletons and odd relics, and at the back of the room stood floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the blue-black depths of the Great Lake. Each window featured a stained glass mosaic of a seascape: Mermaids, giant squids, seahorses, jellyfish and other such creatures swimming through a coral reef. All moving of course.

Honestly, Harry was a bit leery of it at first. With the greenish tint that everything was bathed in and the architect's apparent fixation with dark slate as a building material, the room had a rather cold aesthetic. Despite that, the fire kept the temperature cosy and when Harry tested out one of the armchairs, he found that he sunk into it nicely. His opinion of the room went up some.

The snakes were off-putting, though. They were everywhere; woven into every tapestry and engraved on any surface that could take a chisel. Even the pipes leading out of the toilets were fashioned with scales along their lengths.

The first-year boy's dorm was decorated similarly and had seven four-poster beds arranged in a ring around the interior, with their trunks all waiting for them in the middle. Harry and Malfoy moved forward to collect theirs at the same time and stopped to give each other nasty looks. Malfoy glanced back at his two friends–Crabbe and the other one–and for a moment Harry thought he might start a fight again. He was just about to reach for his wand when the blonde boy shot him a final sneer and stalked off to collect his trunk.

"You two know each other, then?" Moran asked with a raised eyebrow.

"We had a tiff on the train. He's a bit of a tosser."

Moran snorted and clapped him on the shoulder. "Have fun sharing a room with him for the next seven years."

The realisation caused Harry to scowl. "You're a bit of a tosser too, now that I think about it."

When he woke the next morning, it was with bright eyes and a bushy tail. Excitement squirmed in his gut; he was starting his first day of magic classes! He hadn't at all gotten the practice he had been hoping to get on the train (not that he regretted the time spent socialising with Hermione and Neville) and he'd been so knackered after unpacking the night before that he had just gone straight to bed.

But there were no distractions now. The fantasies that had raced through his mind the night before, when he'd first seen Hogwarts on the far shore of the lake, did so once again. Fire, lightning, glowing runes, and so much more. All his.

An impossibly bright grin spread across his face.

His dorm mates didn't seem to share his enthusiasm. They seemed to find it irritating if the looks they shot him as he skipped, hummed and whistled his way through his morning ablutions were any indication. Even Moran gave him a distasteful, bleary-eyed stare.

"Excited, are you?"

"You're not?" Harry asked, pausing in his vain attempts to, once again, get his hair to behave.

"It's school," Moran stated dryly, at the same time as the mirror suggested, "Maybe try wetting it, dear."

"Magic school," Harry retorted. "And water's no good. It just makes my hair curly when it dries, and then it's even more of a mess."

Moran snorted as he shuffled zombie-like up to the sink beside Harry and reached for his toothbrush. "There's a spell for that, you know? My mom uses it to keep her hair straight."

Harry paused. Of course there was a spell for it.

"Could you teach it to me?"

"Sorry mate, don't know it." Moran shrugged. "It's a cosmetic charm; I bet you could find it in a copy of Witch Weekly somewhere. Or else ask one of the girls; that stuff seems right up their alley."

Harry finished getting ready way before Moran, but decided to wait for him. The two made their way up to the Great Hall together (the route to which was unnecessarily long and complicated, and involved way too many stairs) and were greeted by a wonderfully delicious aroma: a perfect blend of eggs, toast, sausage and juicy bacon.

The rest of the Slytherin first years sat at the far end of the table, apparently having decided to stick together. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott were talking with Pansy Parkinson and the big girl–Bulstrode, Harry thought her name was. The other two girls, the ones whom the Giant Squid had taken a liking to, were sitting nearby, pitching in now and again, but mostly keeping to themselves. Malfoy, thank god, had taken his flunkies further up the table and was again mixing it up with the older students.

Moran made a beeline for the other first years and Harry followed, not really wanting to eat alone.

"Good morning," Moran greeted, flashing a charming smile as he sat down beside Bulstrode. There was a short pause as they all took stock of him, before his greeting was returned with varying degrees of warmth. A little lacklustre for a welcome, but it didn't seem to affect Moran all that much as he happily began filling his plate. Harry took a seat next to him. Theodore and Blaise glanced his way and he offered them a friendly smile and acknowledging nod. He got the nod back from both. Blaise smiled, but he wouldn't call it friendly.

"Aren't you the one who shouted at that Professor last night?"

Harry paused in reaching for the eggs and turned to look at Pansy Parkinson. He couldn't tell if she was frowning at him or if her face just looked like that.

