The Undercroft
6:03 a.m., February 13
"Legilimens!" Professor Quirrell called as he invaded Harry's mind.
"You're…you're an heir of Slytherin? A real heir?" Ron choked.
"I…did tell you?" Harry shrugged sheepishly. "During Yule holidays?"
Ron glared.
"What? How else do you think I told my serpent not to attack you?" Harry pointed out.
Ron redoubled his glare, but Harry saw the actual anger behind it recede.
"How…how's it…" Ron stammered.
"Possible?" Harry completed the question. "My working theory's that my great-great grandfather's unknown consort was a Gaunt — granddaughter of the infamous Corvinus. I'm guessing my family successfully hid it until my mad-uncle Voldemort tried to make himself the last Heir of Slytherin."
"Alternatively, I could just be Voldemort's secret son," Harry offered with a dagger-like grin.
Ron rewarded the joke with a punch to Harry's solar plexus.
Harry instinctively clutched his wounded abdomen, but he felt only a dull ache where a sharp pain should have spiked. Realization suddenly jolted through him that he was reliving a memory from one-and-a-half weeks before. The Forbidden Corridor warped and twisted around him as Harry attempted to hurtle up and away…
He found himself in the Owlery in the early morning of Saturday, February 7, less than an hour before he would have to report for Marcus' 7 a.m. practice.
Harry found a great sense of peace watching the sun rise, particularly while sitting cross-legged with Hedwig on his shoulder. While he could not communicate with the snow-white owl the way he could with his raven-black king cobra Halogi, he did feel a growing connection and understanding between him and the bird. Hedwig had, after all, warned him about Nott's attempt to attack him from behind on their very first night at Hogwarts.
Most wizards seemed to view owls as pets at most, but Harry suspected something deeper. Purportedly, the owls used as messengers in Wizarding Europe were bred and trained to attune themselves to soul magic — hence why they could trace the location of any wizard their sender had interacted with in ways wizards could not.
Learning from Professor Quirrell that his Parseltongue communication with Halogi was another form of soul magic led him to increase the time he spent with Hedwig. Hedwig was every bit as faithful a companion, and Harry felt compelled to uncover a way to communicate with her. Particularly with the innate talent for soul magic his Gryffindor and Peverell descent gave him.
Yet today would not be the day for him to discover how to commune with Hedwig. He did, however, find his ability to sense those he held familiarity with amplified.
"Pansy," Harry greeted just as his prettiest yearmate opened the door.
"I'm that recognizable?" Pansy commented in an airy tone.
"To me…always," Harry said in his best attempt at flirtation. He quickly realized how strange his phrasing may have sounded, but Pansy thankfully just giggled in her musical voice.
"You're cute," Pansy said with a bright smile. Harry's cheeks flushed, as he was unsure whether he was being complimented or teased at the moment. Or both.
However, the lackluster sensation Harry felt from what should have been a blood rush to his face sparked a sudden realization. Focusing on the chilly morning breeze, Harry projected a mental image of Halogi over his entire surroundings. He imagined his faithful king cobra slithering on the cold stone floor near the Slytherin dormitory, then he transformed the visual into a sensation that encompassed all his senses.
He became the snake, and he wriggled and writhed until…
"What secrets are you carrying, blood traitor?" Nott's voice greeted Harry as he walked into the Slytherin house in the wee hours of Monday morning.
"Stay up just for me?" Harry returned as a glacial spite washed through his body. Oh, how often he thought of unleashing Halogi one night on his least favorite housemate — but he didn't dare repeat his Higgs error.
"There's been a shift in your relationship with Malfoy," Nott noted as he trained his stormy-blue eyes on Harry.
"Yah, it's called getting closer. You know — what happens when you hang out with someone for the better part of a year? Oh wait, you wouldn't know, since you have no friends," Harry sneered.
"You should ask your father how the whole friendship deal worked out for him," Nott replied with a smirk.
"What smart remark do you have about my dead parents now, half-orphan?" Harry asked with exasperation and mounting frustration.
"Old Albus never told what happened that night?" Nott inquired with a smirk. "Well, you see, the parents who you claim died a 'hero's death' against Voldemort were actually cowering in fear of him. Such fear they put a spell around their house that only one other wizard knew the key to. The wizard your father thought was his best friend…Sirius Black."
"Don't believe me?" Nott chuckled at Harry's expression. "Ask your dear 'friend' Malfoy about it. He's an expert on all things Black, being heir to that house."
Harry gritted his teeth and took several deep breaths before responding.
