CHAPTER 10: THE HAUNTING HOUR
The subsequent day unfolded without much excitement, marked by a series of classes delving into the fundamentals of magic—topics that Harry had already immersed himself in during his pre-orphanhood days. To maintain the facade of a novice, he had to feign a certain youthful folly in his magical pursuits. Despite the awe he inspired among his instructors, they remained oblivious to the mere surface of his formidable abilities.
Seated inconspicuously at the far end of the library, Harry found solace amidst the shelves of knowledge. A cluster of books lay strewn around him, one particularly engaging him with its open pages revealing the secrets of Hemlock trees. His concentration was evident as he diligently penned his potions essay with a precision that mirrored his father's penmanship during his own time at Hogwarts—a script distinct from the current trend of spidery scrawls.
His handwriting, a symphony of elongated y's, g's, j's, and more, manifested a beauty that surpassed the ordinary. Each stroke bled gracefully into the next, creating a tapestry of words that, while interconnected, remained legible and enticing. It was a silent homage to the past, a tradition upheld in the inked echoes of generations.
A sudden burst of laughter erupted from a group of boisterous fifth-year Hufflepuffs, momentarily shattering the library's tranquil ambiance. The librarian, quick to intervene, hissed a stern command for silence, quelling the disturbance before it could fully ripple through the hallowed halls of knowledge.
Unfazed, Harry rolled his eyes at the brief disruption and redirected his focus to another tome, this one exploring the intricacies of magical wards. He reminisced about a time when Ravenclaws, prompted by curiosity, had sought an explanation from a first-year about their collective fascination with wards. The subsequent rumor had sparked a collective endeavor among the intellectually inclined House to assist their Slytherin counterparts. In the initial weeks of the school year, whispers of wards and shared knowledge reverberated between the two Houses, forming an unexpected alliance against the perils that lurked in unprotected spaces. The library, witness to this clandestine exchange, held within its walls the unspoken bonds that transcended House rivalries in the pursuit of shared safety and wisdom.
However, the concept of protective wards held no concern for Harry; he had already woven his magical defenses. His wards, cloaked in a muted shade of grey, concealed a malevolence that escalated with every step into the room. The intruder's journey into the enchanted space would culminate in excruciating pain, escalating to third-degree burns after just a couple of feet—a brutal yet undeniably effective deterrent.
Interrupting his contemplation on wards, a voice addressed him, "You're Obsidian, right?" Harry lifted his gaze from the pages, having completed his warding, now engrossed in ideas for new spells.
"Yes, and your name is…" Harry trailed off, silently prompting the figure before him to introduce himself. The individual, a seemingly athletic Quidditch chaser with a normal build, long black hair, and brown eyes, extended a hand in greeting.
"Zabini, Blaise Zabini," he declared, awaiting a handshake. Yet, Harry eschewed the customary gesture, opting instead to delicately place his book on the table.
"It's apparent you seek something from me. Why else would you be here?" Harry observed, capping his ink and setting aside his quill. Blaise appeared momentarily taken aback before a sly grin crept across his features.
"Aye, I see you're a sharp one in Slytherin." The acknowledgment hung in the air, hinting at an unspoken understanding between the two, as the intrigue of their conversation unfolded within the quiet corners of the library.
"As you have sought me out, what is it that you require?" Harry inquired, methodically organizing his belongings.
"I ventured into your room, sent a frog as a test. It barely lasted a foot before igniting, and your snake devoured the thing. I want my wards improved, fashioned after yours," Blaise explained, his gaze narrowing slightly as Harry reclined in his chair.
"You attempted a break-in," Harry observed without a hint of surprise. Blaise nodded, unabashed and unyielding.
"Yeah, got a problem with that?" Blaise responded, settling back into the library chair with an air of nonchalance. Harry, unfazed, swung his bag over his shoulder, deftly sliding his wand out of its harness and into his grasp.