"I am," he confirmed, making a half-hearted attempt at looking sheepish and not succeeding at all. He abandoned the eggs and reached around the backs of Moran and Bulstrode to offer his hand. "Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."

She regarded his hand with her maybe-frowning face for a few seconds before giving it a small, dainty shake. "Pansy Parkinson," she introduced herself, quickly retracting her hand. She looked over his shoulder toward the teachers' table. "She's the muggle studies professor, right?"

Harry's smile became a bit strained. He glanced behind him to where Babbling was buttering a slice of toast. "His assistant, actually."

She nodded, not looking like she particularly cared. "How do you know her?"

Harry fixed her with a dry look. "I'm not a muggleborn if that's what you're asking."

Surprise flashed across Pansy's face and was then quickly washed away by an embarrassed flush. She scowled and broke eye contact.

"You're not?"

Harry blinked as he found the rest of the group were now looking at him with interest. Blaise and Theodore seemed surprised. Blaise was the one who had spoken. "We thought you were."

"Oh?" Harry asked, eyebrows drawing together slightly. "How come?"

The two boys shared a look. "No real reason. The way you were, back in the dorm, I suppose," Blaise answered carefully. "You give off the impression of one."

"You don't get that excited about magic unless you've grown up without it," Theodore added. His voice was low and soft.

The rest of the group, including the two girls further up the table, were following the exchange with interested expressions. Moran looked slightly uncomfortable.

"I was raised by muggles," Harry explained with a shrug, going back to dishing up food for himself. "Only found out about magic about a month ago."

Pansy scoffed. "How does that happen?"

"Simple," he answered evenly. "My parents were murdered during the war. My muggle aunt and uncle took me in as a baby and refused to tell me anything about myself as I grew up."

A gratifyingly awkward silence filled the air for a few moments after that, where the only sound was the clink of metal against ceramic as Harry loaded his plate with scrambled eggs.

Blaise cleared his throat. "My condolences," he said softly, sounding surprisingly sincere. Next to him, Theodore was wearing a commiserating look.

"Thanks," Harry accepted, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"My name is Blaise Zabini. This is Theodore, or Theo –" The boy gave a lackadaisical flick of his wrist in greeting "– and that's Millicent. You've already met Pansy."

"Hello," the big girl murmured shyly.

Blaise pointed past Pansy, who looked a little sulky, to the two girls who had been listening in.

"And those two over there are Daphne and Tracy," he said, finger moving from one to the other.

Daphne was blond and Tracy auburn-haired. Both were on the smaller side, but Daphne less so than her friend. Her impossibly straight hair was tucked into a neat ponytail that stopped at the base of her neck. Smooth, delicate features belied a pair of bright, frosty blue eyes, which were boring into Blaise's own. The boy smirked back at her, unperturbed.

"We can introduce ourselves, Zabini."

"Yeah, but you weren't going to," Theodore piped up matter-of-factly.

Daphne frowned, but didn't offer a denial. After sending a grudging nod to both Harry and Moran, she turned back to her food. Her friend, Tracy, a petite girl with a slim, elfin face seemed to be a bit friendlier, sending them a small wave and a smile. Harry waved back, and they all settled into idle conversation. Harry decided to give pumpkin juice another try and grabbed a pitcher, pouring some into his goblet.

Blegh.

A portly old man in a tweed suit came by soon after and introduced himself as Horace Slughorn–their Head of House and Potions professor. He was there to give them their schedules.

"I hope you're all excited for your first day!"

They all looked on bemusedly as he scurried from one person to the next, handing out the schedules like a dealer would cards. He seemed like quite a merry chap.

"I look forward to seeing you all in Potions class this afternoon. Mostly admin, I'm afraid, but it's going to be like that for most of your classes today. On account of the orientation, you see? Another one of Minister Wentworth's brilliant ideas, orientation. I taught him, you know? I still get a birthday card from him each year."

A merry, talkative chap. Well, until he got to Harry. He hesitated then, staring, his arm stopped short of handing him his schedule and his words stuttering to a halt. For a moment the two made eye contact, and Harry felt a passing sense of both fondness and sadness. The man seemed about to say something, then stopped and instead offered him a shaky smile and his schedule.

"Right, well. Enjoy your first day, everyone! I shall see you all later. Let's have a good year, yes?"

He absently ruffled Daphne's head as passed, ruining the exquisite state of her hair. The girl shot a scathing look first at the Professor's back, then Tracy as her friend utterly failed at hiding her laughter behind her hand. Harry wasn't much better.

Moran leaned closer. "I reckon he's a bit of a nonce."