"Why do you obsess so much over the past?" Harry huffed.
"History is everything," Nott answered. "And perhaps…there's more to your history than I presumed. Malfoy's a climber if I ever saw one, and he seems to hover closer to you by the day. So does Parkinson. And the second and third years seem to think highly of you."
"You want to know my secret? Fine, I'll admit it. I've got them all under the Imperius," Harry retorted while rolling his eyes.
"Ha!" Nott snorted. "You can have them. They hold no respect for the old ways. For wizardkind. For magic. They'll throw their lot in with whoever they think will bring them wealth and political influence. And who better than the Boy-Who-Lived?"
"Well, see here Nott, I remember beating you on our first night in this house without so much as raising my wand," Harry responded in a cold whisper as he walked up to his roommate's couch. "So, if you want to talk about magic…"
"Oh, I'll freely admit you have power," Nott returned unperturbed. "As wild and brutish as a mudblood's, but you outstrip many a wizard in talent all the same."
Nott then rose to his full height, standing two inches taller than Harry. Not enough for him to look down on Harry, but enough to remind the Boy-Who-Lived of his below average height for their year.
"But you will never, ever be remembered as a 'great wizard'," Nott promised in a chilly tone. "Whatever sweet nothings you are deluding your would-be followers with, both those in-house and out-of-house, I will expose. By the time you graduate, you will be nothing but a boy with an ugly scar. A huckster who will regret leaving his station in the muggle world, and will flee back to whence you came. Never to be heard from again."
Harry barely held in a hissss. How tempting it was in these moments to simply reveal himself as heir to the Gaunt dynasty. Especially when he could imagine a genealogy-obsessed boy like Nott collapsing to his knees and kissing his feet…
Harry shook his head. He felt something very familiar about this situation — much like when he relived the memory of offering Higgs a second chance.
Realizing his dark thoughts had yet again been exposed, Harry conjured a giant image of Halogi over the memory, imagining the raven-black serpent blotting everything around while encircling him. He then wound the king cobra until a tornado of ink-black surrounded him. Then, he willed himself to spin out of the Legilimency-induced trance.
"Congratulations," Professor Quirrell complimented as Harry came to. "You are quickly becoming adept at distinguishing between rudimentary memory walks and real life. You noticed the feelings of deja vu, yes?"
"I also felt like I wasn't totally there," Harry added. "The reconstructions around me were perfect, but I didn't feel fully present."
"Right you are," the Defense professor smiled. "There will always be a difference between experiences of the present and memories of the past. The question shall always be, can you discern them? And can you ward off a legilimens attempts to picket information from your mind the moment they enter?"
"That will take years," Harry bemoaned the daunting task.
"For you, yes," Professor Quirrell answered. "For others, a lifetime. And for most wizards, never. You wield a superb talent for the mental arts. If you continue frequent practice, you will achieve feats that surpass many of your professors by the time you leave Hogwarts."
"You really think so?" Harry asked with a measure of renewed hope.
"I know so," the professor stated confidently. "This is but our fifth session, and the progress you have made outstrips that of many students gifted in the mind arts."
Harry beamed at the praise.
"How did you practice, to get as good as you are?" Harry asked. "I haven't really ever felt my fellow students trying to read my mind."
"Thousands of hours of deep meditation, oftentimes at night," the professor answered. "In fact, there came a time I abandoned sleep entirely in favor of this."
Harry gasped.
"I'm afraid true mastery of magic is a long and arduous journey, even for the gifted," the professor sighed with a faraway look in his eyes. "The standard curriculum of spell casting barely scratches the surface, and before you know it, you are declared a fully trained wizard — told you need not learn anymore. Such a shame."
"Did you spend a lot of time in the library?" Harry asked. "To learn what the professors didn't teach."
"At first, yes," Professor Quirrell answered. "When I arrived at Hogwarts, I discovered that despite us all supposedly beginning our education at the same age, students raised by well-established families had been practicing magic for years. The most gifted among them could easily pass as third or fourth years — and if they turned their contempt toward you, well…"
"I understand," Harry murmured through gritted teeth.
Hagrid's pathetic assurance that he would "learn everything he needed to know in due time" still irked him to that day. It had taken weekly Friday midnight spars to get to Ron's level in December, and then an extra month to overtake Ernie and Tony. And though he always beat them now, he'd be remiss if he didn't say most combat spells in his arsenal came directly from Tony — particularly defensive spells and counter-hexes.