"I could call you a fool, but using a frog was rather clever. If not for the house-elves, I'd consider a ward that exterminates any creature except my own. Still, I might make a few adjustments to the wards..." Harry trailed off, contemplating the nuances of his protective enchantments. Blaise concealed any trace of apprehension, assuming a sneering countenance, careful not to attract the attention of students from other houses. The library, witness to the clandestine negotiations, held its silence as the delicate dance between ambition and collaboration unfolded.
"What is it that you desire, Obsidian? Money? Assistance with homework?" Blaise proposed, attempting to find common ground with the enigmatic student.
Harry chuckled softly, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "I have both money and intelligence, Zabini. What I want, I'm sure you're already aware of."
The unspoken understanding lingered in the air, and Blaise, acknowledging the unspoken request for respect, nodded subtly. "I can't assist you with that."
"I never anticipated you would," Harry responded calmly.
"...You truly are a Slytherin," Blaise remarked as Harry rose from his chair.
"Cunning and a venomous tongue—something my familiar and I share," Harry remarked with a wry smile. Without a backward glance, he left, leaving the unspoken negotiations and the subtle dance of alliances behind in the hallowed silence of the library.
x-(X)-x
"Incorrect!" Professor James Potter's voice reverberated through the room, a sudden whirlwind that pulled him away from the astonished Pansy. The true purpose behind his presence diverged significantly. The Ministry, in their wisdom, had deemed it necessary to dispatch one of their seasoned Aurors to assume the role, envisioning a safeguard for the school in the event of an attack. However, at this moment, James found himself deducting points from Slytherin, snatching away credits Gryffindor had never even glimpsed.
"Mr. Malfoy, enlighten me. What, precisely, defines a Daywalker?" Potter demanded, a sharpness in his tone that made Malfoy flinch involuntarily.
"A Daywalker is a vampire breed impervious to sunlight," Malfoy retorted icily, sensing that his response fell short of Potter's expectations.
"Five points from Slytherin for stating the glaringly obvious! The ideal reply should have been, 'A vampire capable of withstanding sunlight, adorned with four fangs and possessing scarlet eyes,'" Potter declared, his back turned as he continued, oblivious to Malfoy's simmering glare.
The classroom air hung heavy with tension, and Pansy exchanged a nervous glance with her fellow students, unsure of what unpredictable twist the professor might introduce next. Potter, however, remained undeterred, his dedication to Gryffindor's cause evident in every deductive syllable. The ongoing interrogation hinted at a deeper narrative, a subtext playing out beneath the surface of the Hogwarts routine.
Potter's gaze, fixated on the chalkboard, revealed none of the internal conflict he might be harboring. His commitment to the unspoken mission was unyielding, a facet of his character that both impressed and intimidated his pupils. Meanwhile, Malfoy's eyes smoldered with defiance, an unspoken challenge lingering in the air. The echo of the deducted points resonated through the stone walls, serving as a reminder that Hogwarts was no longer just a haven for learning magic but a battleground for ideologies and hidden agendas.
"Mr. Obsidian!" Professor James Potter's voice sliced through the air, the command in it causing Harry to slowly lift his head. Cold green eyes met dark brown, and with meticulous care, Harry began to probe the recesses of the professor's mind. Potter possessed a modest mental defense, but Harry was confident he could navigate through it without detection.
"Tell me this, do Phoenixes die?" The question lingered, the answer dancing at the edge of Harry's consciousness.
"Yes, they can die," Harry responded with a smooth tone, a deliberate nonchalance coloring his demeanor as he glanced away slightly.
"Incorrect—"
"If you desired a more detailed response, your inquiry should not have been so direct," Harry interjected, his quill gliding effortlessly across his parchment. A subtle glance revealed James reddening, a telltale sign that Harry's words had struck a nerve. The low chuckle that escaped James hinted at a hidden agenda, and Harry recognized the attempt to retaliate for the incident in Diagon Alley, where he had embarrassed James's son.