The statement caught him off guard and, funny bone already tickled, he burst out laughing. Daphne's glare was on him now.

Pansy's face screwed up. "What's a nonce?"

Harry laughed even harder, Moran joining him.

The first two hours of the day were spent in orientation. The head prefects gathered up all the first-years of all the Houses and led them on a tour of the castle, making frequent reference to the map located on the back of their schedules.

"I wouldn't rely on those too much," the male prefect advised as they were led down to the dungeons. "The castle likes to change its layout. The only way you're going to properly learn to navigate Hogwarts is through trial and error."

They were shown the Potions classroom and taken past some of the more well known artworks and displays, such as the sculpture of the sleeping dragon that appeared on Hogwarts' crest. And while impressive, it came in second to the staircase hidden behind a sliding panel next to it. The flight consisted of exactly thirty one steps and deposited you back on the ground floor, in a small alcove.

"There are secret passages all over the castle. Most keep the ones they know to themselves, but this one is quite well known, so consider it a freebie. You're going to have to find the rest of them on your own."

Harry was going to take that as the blatant challenge it sounded like bad.

They moved up floor by floor, visiting each of the classrooms they would be using during the year. Along the way they passed through halls filled with suits of armour, beautiful and outlandish tapestries, moving, talking portraits of all shapes and sizes and displays of artefacts from across the ages. The main staircase was a mind-boggling maze of moving steps, some of which disappeared when you tried to step on them. Luckily Harry hadn't been the one to find that out. Gregory Goyle–Malfoy's other lackey–spent the rest of the tour complaining loudly about his bruised shin.

They spent far too little time in the library, going no further than the check-out desk. The librarian, a stern, rakish old woman who introduced herself as Madam Prince, came out to lecture them (make threats) on proper conduct in the library. Harry tuned her out and looked around, marvelling at the size of the place. Biggest library in Magical Britain indeed. He was looking for something specific though; something he had read about in the school's information packet.

He found it pretty quickly: a barred off section toward the back of the library that didn't receive as much light as everywhere else. The Restricted Section. Books containing information deemed too dangerous for the unprepared were kept there, and only students with a pass from a teacher were allowed to check them out. The information packet hadn't gone into great detail about what subjects were 'deemed too dangerous', but he was eager to find out.

The security didn't seem that tight.

Their final stop was the Hospital Wing, found on the third floor, next to the clock tower. The prefects urged them to memorise its location, and Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, demonstrated her abilities by healing Goyle's bruise and finally putting an end to his bellyaching.

It was late morning when the tour ended. The group of first year's were taken back to the Entrance Hall and told they had half an hour before they needed to be at their first class. Some immediately started off, either on their way to their classes or to do a bit of exploring in the small break they had. Other's milled around in groups, conversing with each other. Harry looked around and spotted a head of bushy brown hair.

"I'll see you at Charms," he said to Moran, starting off toward her.

"Where are you going?" the boy asked, already half-turned to follow their Housemates to their first class.

"Just going to say hello to a friend I made on the train yesterday."

Moran followed his pointing thumb to the awkward figure standing at the back of a group of girls decked out in red and gold. His eyebrows rose.

"Mate, she's a Gryffindor."

"So?"

"Remember what I told you last night? We don't really get on with their House."

"Yeah, but… it can't be that bad, right? It's just a friendly rivalry."

Moran hesitated, looking unsure. "Maybe. I suppose."

Harry tilted his head in consideration, before smirking. "Wait here a moment, would you?"

"Huh? Sure, but–"

Harry turned and hurried over to Hermione before he could finish speaking. She blinked in surprise when she saw him running up to her.

"Harry! What–"

She cut off with a squawk as he grabbed her sleeve and started pulling her along behind him.

"No time to explain!" he said, pausing to give the girls she had been standing with a cheeky grin and two-fingered salute. They blinked in bemusement and watched as their dorm mate was dragged away. "I think he might run off if we give him a chance."

"Who!?"

Harry led her over to Moran, who did indeed look to be struggling with the urge to take flight. Hermione turned bright red when she saw him and her eyes shot down to examine the flagstones.

"Hermione, this is Moran MacDougal. We're in Slytherin together. Moran, this is Hermione Granger, the friend I was telling you about."

Moran offered an uneasy smile. "Hello. Nice to meet you."

Hermione glanced up, made a sound of distress and went straight back to looking at the ground. "H-Hello," she squeaked out.

Moran gave Harry an unimpressed look.

Harry grinned back unashamedly and leaned in to whisper to him. "You should see her when she's angry, mate."