What would have happened had he not made friends outside of his house — a house where wizards descended on those they perceived as weaker like sharks flocked to blood? And what if he didn't have the protection of Draco, Marcus, Cassius and Graham to buoy him? What would have happened to Albus Dumbledore's precious "Boy-Who-Lived?" Or perhaps that would have been the point — Dursley the Sequel: The Hogwarts Edition.
"I'm sorry other wizards in your house treated you like that," Harry said. "I'm sorry the professors and prefects did nothing."
"If any of yer schoolmates give ya any trouble, come straight to me or the Headmaster," Hagrid had said.
What a joke.
"It drove me to become the youngest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this school has had since Ominis Gaunt," Professor Quirrell replied. "Adversity demands power, and those who come through it will be better for it."
"Although, I do wish I possessed your instinct to make connections outside my house," the professor said with a thoughtful expression. "Alas, House rivalry. It blinds so many of us when we walk these halls as children — as if the Godric's hat doesn't sort us on vague, overlapping traits. For does not the bold warrior necessitate ambition to reach his full potential? And how can an intellectual master his subject without preserving dedication?"
Harry nodded. Since joining the Dragon clan, he'd been thinking much about how there were more similarities between them — members of a self-selecting student society — than among their hat-sorted Houses. Each member of the Dragon was invested in some form of martial magic, and each valued interpersonal loyalty and dedication to one another.
Harry compared this to what his ancestor's hat told him regarding his placement. Of the Hogwarts Houses, the Sorting Hat claimed Slytherin would help him most on the way to greatness — and Harry didn't disagree. The cutthroat environment drove him to learn magic far faster than the sanctuary Gryffindor would have provided. But Harry's ambition to master the wizard arts and thirst for independence from bureaucrats landed him in the House obsessed with genealogy trees and Gringotts vaults. The House that, should Hogwarts ever fall prey to siege, Harry knew would be last into battle and first to retreat.
"The Founders were friends, yet our Houses seem so far apart sometimes," Harry observed. "Sometimes I just don't understand. I'm glad interhouse societies exist."
"Particularly impressive all three have survived recent history," Professor Quirrell added. "You wouldn't happen to know how the Hydra has been recently? I have not kept close contact."
"I haven't asked too closely about it, despite it being dominated by my House, I know," Harry answered with a shrug. "But how was it for you? From what I heard, it's dominated by pure-blood, well…"
"Pure-blood snobs?" Professor Quirrell completed with a smile. "Well, even the most extreme respect talent when they see it, although begrudgingly."
"I don't think Nott will ever respect me, in any shape or form," Harry replied with a chuckle.
"I would not be so sure," Professor Quirrell theorized while stroking his chin. "Do you know that it was your yearmate's grandfather who wrote the most recent edition of The Pure-Blood Directory?"
"I don't really know beyond Nott being one of the most blood-obsessed wizards in Slytherin," Harry shrugged. In truth, he didn't know too much about his least favorite yearmate aside from the fact he had an ebony-wood, phoenix-feather wand, that his mother died at some point during his childhood, and he hated no one more than Harry Potter.
"The Nott family prides themselves in centuries of mastery of blood magic," Professor Quirrell informed. "Much of their family fortune stems from breeding some of the most fantastic beasts known to man and wizardkind. Not to mention, many a pure blood has consulted them with regards to whom they should mate with for the best possible heir."
"Lovely," Harry muttered.
"If Theodore is a true Nott, he would no longer disparage you for your blood status if you revealed the fullness of your Gaunt gifts," the professor suggested. "Perhaps he might even slightly adjust his view of muggleborns."
"I already made the mistake of revealing myself to Higgs though — I'm not willing to risk it again with another member of my House," Harry responded. "I mean, the reason you saw me telling Ron is because he's joining the Dragon this weekend, and it's one of the oath-bound clan secrets. But that's only because they really like and trust me, or else…"
"You are wise," Professor Quirrell stated. "I must admit, I too understand the gravity of revealing a family gift to the wrong wizard at your age — a mistake that haunted me long after."
"How did you deal with it?" Harry asked.
"I never did anything that could confirm potential accusations except around those I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt would keep my secrets," the professor answered.
Harry pondered on this. He had taken a risk telling Ron a week-and-a-half before the official Dragon oaths would bind him, but he did trust Ron not to go blabbing in that time. Draco, however, was bound by no oaths — just good faith. Though Harry did want to be able to trust his best mate with such things, particularly as neither held any love for Dumbledore, the professor's words did make him wonder.
"On that note, perhaps it is time to resume practice," Professor Quirrell suddenly said. "Legilimens!"
7:50 a.m.