"Yes, Mr. Obsidian? Enlighten me then. How does a Phoenix meet its demise?" Professor Potter shot back, a wry amusement in his eyes. Another probing, and Harry discerned that the answer remained consistent with his initial assessment. Yet, in the intricate dance of minds, certainty was a fleeting concept.
Harry weighed his response thoughtfully before replying, "The demise of a Phoenix mirrors my earlier assertion—it is precisely as I initially suggested. However, one can never be too certain, can they?" The challenge hung in the air, a subtle undercurrent beneath the surface of the exchange, as the classroom became a stage for the clash of intellects and unspoken vendettas.
"A phoenix can meet its end through various means. The most prevalent scenarios involve the bird feeling abused or the demise of its master. Notably, a Phoenix remains impervious to the Killing Curse; if struck, it regresses into a hatchling. While a Basilisk's venomous bite poses a lethal threat, the creature remains unaffected by the Basilisk's gaze."
Harry concluded his explanation, setting aside his quill to resume the meticulous recording of his knowledge within a small leather-bound book. Each stroke of the pen etched his growing expertise, its ink imprinting the first twenty pages with a testament to his burgeoning magical prowess.
James Potter, his face aflame with frustration, sought a means to cast Harry into the fires of reprimand, yet the young wizard had artfully navigated the lesson, avoiding any transgressions. A small bell chimed, signaling the end of the class. The classroom doors opened silently, and the Slytherins, their quiet retreat resembling a procession back to their common room, left in the wake of the intense encounter.
As the hidden entrance sealed itself with a muted thud, an unusual silence enveloped the room. Curious gazes from older students met Harry's group. First-years were not known for such quietude.
Suddenly, the silence shattered like glass, replaced by an uproarious cheer that echoed off the stone walls. The older students, wide-eyed, exchanged glances, trying to fathom the cause of the commotion.
"Obsidian got Potter! Stunned him right up on stage!" Theo proclaimed with a triumphant grin, relaying the astonishing feat to the incredulous older students.
"Bloody hell, how did you do that?" a third-year girl whispered, her gaze fixed on Harry as if he were the sun, radiating an enigmatic brilliance.
"Simple," Harry noted, meeting the girl's eyes unflinchingly. "I just answered the question."
The buzz of excitement and whispers persisted, weaving its way through the corridors until the following day, Friday, loomed on the horizon, promising new challenges and unforeseen developments in the magical tapestry of Hogwarts.
The only classes that posed even a slight challenge to Harry were Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts (DADA). His excuse for the latter was a watchful instructor meticulously deducting points for the most trivial offenses. However, Herbology presented an entirely different ordeal.
"Obsidian, grab it!" Theo hissed urgently, crouched beside a peculiar clawed flower exhaling tendrils of fire. Harry's instincts urged him to obliterate the threatening bloom, but he knew such an action would land him in hot water. With a wrinkled nose, Harry seized the new pot, and Theo promptly deposited the fiery entity into the soil. A survey of the surroundings revealed that a handful had completed the task, but the majority of Hufflepuffs found themselves singed by the wrath of the belligerent flora.
Hannah Abbott's scream pierced the air as her pigtail caught fire. She dropped the flower, frantically attempting to extinguish the flames. The pot shattered upon impact with the ground, causing roots to writhe and the flower to unleash more fire upon anyone attempting to lend aid, transforming a few well-intentioned boots into smoldering beacons.
"This is precisely why I despise Herbology," Harry muttered to Draco, who couldn't help but snicker. Pansy eagerly nodded in agreement, attempting to align herself with Harry's sentiments.
The greenhouse was a chaotic tableau, with Hufflepuffs scrambling to evade the fiery onslaught, and the unruly vegetation seemed to relish the havoc it wreaked. Harry's frustration simmered beneath the surface as he navigated the perilous task, acutely aware that his innate inclination to deal decisively with magical threats clashed with the more measured approach demanded by Professor Sprout's curriculum.