The three slowly made their way to the second floor, where Hermione had Transfiguration first. The girl came out of her shell almost immediately when Harry asked her what she thought the class would be like, going from responding in squeaks and mumbles to talking exuberantly about how excited she was. Harry, who had been watching Moran out of the corner of his eye, was glad to see the boy seemed as caught off guard at her switch up as he had been.

"...and I really want to try and become an animagus one day! Oh, I hope I get something with wings. Or maybe…"

Harry tilted his head and asked Moran, "What's an animagus?"

"Someone who can turn themselves into an animal at will," the boy explained. He was watching Hermione ramble on with a look of morbid fascination on his face. "It's a really difficult piece of transfiguration. Only people who are really good can pull it off."

They eventually left Hermione in front of the Transfiguration classroom and carried on to the third floor.

"I feel like I can breathe again!" Moran exclaimed, clutching his chest dramatically and heaving a sigh of relief. "The Hat must have made a mistake; that girl belongs in Ravenclaw."

Harry shrugged, remembering the way she had flared up at Malfoy. He wasn't so sure.

Charms class was taught by Professor Flitwick, the small man that had been sitting next to Hagrid the night before. He spoke in a high, squeaky voice and had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk.

Professor Slughorn had unfortunately been right about the day's classes being mostly admin. They spent the whole half-hour of the lesson going over what charms were and their importance in daily life, as well as which ones they would be learning that year. Not that Harry didn't learn anything during the class, but it wasn't what he had been hoping for. It wasn't magic. The closest they came was when Flitwick charmed the books he stood on to levitate around the room, flapping their pages like wings and chittering with bird song. A demonstration of what three of the charms in their syllabus could achieve when used in conjunction.

It was amazing, certainly, but Harry wanted to do, not see.

Transfiguration and Potions were much the same. McGonagall started off strong, disguising herself as a cat (Harry joined Hermione in her ambition to become an animagus) and turning her desk into a pig, but the lesson turned bland immediately after. Harry's leg was bouncing anxiously by the time the class ended.

They had lunch and then attended Potions, which was the worst one yet. While Harry's enthusiasm for the subject was slightly lesser due to already having experienced brewing, he would have happily set to work making the Boil Remedy if it meant he could avoid the half-hour safety briefing Professor Slughorn subjected them to. The man sent them apologetic looks throughout, but diligently powered on through the lecture.

And bless Hermione, who he sat next to, but her over-enthusiasm for it all didn't help his mood. He was itching by this point.

So of course, by the time they reached Defense against the Dark Arts, his expectations were six feet under, lying beside the good cheer he had harboured that morning. Professor Quirrell was a tall man, and strange. His robes were different to what the other teachers wore; rather than the refined cut of McGonagall and Flitwick's clothes, this man looked like he'd been ensnared by a burgundy bed sheet. The rumpled cloth wound round his shoulders and chest, and enveloped his arms in billowing sleeves. A similarly coloured turban sat atop his head.

He met them in the doorway to the classroom, denying them entry with a raised hand and nothing more. Rather than McGonagall or Madam Prince's sternness, this man had piercing intensity to him. The startling grey of his eyes was eerily compounded by the thin, intricate lines creeping around their sockets, all to the effect of a stare that made you want to take a step back.

Those that arrived first waited in dead silence until the class was there in its entirety. Quirrell's eyes did a quick sweep over them, shivers following in their wake, and nodded to himself.

"I am sure you have all spent the day listening to Professors lecture you on the importance of their subjects and what a lack of caution will result in." His voice was soft, but it carried. "I will not be doing the same."

Harry perked up.

"All I will say is this: Magic is chaos, and chaos is dangerous. Not a single one of you realises just how dangerous. It is my job to educate you, and teach you how to keep yourselves alive and intact. Take what I say to heart or one day you will regret it, I promise you."

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air after his short speech and they all exchanged glances, unsure as to how seriously they should take him. Quirrell's eyes narrowed and they all hurriedly nodded their heads in assent.

"Good. You should have all brought your gym clothes, as was indicated on your schedules. Who hasn't brought theirs?"

A few hands hesitantly raised into the air.

"Minus five points from each of you. Listen to instructions in the future. The rest of you, get changed in the nearest restroom and meet me in the Entrance Hall. We will be having a practical lesson."

Harry fist pumped victoriously and hurried off in search of a bathroom. His classmates followed at a more sedate pace while the unfortunate few who had forgotten their clothes sulked off to collect them.