"You have the bottle for me?" Harry asked Ron while producing one of his own.
Ron took out his and exchanged flasks with Harry. Harry took a swig, and then handed over a set of Slytherin robes.
"At least your brothers made it to taste alright," Harry muttered just before cramps struck every inch of his body. "Muffliato," he cast to contain any further sounds just to him and Ron, even though they stood in a dark corner at the base of the Gryffindor tower.
Ron looked on worriedly as Harry doubled over, and then fell to the floor writhing and squirming as every inch of his body contorted and rearranged over the course of a minute.
"Merlin! I'm gonna hex Angus for this," Harry grunted when the ordeal was finally over. He rose shakily to his feet until he stood at perfect eye-level with Ron.
"Woah…it's like looking into a mirror," Ron gasped.
"Almost," Harry corrected.
He then reached into the left-waist pocket of his Slytherin robes and took out a skin paste to apply over his forehead. While the—illegal—Polyjuice Potion allowed him and Ron to exchange physical traits, it did nothing regarding curse scars. Harry would have to constantly reapply the paste to his forehead for the duration of the day, while he would have to draw an exact replica above Ron's eyebrow.
"I swear, I don't know why Angus chose such a complicated initiation quest for you," Harry huffed. "I'll take a deranged muggle trying to kill me with his bare hands any day."
"Well…it's your turn," Harry told Ron after his fellow ginger stood in trepid silence for another minute.
Ron suddenly took a swig, and then dropped into the same convulsions Harry had just suffered until he rose as a scarless, Gryffindor-cloaked facsimile of Harry.
"Huh, my vision's a bit worse. Guess that's why you had glasses," Ron muttered as he rubbed his eyes.
"You have no idea," Harry sighed as he used his wand to trace a temporary lightning-like tattoo on Ron's forehead.
Polyjuice potions could be brewed at different intensities, mainly corresponding to the physical difference between the user and the form they wished to assume. Thankfully, as Harry and Ron stood less than two inches apart in height and possessed similar builds, they could use a low intensity brew to shift forms. In addition to a relatively mild transformation experience, complex body parts like their eyeballs mostly retained their original shape — hence why Harry would not need to transfer his corrective optics to Ron.
"Now, last thing…wands," Harry sighed while producing his own. "Don't lose this, I rather like him."
"Him?" Ron drawled while trading his beige-colored wand in favor of Harry's ivory-white.
"Well, I hope you told yours to like me," Harry quipped as he connected with Ron's wand — or rather, attempted to. "I'm stuck with it till we switch back at dinner."
12:02 p.m.
"Cursed wand," Harry hissed under his breath as he made his way to the Gryffindor table for lunch.
He just didn't understand why he had such immense difficulty channeling magic through the wand of his first friend. It wasn't as he had gone through his day drained and lethargic. Quite the opposite. His magic felt like the boiling water in a tea kettle, begging to burst free, but only able to let out a stream of whistling steam.
Mercifully, the DADA lesson revolved around theory that day, so he did not have to suffer the humiliation he did in Transfiguration. Yet even though the morning failures technically reflected on Ron, Harry felt no less frustrated.
"Are you alright Ron?" Hermione asked as they sat across from each other. "You seem rather out of it today."
Harry remembered to take another swig out of his Polyjuice flask.
"Just tired. So much homework recently. Oi, we're only first years!" Harry excused himself.
In some ways, he was not just imitating Ron. While Harry loved the study of magic, he found Professor Quirrell's explanations of its fundamental and conceptual forces to be far more instructive than the slavish devotion to wand motions and spell pronunciation that McGonagall and Professor Flitwick demanded. For this reason, he performed much better in practical application in those classes than in "theory," since he primarily studied for those branches from Tom Marvolo Riddle's The Methodical Guide Anent Understanding Nigmatic Thaumaturgy.
TMGAUNT, as Harry preferred to call the book.
"Well, maybe if you didn't always wait till the last minute!" Hermione reprimanded.
"We can't all be you, Herm," Harry responded as he began to dig into his food. Unlike per usual, where he arranged his food meticulously before dining in a "proper" manner, Harry dove in.
"Ugh, you know I hate it when you call me that name!" Hermione protested.
Harry flashed his best Weasley-lopsided grin.
"How are you so frustrating," Hermione sighed in a mock-exasperated tone.
"What would you do without me?" Harry quipped, to which Hermione gave a small smile.