Within the confines of Slytherin house, Harry had acquired a reputation that sent shivers down the spines of his peers. How did he achieve this dubious honor? It all began on a seemingly ordinary day when Crabbe and Goyle, attempting to unravel the intricacies of chess, found themselves at the mercy of Millicent Bulstrode's condescending remarks. However, it was Harry, engrossed in a book on magical creatures, who became the primary target of her scorn.
For twelve relentless comments, Millicent assailed Harry's blood status, intelligence, and even his love life. The onslaught reached its climax when she ventured into the sensitive territory of his parents. "I bet your parents don't even like you! Sent you away just so they wouldn't have to see your ugly face again!" she jeered, punctuating her insult with laughter.
Unseen by Millicent, Harry's eyes narrowed in silent fury as he faced away from her. Meanwhile, a fifth-year girl, absorbed in her own reading, observed the escalating tension. As Millicent's verbal assault reached its zenith, the book in Harry's hands began to emit smoke, charred edges betraying the intensity of his suppressed anger. With deliberate slowness, Harry set the damaged book down, revealing the aftermath of his magical response.
Millicent departed without sparing another glance at the two shocked boys, leaving behind an atmosphere charged with latent fury. The consequences, however, unfolded the next day when a breathless second-year raced through the halls, proclaiming Millicent's unexpected presence in the Hospital Wing. Rumors circulated that a group of third-years had attempted a cutting hex, missing their marks in their misguided endeavor. Yet, the astute fifth-year girl who had witnessed the preceding events knew better. She detected a barely concealed satisfaction in Harry's eyes as the second-year recounted the incident.
Word spread like wildfire, and a singular truth emerged—never find yourself on the wrong side of Harry, for his retribution, though veiled, was undeniably potent. The Slytherin common room buzzed with a newfound awareness of the latent power that lurked within their seemingly unassuming fellow housemate.
It had been nearly two months since the commencement of the school year on the first of September, and for Harry, the passage of time seemed marked more by an accumulation of frustrations than tangible accomplishments. During this period, he had managed to identify a few chinks in Dumbledore's seemingly impenetrable armor. The Headmaster's unwavering trust, bestowed so easily upon students and staff alike, emerged as a glaring vulnerability. If Dumbledore believed someone to be virtuous, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy in his eyes.
Yet, Harry's revelations, while intriguing, fell short of being substantive enough to warrant immediate reporting. He harbored suspicions that certain Death Eaters' children had discreetly dispatched letters containing information gleaned from his presence at Hogwarts. As the 31st of October, Halloween night, loomed, Harry found himself grappling with conflicting emotions.
This night carried a dual significance for him—it marked the night his "parents" would conveniently forget him, leaving him to navigate the loneliness that cloaked the manor. Halloween night also signaled a darker tradition, one he had initiated. At the manor, Death Eaters were set loose to terrorize and kill Muggles for amusement, a twisted ritual that turned fear into a form of entertainment.
Harry's own contribution to the night's events was a macabre game he had devised—sneaking into Muggle homes and attempting to evoke fear. The winner of this sinister contest earned the privilege of dueling a Death Eater, an opportunity no one could refuse. In the four Halloweens he had participated, only four such contests had occurred. The first, won by Severus Snape, saw him challenging Bellatrix in a mesmerizing thirty-minute display of magical prowess. The memory of that night lingered, a chilling reminder of the unsettling traditions that wove through the fabric of Harry's complex existence.
The subsequent two Halloweens unfolded with victories for Bellatrix and Lucius, both opting to face Harry in the ensuing duels. However, to their astonishment, Harry effortlessly dismantled their magical prowess, leaving them in a state of disbelief. The previous Halloween, a spectacle of terror orchestrated by Harry, had reached new heights. His manipulation of fear proved fatal for a Muggle, earning him the victory and an opportunity to duel his own father.