A few minutes later saw the first year Slytherin and Gryffindor boys changing into running shorts and t-shirts. They had come along with the robes at Madam Malkins. Theodore picked at his shirt with a frown.

"Who is Jim?"

Harry paused in lacing up his running shoes. "What?"

"These are called 'Jim clothes', aren't they? Who is Jim?"

He looked genuinely confused. Harry stared blankly, unsure as to how to respond. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Dean Thomas, one of the Gryffindor boys, with a similar expression.

"I don't think it's a name," Moran mused. "It's a type of exercise muggles do, isn't it?"

Malfoy sneered at the mention of muggles and looked down at the clothes he wore in disgust.

"Er… close," Harry said. "It's a place they go to to do exercise."

Nott pulled a face. "Why?"

Harry exchanged a look with Dean. "To stay fit, I suppose.'

The idea obviously came across as alien to the other boys. Malfoy derided muggles and their strange habits all the way down to the Entrance Hall, garnering increasingly incensed looks from Dean and, subsequently, the other Gryffindor boys. Harry added his share of daggers to their mix, but a part of him was thinking back to what Blaise and Theodore had said at breakfast about muggleborns giving off impressions. He thought maybe he was starting to understand what they meant.

He was getting that impression from Dean. There was something that marked him as different from the others, who had been raised in the magical world. It wasn't as obvious as Hermione's eccentricities, but still plain, and grew plainer the more he watched the boy.

Harry wondered if others saw the same thing when looking at him.

Quirrell met them at the Entrance Hall, then led them outside and across the north lawn. They ventured outside the walls, past the quidditch pitch and then started down a well worn path that led them down to the lake, following its north shore. The Forbidden Forest loomed over them on the hill to their right; it looked darker than it did at night, if that were somehow possible. Harry's eyes narrowed as he got the feeling of being watched and he scanned the tree line. All he saw were shadows.

They eventually arrived at their destination: some crumbling ruins nestled in a valley between two of the hills. The grey skeleton of what might have once been a village lay spread out before them in heaps of stone bricks, shingles and timber beams. There were gaps between the piles of debris that Harry guessed must have once been streets; in these gaps were abandoned wagons stacked with wooden crates and lumpy burlap sacks. Open trunks lay with their contents strewn all over the place, and old market stalls sat abandoned with trinkets littering the ground around them.

Oddly enough, despite looking like a warzone, it was rather clean. The building materials all looked freshly cut, varnished and fired, not single brick broken or beam splintered. The wagons and their cargo were undamaged; same with the trunks and market stalls. Harry tilted his head in bemusement; the longer he looked, the more he got the impression of disassembly rather than destruction.

Quirrell held his hands out, palms up as if he were holding an open book. "This," he said in a soft voice just shy of a monotone, "is one of the greatest feats of magic in the last fifty years."

They all took a moment to consider the small sea of rubble before them, then looked back to the man with doubtful expressions. Hermione craned her neck to get a better view, frowning and muttering to herself. Malfoy scoffed.

"It's a dump!"

Their professor flicked his silver eyes to the boy and held his gaze for a moment, then turned and walked over to a short stone pedestal sticking out of the ground in front of the ruins. Harry heard a gulp behind him and shot a smirk over his shoulder at Malfoy, receiving a scowl in return.

No sooner had he faced forward than he stumbled and hissed in pain, feeling as if the world's angriest hornet had just stung him in the back with both middle fingers fully extended. He spun furiously and found Malfoy with a mocking imitation of his earlier smirk, innocently twirling his wand between his fingers.

Harry reached for his own wand, not entirely knowing what he was going to do with it but sure that he wasn't going to let the attack go unanswered. Moran stopped him.

"Stop, stop," he hissed. "The professor is watching!"

Harry glanced over his shoulder; Quirrell was indeed looking in their direction, expression blank but eyes sharp. Harry waited for him to call out Malfoy and punish him, but he didn't. Instead he pointed at the ground in front of him and narrowed his eyes, clearly indicating that they better knock it off and follow him; as if he were calling disobedient dogs to heel.

Harry stared at the professor indignantly while Malfoy and his two goons shouldered past him, snickering. "I hope it stings, Potter."

Harry could only growl as he stomped after them, glaring a hole in the back of his head. The spot on his back throbbed painfully.

"You're right," Moran muttered. "He is a bit of a tosser."