Harry held back a sigh before continuing conversation with Hermione about the week, upcoming weekend and general life at Hogwarts. He did truly wish he could be there for Hermione more, but the troll incident secured her place in Gryffindor in a way his own in Slytherin had yet to be. That, the open association with the Quidditch team that came following his first game, and the rapidly growing bond between himself and Draco meant he spent far more time with Slytherins than he did in the first months.
Not to mention that at this point, the first years had mostly settled into their cliques. He maintained strong interhouse friendship with Ron, Tony and Ernie for obvious reasons, kept a solid relationship with Hermione, and was bonding well with Oliver over their mutual connection to his uncle. But each had their own group of friends apart from him, and Harry remained the only Slytherin they called a friend.
Though this train of thought did lead Harry to ask a question toward the end of lunch.
"Neville's been quiet today," Harry noted, motioning to the small boy who sat toward the table edge closest to the Head Table.
"He's probably still feeling down about McLaggen calling him a squib last night. Which you laughed at," Hermione reprimanded with a flash of fire in her eyes.
Harry flushed with shame. He was no saint, nor did he expect his friends to be. But it was sad to know they had been calling Neville a muggle due to his struggles with magic. Particularly with the impotence Harry himself suffered that day courtesy of Ron's wand…
Wait, Harry thought as he remembered Professor Quirrell's first defense class. Ash-wood wands work poorly for anyone besides their "true owner."
"Hermione…Neville's wand is made of ash, right?" Harry asked while displaying Ron's wand for her to see.
"I recall something like that from our first DADA class," Hermione responded after a few seconds.
Harry filed that information in his mind for a private discussion he'd have with Neville at an appropriate time. Because no one weak in magic would have wandlessly bounced to safety from the hundred-plus foot drop Neville suffered in their first —incompetently taught— flying lesson.
8:44 a.m., February 27
"Neville, wait up! I need to ask you something!" Harry called out after the Gryffindor who had just exited the Great Hall's Friday breakfast.
Frankly, Harry should have done it much earlier. But between the excitement of welcoming Ron to the Dragon Clan, and then coordinating with Ron to aid with Tony and Ernie's own initiation quests, he forgot to confirm his suspicion of ash wands until that very morning's discussion with Professor Quirrell and their new companion Oliver.
Surprisingly intense hazel eyes met Harry's azure.
"How have you been these past couple weeks?" Harry sloppily started the conversation.
Neville looked at him with a surprise that panged Harry's heart. Did no one typically express concern for him in Gryffindor?
"I've been alright," Neville answered with a small shrug.
Harry hoped that was true. He had asked Ron, Cormac and Angus to be kinder to Neville, as his terms for beating each in a sparring match the two Sundays before.
"Hey, so I know you've been having trouble with spells this year…" Harry began, but raised his hands placatingly when he saw Neville flinch.
"I'm not calling you weak! Merlin, I don't think you're weak. You remember how you saved yourself that first flying class? No wand, no spell?" Harry said rapidly.
Neville nodded cautiously.
"I've been thinking," Harry continued. "The other day, I tried to use Ron's wand for a few hours…"
"Two Fridays ago?" Neville asked.
Harry didn't know how Neville knew that, but he nodded. If anything, this further proved Neville's power.
"Yah," Harry affirmed. "Now, usually I'm very good at using other wizards' wands — those of my friends and my enemies. But Ron's just wouldn't work for me. And then, I remembered Professor Quirrell saying that ash-wood wands don't work well for anyone who's not their 'true owner'."
"Your wand," Harry stated with a gesture toward Neville's left-waist pocket. "Are you its first owner?"
"My…my dad owned this wand," Neville answered.
Harry wondered whether Neville's father was dead, as the last student he talked to who was wielding a parent's wand was Nott.
"It might not work for you," Harry suggested. "My own wand isn't like my parents' at all…"
"My pop was as great an auror as there was, and Gran says I'll be like him one day," Neville asserted.
"There's no question you'll be a great wizard," Harry replied. "But the wand…"
"Will help me make my pop proud," Neville insisted.
Oh no.
"Do you want to try mine?" Harry offered, fourteen-inch ivory-white wand outstretched.
Neville seemed conflicted as his eyes darted between the wand and Harry's eyes.
"N—no thanks," Neville decided after roughly twenty seconds. "I have to grow into mine."
Harry made to say something, but one look at Neville told him that the Gryffindor had made his decision.
"I have to go to class…don't want to be late," Neville excused himself before going down the hall at a brisk pace.
"Just let me know if you have any questions about…anything," Harry called out after him.
Harry chose not to mention they had the same class, and that Neville was quite unlikely to be late to Transfiguration.