The duel, by Harry's account, was ostensibly uncomplicated—no bloodshed, no lingering consequences. Yet, in truth, he suffered a resounding defeat at his father's hands. However, the loss was not without its silver lining, for Harry managed to pilfer a handful of spells invented by his father. This acquisition, the true goal of his participation in the sinister contest, marked a clandestine triumph amid the apparent setback.
As the current Halloween approached, the one day Harry could not actively partake in the competition, he found himself yearning for the unsettling tradition he had orchestrated. His anticipation manifested in a note dispatched via Hedwig, seeking news of the latest contest's outcome. However, the response to his inquiry lingered in the wings, a tantalizing yet elusive glimpse into the unfolding events of Halloween night. Harry, left in a state of anticipation, knew he would need to exercise patience until the news reached him in the coming days.
"Obsidian? Are you here?" Harry glanced up from the shelves of books he had been perusing. Disappointment flashed across his face—these volumes offered him nothing new, as he had either already read them or found them lacking in substance.
"Well, well, I would never have expected you, Zabini, to come looking for me," Harry responded with a sly blink, observing the fidgeting boy before him.
"Yeah, well, somebody's got to do it," Blaise retorted, attempting to maintain a facade of strength. Harry clicked his tongue disapprovingly, allowing his hand to trail down a book spine as he continued his nonchalant examination.
"I presume we must attend the Halloween feast?" Harry noted, slipping his tiny leather book into his robe pocket. He gently capped his ink and slid his quill into one of the boxes labeled 'used quills.'
Harry registered the silence that lingered in the wake of his statement. Respect, he mused, was always a valuable commodity. The two figures strolled down the hall in silence. Blaise shot a few furtive glances at Harry when he thought he wasn't looking, but the keen-eyed wizard caught each one. The unspoken tension between them seemed to hang in the air, a subtle dance of observation and guarded intrigue as they made their way to the Halloween feast.
The Great Hall's doors stood open, a few students dashing in to secure their seats at the tables. Above, the enchanted ceiling mimicked the night sky, complete with a matching full moon. Swarms of bats flitted about, weaving through the air before swirling back into a massive pumpkin Jack-O'-Lantern suspended overhead. Another pumpkin, not levitated by magic, was being slowly dragged across the floor.
Harry observed with curiosity as skeletal horses, adorned in eerie harnesses, strained against the invisible forces propelling them forward. The pumpkin in tow inched its way to a corner where several small stands awaited, ready to support its weight.
"Wow, what charms do you think they used to make that thing move?" Blaise whispered, careful not to let the Gryffindors overhear.
"They didn't use any," Harry muttered back under his breath, his eyes fixed on the peculiar spectacle, before making his way to his designated chair.
The presence of Thestrals did not go unnoticed by Harry. It seemed characteristic of the gamekeeper to keep such enigmatic creatures around. Thestrals offered a swift and efficient means of transporting objects, and if tamed, they became excellent steeds for travel. The subtle interplay of magical creatures and enchantments added a layer of intrigue to the already festive atmosphere in the Great Hall as Halloween night unfolded.
Harry seamlessly slid into his customary seat, strategically positioned near the back and what passed for the 'head' of the Slytherin table. It was a place of distinction, one that commanded respect, and no self-respecting Slytherin would dare encroach upon that space or sit too close unless they wished to incur the wrath of their peers.
Draco occupied the seat on Harry's right, and Theo took his place on the left. Theodore Nott had proven himself to be an invaluable ally to Harry. Tall and slender, he lacked the overt physical strength that characterized Harry, but his proficiency in potions and meticulous approach to assigned tasks earned him Harry's trust.
During a Christmas ball, a social event orchestrated by Harry's father, Harry had encountered Theo without the latter knowing his true identity at the time. It was an incidental meeting that would later prove significant, fostering a connection between them that extended beyond the confines of mere camaraderie. The intricacies of Slytherin politics and alliances were woven into the fabric of their interactions, forming a complex tapestry of trust, allegiance, and the ever-present undercurrent of hidden motives.
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