Quirrell, now his least favourite professor, stopped in front of the stone pedestal. Now that they were closer, Harry could see that every inch of its surface was covered in strange geometry and runes. Lines not unlike those of a circuit board flowed up the sides of the pillar, connecting elaborately patterned circles and joining at the points of a seven-pointed star carved into the top of it. Each of the seven arms contained a different rune. Quirrel touched his wand to one of them and muttered something.

The effect was immediate. With a sound like a mountain-sized tub of lego blocks being tipped over, the piles of rubble in front of them suddenly exploded into the air and began swirling, as if caught in a tornado. The entire class stumbled back with shouts of surprise and fright. For a moment, an entire village's worth of raw material flew in the air in front of them, caught in an invisible tempest; then it began coalescing. Timber beams inserted themselves into the ground with solid thunk's, forming scaffolding, and bricks rapidly stacked themselves in the spaces between. Walls were formed, glass materialised into windows, shingles overlapped on the roofs and suddenly a whole and undamaged village was in front of them. A narrow street extended out for a few metres ahead, before abruptly splitting into three even narrower alleys placed at odd angles from each other. Crates and piles of sacks lay randomly along the pavement, as if waiting for someone to come and take them away. Some were floating in the air in groups, or drifting lazily through the alleys by themselves.

"This is the Hogwarts Gauntlet," Quirrell explained to the crowd of awed eleven-year-olds. "Or rather, the first of its four stages and the only one you will be using for the next two years. It is here, and later in the duelling arena, where you will put everything you learn into practice."

He paused for a few seconds, allowing them to continue marvelling at the magic they had just witnessed.

"Statistically speaking, four of you will be dead or horribly defiled in six years."

Harry blinked, feeling as if someone had flicked him between the eyes. He, in unison with his classmates, turned to stare at their Defence professor. He looked back at them with a small, grim smile, as if he found some satisfaction in what he'd just said.

"Only seventy-three percent of magicals live to their majority without suffering a trauma that leaves them broken, dead or insane in some way." He didn't deviate from his airy monotone in the slightest. "Of the unlucky twenty-seven percent, it's estimated four percent is related to running afoul of magical wildlife, eleven percent to illness and unforeseen accidents, and the remaining fifteen percent is due to murder and kidnapping."

Harry swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

"In the cases linked to kidnapping, it has largely been for the purposes of slavery and harvesting."

"Harvesting?" a tall, red-haired Gryffindor asked, aghast.

Quirrell nodded. "Rituals need sacrifices. Potions need ingredients."

Harry looked around, and the others did indeed look as horrified as he felt. Even Malfoy had gone pale.

"Since that fifteen percent–the murder and kidnapping–is the most prevalent threat you all currently face, it is the focus of this year's curriculum. The vast majority of cases occur in urban environments such as this," he gestured to the Gauntlet, "and the vast majority of perpetrators are adult wizards capable of advanced magic and willing to use it. None of you are anywhere close to the capacity, skill, knowledge or experience necessary to fight them off, and you won't be until your fourth year, at minimum. Your only hope lies in distraction, evasion, concealment and escape; that is what you will be learning from me."

For the first time he showed emotion; a small up-turning in the corners of his mouth. The smile forced his eyes to narrow and the markings around his eyes to contort sinisterly.

"Let's get started."

One by one, they entered the Gauntlet. Their aim was to find one of the two sets of Auror robes that were 'patrolling' around the village. In doing that, they reached safety and had 'escaped'. Meanwhile, they had to dodge the 'civilians' (sacks, barrells, trinkets and articles of clothing) that drifted lazily throughout the streets, as if doing their daily shopping. Some gathered in large groups that you had to fight your way through. Sometimes crates or wagons would block the path you were taking, forcing you to find another way.

As soon as they touched the Auror robes, sparks would fly up into the air and a path would open up back to the beginning. The Gauntlet would then reconfigure itself and the next person would go. Quirrell timed them and kept watch through a curved mirror that showed each child as they made their way through the maze of alleyways and streets.

"Sir?"

Quirrell looked up to see the gangly, red-haired Gryffindor with a raised hand. He seemed uncertain.

"Yes, Mr Weasley?"

"I thought all the lessons today were only half an hour. Haven't we… won't this run past it?"

The markings around their teacher's eye twitched, like spiders' legs, but otherwise he showed no expression.

"You may leave whenever you wish," he said. He made it sound like a bad idea.

Weasley shook his head and muttered, "I'll stay," underneath his breath, then shuffled closer to his Housemates. Quirrell nodded and turned back to the mirror.

"Sir, what is that?" Hermione asked.

"A scrying mirror," Quirrell answered blandly, not looking up from it. Seamus Finnagan had just run into a wagon that had trundled into his path and was cursing violently as he picked himself up from the ground.