"What did you say to scare him off, Pottuh?" Draco announced himself as he walked up behind Harry.
Harry sighed and let his shoulders deflate.
"If it is any consolation, Longbottom jumps at the sight of his own shadow," Draco offered. "Getting him to speak with you for over a minute may be harder than taming a unicorn."
"Guess you'd know a lot about unicorns," Harry teased with a jerk of his head toward Draco's right-waist pocket.
"Enough to beat you in every spar," Draco returned with an arched platinum-blond brow.
"I feel bad for him," Harry shifted the conversation to a serious tone. "I feel he's not fitting in here, and he deserves to."
"Well, his bloodline does rank among the Sacred Twenty-Eight," Draco considered. "Not that blood alone defines a wizard's worth!" he added once Harry fixed a glare on him.
"Seriously, this whole blood-purity obsession is why we have such a low wizard population compared to most of the world," Harry huffed with exasperation.
"We're also home to many of the most powerful wizarding lineages the world has ever known," Draco countered.
"A lot of which hover on the brink of extinction, or survive through half-bloods," Harry retorted with a smirk.
"Don't remind me," Draco drawled, but with good humor dancing in his eyes.
10:31 a.m.
"Now that we are all settled in," Harry's favorite professor began the second block-period of the day. "I believe it is time we observe the niceties of dueling."
Thirty-three pairs of eyes focused their full attention on Professor Quirrell.
"Now, some of you already wield experience in this most fine arena of sorcery. So, if you do not mind, I will borrow from your expertise," the professor said with a winning white smile. "Harry and…Theodore. Step to the front, if you don't mind."
A flash of surprise sparked through Harry at who his demonstration partner would be, but his trust for Professor Quirrell gave him the confidence to step in front of his desk and face toward the left wall. A few seconds later, Nott stood facing him.
"Now, as these two will demonstrate, the first step is to bow to one another," Professor Quirrell informed the class.
Just as the professor taught him in their first morning walk, Harry folded his left hand behind his back while staggering the corresponding foot behind his dominant in order to dip into a slight crouch while nodding his head downward. And with his wand pressed upright against his nose, Harry angled his wand in Nott's direction during the bow while maintaining direct eye contact with his rival.
Nott, for his part, bowed by way of a crouch as well. However, instead of pressing his wand against his face, he held it at his side in his dominant hand — point angled at Harry's chest.
"At this point, the wizards would commence with their first spell…" Professor Quirrell continued his explanation.
Harry suddenly felt a flash of deja vu as his mind raced back to his tousle with Nott just after they entered their dormitory room on the first night.
"Pro—" Harry began the incantation for the shield charm, but it was too late. Wordlessly, Nott fired a white bolt of energy at Harry's face.
"Ahh!" Harry cried out in pain as the feeling of half-a-dozen bumble bees stung his face at once.
With what little his eyes could still focus on, Harry saw Nott mumble something under his breath. Unfortunately, as Harry had never heard the spell before, he had no hope of recognizing or countering the sudden boiling pain he felt in his right wrist.
"Arrggh!" Harry moaned as he grabbed his now bright-red right forearm, dropping his wand as he did so.
A wand that Nott accio'd into his left hand.
"If I was the Death Eater you sheep think me to be, your precious Chosen One would be dead," Nott sneered at the stunned class.
"You weaponized dark magic!" Ernie exclaimed. "Foul!"
"He wasn't even prepared to fight you!" Tony voiced his complaints.
Within seconds, the majority of the class began hurling indignation and derision at Nott — not that the stormy-eyed Slytherin seemed to care.
"You disgrace the House of Slytherin, Potter," Nott scorned. "You degrade us with your unworthy blood, and you act every bit as muggle as the worthless world you came from…"
"…Riddle," his stormy-eyed roommate scoffed. The five other Slytherins in the common room gathered in a half-circle behind the son of the illustrious Cantankerous Nott, delighted to teach Slytherin's "mud blood" his place again. Even if it was six on one.
"A ridiculous name, even for muggle filth," the second-year heir to House Avery added contemptuously.
"Give my wand back," Harry said in a foreign-sounding voice, but with a barely-restrained anger all too familiar.
"I think not, Riddle," Nott sneered. "If there is one thing I have learned from my family expertise in blood, it is that one must excise an infection before it spreads. Your kind may have crippled the Wizarding World, but you will never spread your sickness through Slytherin."