"What's–"

"No more questions."

Hermione shrunk back as he cut her off, still not looking away from the mirror. She shrunk back even further when she realised people were looking her way. Some exchanged whispers. Malfoy made sure to snicker loudly and she flinched at the sound, bowing her head so that her hair hid her face as she began to flush.

Harry nudged her and smiled encouragingly. He got a weak smile back, before she hid her face again. He spent the rest of the time until his turn alternating his glare between Quirrell and Malfoy and trying unsuccessfully to distract Hermione with conversation.

Running the Gauntlet was bloody wicked. Harry had always been an active boy; given a magical obstacle course, he enjoyed the hell out of it. Weaving his way through the 'civilians' was not unlike carrying a soccer ball through a line of defenders, and where others had quickly tired and slowed down, he kept a quick and constant pace. He crawled under wagons and climbed over piles of crates whenever the obstacles manoeuvred themselves into his path, and spotted the Auror robes drifting around a corner not three minutes after entering the Gauntlet.

"Well done, Mr Potter," Quirrell said when Harry rejoined them, sweaty and panting. It was the first time he had commented on a student's performance. "Three minutes and twenty three seconds. The fastest time by almost two minutes."

Harry had tried not to look too pleased with the praise and instead nodded shortly. Anyone who bothered to inspect him for a few seconds though could tell he was preening. Who didn't like being the best?

A few minutes later he was watching Daphne Greengrass tear her way through the Gauntlet with an odd twisting in his gut. The others who had gone after him hadn't come close to his time; Blaise and Dean had done fairly well, but still almost a minute slower than him.

Daphne, though, was a sight to behold. She ran like she was hunting, back straight while her arms and legs pumped in steady blurs. Barely any speed was lost as she slid and skidded around corners. She breezed through groups of 'civilians' like they weren't even there and only the larger obstacles gave her any real trouble. She refused to crawl under the carts like Harry had and her shorter stature meant she had a harder time hurdling and climbing, but there was no doubt that in terms of pure speed, she was faster.

And she was coming dangerously close to beating him.

Harry glanced anxiously at the glowing numbers hovering next to the Professor. Just over twenty seconds separated them; if the robes eluded her for just a little longer he was safe. She'd already covered a lot of ground though, and he had a sneaky suspicion—

Daphne's expression in the scrying mirror suddenly sharpened and she poured on the speed. Harry's lips twisted in annoyance as he saw what she had seen: the Auror robes exiting an alleyway ahead of her.

"Very well done, Ms Greengrass," Quirrell complimented as she rejoined them. Despite being sweaty and flushed, her breathing was even, her expression calm and composed. "Three minutes and seventeen seconds. A new record."

'It's fine,' Harry told himself, pushing down his slight annoyance. 'It's just a race; nothing too important. And she only beat me by six seconds. I'll beat her next time.'

And that would have been the end of it, except that Daphne looked for him. The blond found his eyes, her icy blues meeting his emerald greens and holding them. Her expression didn't change as they stared at each other, but Harry knew exactly what she was doing.

She was gloating. She'd beaten him and she wanted him to know it; wanted to see that he knew it. She felt it was beneath her to act smug, but by Merlin did she want to.

The annoyance in him bubbled up and his eyes narrowed as he smiled viciously at her. Her lips twitched in a hint of the smirk he intuitively knew she wanted to stop holding back.

Gauntlet thrown, Harry threw challenging stares her way for the rest of class. She didn't return them, and in fact didn't even deign to look at him again, ignoring him entirely. After a while he began to feel silly and stopped, though his disgruntlement remained, bubbling strong.

The only other person of note was Tracy Davis, who had scored a similar time to Dean and Blaise.

"These times are now your baselines," Quirrell stated once they had all finished. "You will be repeating this exercise many times throughout the year. Every time you complete it slower than you did today, you will lose ten points for your House."

The group of eleven-year-olds broke out into incredulous murmurs.

"Ten points…"

"Is he allowed to do that…?"

Quirrell quieted them with a raised hand. "Enough. For the next exercise we perform here, it is necessary that you all know the Splatter charm. While we will spend class time next week learning it, I suggest you all make an effort to study it in your own time."

He stared at them expectantly until they offered up a few reluctant nods.

"Good. Class dismissed."

Harry turned to follow the rest back up to the castle, but was stopped when Quirrell called out to him.

"Mr Potter, a moment please."

Harry looked at him in surprise, then exchanged a glance with Moran.

"I'll wait for you at the top of the path if you'd like?"

Harry waved him off. "Thanks, but don't worry about it. I'll see you back at the dorm."

He walked back over to their professor, who was observing him with that unnerving silver stare of his.

"Yes professor?"

"How is your back, Mr Potter? Do you need to visit the hospital wing?"

"Oh, no." The pain from Malfoy's spell had long since faded. Still, he made sure his next words sounded bitter. "All better now."

Quirrell nodded. "You're a half-blood, raised in the muggle world. Sorted into Slytherin."

Harry blinked at the non-sequitur. He didn't know what a half-blood was, but he was willing to bet it had something to do with whether his parents were magical or not. He met the man's gaze, hoping that the strange insight he sometimes got into people's thoughts would kick in. It didn't.

"Uh, yes. Sir."

Quirrell regarded him for a moment, before nodding. "I was in the exact same position, once. You'll come to understand this in time, Mr Potter, but Slytherins have a way of operating in Hogwarts that is unique to them. 'An eye for an eye' is very much a core philosophy in the House of snakes."

Harry gave an uncertain nod, not at all seeing what the point of this conversation was.

"The Stinging Jinx is a common and easily learned spell, Mr Potter," Quirrell stated as he began walking back up the path to the castle. "You can find it and many others in A Compendium of Common Curses and Their Counter-Actions. I know for a fact that the library has a copy."

Harry watched him walk away, eyebrows slowly rising as he worked through all of what the man had just said. Was he saying…?

Huh. Well.

What a strange man.

XXX

"Are you sure it's here, My Lord?"

"Yes, you fool. Don't question me."

He flinched; his master hadn't shouted, but there was that cold edge in his voice that only made an appearance when he administered punishments.

"Give me control. I need to examine the entrance more closely."

He grimaced. He hated giving up his body to the wraith that had sequestered itself inside his flesh, but there was no helping it. He had made this deal knowing all the awful things that would be required of him.

He still thought it was worth it.

"Yes, My Lord."

A shudder passed through the man's body, his eyes rolling shut for a moment before opening again, this time a deep crimson. He straightened from the slight hunch his host had and squared his shoulders. Giving the wand in his hand an idle twirl, he pointed it at the stone gargoyle in front of him and began muttering under his breath.

Hm. That wasn't promising. It was even more heavily warded than he was expecting, and he had come with lofty expectations. The password protection was only a single aspect of it all—mixed in were a litany of detection and identification wards, set to trigger any number of curses and alarms should tampering or dark magic be detected. All of it was so tightly interwoven that not a single gap was left for him to worm through.

It wouldn't have proved much of an obstacle in his prime, but with this dying body and the polluted magic he shared with it? Forget it. He would have to find another way in, and not before he devised a way to prevent his possession from being detected by those wards.

And that wasn't a problem that was going to be solved in a single night, nor anytime soon. Providing his host with unicorn blood was his main priority at the moment; the man's body deteriorated a little bit more each day, and the time he could spend in possession shortened with it.

'Patience,' he reminded himself as he turned away from the gargoyle and began his trek toward the Dark Forest. A lack of patience is what had foiled him at the Flamel's residence, and the reason he was now living this pitiful existence. He had to be patient this time.

'The Stone will be mine soon enough.'

AN: So exactly one month later and here we are. This story has been available for those supporting me for two weeks now.

I didn't feel this chapter as strongly as I did chapter 5, but I wrote to the best of my ability and I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know your thoughts and opinions in a review. I've already written the first thousand words of the next release (A Thread Uncolored) and should be done with it pretty soon. I want to give myself as much time as possible to plan out and write chapter 14 of Wraith, 'cause shit's gonna start sliding.

Also, for those who have left messages and reviews for me on the site: They're not coming through. I don't know what is going on with FFnet's email service, but it doesn't push through any notifications like it normally would. I can still check periodically to see, but I am quite bad at being consistent with that. So, if you've left me a message or review and I haven't responded, that's why. I will do my best to get back to you.

And finally, If you enjoyed this work and would like to support me, please check out my page for Patrons (w w w . p a t r(e)on . c o m (slash) Outliner_Archive) and consider making a donation. I am trying to build a life for myself, and if I can start building capital through this passion of mine, it would really help. I would also like to say a thank you to the Patrons I have so far: OettamLass, Levitress, Ali G, Conner T, Shazbot, darkstar1995, Dave, Aaron Pendleton, and most recently Didi! Didi provided me with some insight upon joining, so shout out to them in particular. You all are amazing and I appreciate your support immensely.