Riddle narrowed his eyes. How dare this pampered boy call him the sickness of Slytherin? A spoiled sap, who wanted for nothing for his entire life just due to his name? While he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, who had been entitled to nothing but his name in that filthy orphanage, worked thrice as hard as the other boys for a third of the recognition. Who truly embodied ambition and the pursuit greatness in the Slytherin House better than he? He who outmatched them all in all subjects, despite their years of training and experience in sorcery?
Furthermore, if the Slytherin interlopers valued blood and nothing else, then how dare they mock the only heir of their precious founder to grace their presence in over a century? How dare they denigrate the only living speaker of the serpent-tongue of Herpo the Great?
Not for the first time, Tom Marvolo Riddle lifted his tongue to the roof of his mouth to unleash the power of his bloodline against the boys who circled around him. But he aborted yet again when he remembered the golden eyes that followed him relentlessly across the school. None of the boys before him were the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, true. None had defeated the greatest dark lord to walk the earth. But had he known the dangers of Albus Dumbledore when he revealed his heritage to the champion of the Wizarding World? No.
And Tom Marvolo Riddle would never make such a costly error again.
"I think it's attempting to speak," the heir to House Lestrange, a yearmate of Avery, jeered.
"Silencio!" Nott demanded while pointing his wand directly toward Tom Marvolo Riddle's mouth.
Had the spell worked, it would have rendered him a gaping mute. But Tom Marvolo Riddle was filled only with a wintry rage — as chilly and jagged as the cave in which he repaid his debts to Dennis and Amy.
And in the fury, he remembered. A wand? Since when did he need a wand? He was special long before he set foot in this school of stick waving and Latin choirs.
"You be quiet," Tom Marvolo Riddle returned in a chilly tone to Nott. This time, someone did shut up. Not that Nott did not uselessly move his mouth like a fish out of water.
"How dare you!" Mulciber shouted as he extended his wand. But with a simple raise of his hand, Tom Marvolo Riddle stopped the impertinent third year in his tracks.
'I still have your wand, mudblood! And I'm going to snap it!' Tom Marvolo Riddle heard Nott think, just before the first year threw down his own wand to make a two-handed attempt on the noble wand of yew in his hand.
"Unlike you, I do not need a stick to make those who attack me hurt…if I want," Tom Marvolo Riddle announced.
Lestrange and Avery drew their wands and aimed, but thought better when every shadow in the vicinity tripled in size and vanquished the lanterns littered about. Their compatriots lost all silly ideas when a chilly breeze swept through the room and extinguished the fireplace.
The fear that followed fed him more than any meal from the Great Hall.
"Oh my, did I put out the lights?" Tom Marvolo Riddle mused in a faux-innocent tone. "Allow me to remedy that."
He remembered how Professor Dumbledore attempted to intimidate him at the orphanage by burning his wardrobe with just a glance. Fixing a gaze on Nott's custom-made Slytherin robes, Tom Marvolo Riddle decided to share the Defense professor's first lesson in power.
Nott soon began to dance as if under the Tarantallegra jinx, desperately trying to put out the flames gnawing at the base of his robes. Unfortunately for him, he could not silent-cast the counter spell. Not that his simple powers could have countered those of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Aguamenti!" Avery shouted out. But the ice-cold rage in Tom Marvolo Riddle's heart froze the stream of water midair.
Nott's mouth opened wide in a silent scream as the flames began to creep upward. His desperation reflected in the eyes of his fellow pure-blood posers.
"Did I silence all of you?" Tom Marvolo Riddle taunted them. "I must say, at least the muggles who attempted to persecute me offered screams when I…avenged myself."
Lestrange opened his mouth at the insult, at which point Tom Marvolo Riddle shoved memories of the vengeance he exacted on the muggle filth who tormented him for most of his early years.
The Quidditch seeker stumbled back, metallic-blue eyes wide with terror.
"What is going on here!" demanded a new voice. Orion Black. Head Boy. Dueling Club captain. Quidditch captain. And perhaps most importantly, the holder of Slytherin's serpent seat.
"Riddle, stop this!" Orion ordered a few seconds later.
But Tom Marvolo Riddle looked at him in cold defiance as Nott's trousers caught on fire.
"Tom, stop this now!" Orion repeated, a trace of desperation entering his voice.
Tom Marvolo Riddle only smiled in response. Nothing could stop his power, nothing would stop his power. He would exact his dues upon Nott…
"Harry, look at me," Orion commanded in a voice that didn't sound like the Black heir at all. But one very familiar…
"Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked in confusion.
The Slytherin common room did not look much like a House common room at all, but rather like a classroom. As for Nott…
"Palomydes…you look well," Harry noted with some disappointment. For someone whose legs he remembered burning, Nott's clothes looked rather intact. Indeed, only his outer robes were charred, and only up to his knees.
"Um…that is Theodore," a platinum-blond haired Slytherin in the front row informed him.
"Draco!" Harry exclaimed as he suddenly remembered the name of his best mate.
"That is my name," Draco drawled. But his sarcasm did not reach his eyes, in which Harry only saw concern.
Harry deduced that his waking dream had partly bled into reality when he scanned the other thirty pairs of eyes looking at him with surprise, confusion, awe, fear or a mixture of the four.
"Well, Theodore," Harry addressed the Nott he actually set on fire while calling his aspen wand back to his hand. "Try not to provoke me in the future. As you can see, I don't need a stick to do magic."
Channeling his power through the phoenix-feather within, Harry relieved himself of the stinging pain on his face and healed both the budding welts and his wrist. How, he didn't exactly know, but that would be a question to explore later.
"Oh, right," Harry mumbled when he saw Theodore Nott move his mouth without sound coming out. "Un-silencio, or whatever."
That most certainly was not the incantation for the counter-hex, but Harry could afford to be sloppy as it was his own magic he was undoing.
Professor Quirrell continued the lesson, but not before giving Harry a 'stay after class' look.
11:47 a.m.
"Professor, I am so sorry," Harry began once everyone cleared out, but stopped when the Defense professor put his hand up.
"There is nothing to apologize for Harry," Professor Quirrell interjected. "The fault is mine. I underestimated the bitterness that may lay between you and some of your Slytherin yearmates — and your raw power."
Harry hung his head.
"Harry, look at me," Professor Quirrell said in a soft yet firm voice. "You should never be ashamed of the power you wield. It sets you apart, gives you a purpose and meaning that heirs to the foremost pureblood lineages only dream of. But you must learn to control your power, lest you be exploited. Or worse, eliminated."
"Will Dumbledore find out what happened today?" Harry asked in a quivering voice.
"More likely than not," Professor Quirrell said solemnly. "The Headmaster sees with far more than his eyes. Particularly regarding those he is…concerned about."
Harry shivered.
"But…there is a place we can train, away from the Headmaster's notice," Professor Quirrell suggested. "I believe your Occlumency may be advanced enough to keep it secret in conjunction with the magics protecting the room."
"Where?" Harry whispered.
"Follow me," Professor Quirrell said as he led the way out of the room.
After a few minutes of descending the stairs of the Defense tower, professor and student reached the very base of the tower.
Professor Quirrell turned back and to the right after the last stair, leading Harry toward a small pocket in the room between the back-right corner and a massive pillar. Facing the pillar from there with their backs to the side wall, they now faced a small wooden wardrobe with six analog clocks on its front.
Professor Quirrell pointed his wand at the clocks, commanding their hands to rotate so they all displayed 6 o'clock, at which the closet opened — to reveal a stone stairway leading to a room even further below.
"After you," Professor Quirrell invited.
Harry didn't know what he expected, but he found himself stunned by the massive stone room he entered. Though sparsely decorated, the beautiful architecture of the pillars preventing the Defense tower from collapsing down upon the room, the smoothness of the stone, the candle-lit ambience and the cool temperature struck a special cord with Harry.
"My predecessor Ominis Gaunt called this room the Undercroft," Professor Quirrell informed from behind the awestruck Harry.
"It doesn't store much," Harry noted, seeing only a pile of barrels in each of the corners opposite from the door.
"No?" Professor Quirrell asked. "In my experience, it perfectly stores whatever you bring here with you. Reach out, stretch your awareness past this room back the way we came."
Harry pressed his wand vertically against his forehead and concentrated on the assigned task. But try though he did, he found he could not extend his powers past the gateway.
"Wow," Harry whispered with a smile. A secret room. A room where he did not have to fear Dumbledore, whose eyes doubtlessly pursued him like they had Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"And the Headmaster doesn't know?" Harry asked again to confirm.
"One cannot find this room by happenstance," Professor Quirrell explained. "To those who do not know what lies beyond the wardrobe, it is merely that. Even if they successfully arrange the clocks."
Harry's jaw fell open.
"Take inspiration from the great wizards who came before. For with your sheer talent, there is little you will not be able to accomplish once you truly master magic," Professor Quirrell promised. "But I believe your path will lay outside of Hogwarts' curriculum. If you feel yourself ready, I would like to offer you training in this room apart from our usual theoretical discussions."
Harry didn't hesitate to accept the offer.