Gabriel and the Duelling Club II

…

The phantom weight on Harry Potter's shoulders, the pounding of his heart, the lead in his stomach, vanished all at once. Merlin, he thought as he took off the hat, that was close. He walked over to the Hufflepuff table, trying to ignore the swell of exclamations that shook the hall - and the rather put-out looks from the other houses, especially the Gryffindors. The cheers were the loudest cheers yet.

He took a place beside the boy from earlier - the one with the pale eyes. Professor McGonagall had called him 'Hopkins, Wayne'. They exchanged smiles. "Hello," Harry said, easing himself onto the bench. The surface beneath him was varnished wood, but cushioning charms provided some flex to the timber.

"Hiya," the boy replied. "I'm Wayne. And you're nobody."

His unsettling eyes glanced meaningfully between the watching students and the teacher's table. All the attention of the hall was centred on their corner of the Hufflepuff table.

Harry laughed, but felt his smile slip slightly. What would it be like to be just another wizard? "I'm sure they'll get used to me."

Wayne opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a lanky Hufflepuff with a golden 'P' badge pinned to his robes. He'd paced down from his place at the table to talk to him - to the Boy-Who-Lived. He shook Harry's hand and gave him an earnest, excitable smile. "Great to meet you Potter, I'm Dennis Falkirk, great to meet you! If you need anything, anything at all, I'm here!"

Then he walked off back to his seat as though he'd not just made a nuisance of himself in the middle of the sorting ceremony.

Harry watched him leave, now a little pensive. "They'll… they'll definitely get used to me."

Surely, the next seven years wouldn't be like that?

"It's not like you're the only notable person at Hogwarts," Wayne offered. "Just ask Susan."

Harry followed his gesture, and saw the same red-headed girl from earlier. How hadn't he seen her when he sat? Her hair was like a scarlet lighthouse. Susan's cheeks were matching said hair. "Wayne…"

"What?" Wayne grinned. "You don't have to boast about your manor, but it's still there."

Susan squirmed at the attention.

"A manor house?" Said the boy to Harry's right. He had curly brown hair and an accent that could've cut glass. "I thought wizards preferred castles?"

"Some do," another butted in. He was slightly chubby, blonde, and sitting beside Susan. "But not all. Myself and Susan's families built manors when it became the fashion."

"And you are?"

"Ernie Macmillan." He offered his hand, and the brown-haired boy took it.

"Justin Finch-Fletchley."

Macmillan nodded. "Muggleborn?"

There was an unsubtle squaring of Finch-Fletchley's jaw. Not that he had much of one, being eleven. "Yes. My family had my name down at Eton before I got my letter - what a surprise! Mother wasn't sure about it all, thought it was a trick, but Father convinced her."

In the background, almost forgotten, 'Turpin, Lisa' was announced as a Ravenclaw.

"A good choice," Macmillan said, lowering his voice as he heard the Hat's cry. "If you'd refused Hogwarts' offer, you still have to train to be a wizard - it'd be dangerous to leave an untrained wizard running around. But Hogwarts might not've re-enrolled you." He shuddered theatrically. "Then you'd have had to go to one of the other schools."

"Other schools? What other schools?"

"Not everyone can afford to go to Hogwarts you know," Macmillan said pompously. "There are other schools."

Finch-Fletchley sniffed. "I'm sure my parents could afford Hogwarts, even with the wizarding gold standard."

Despite their attempts to be quiet, they were, slowly, animating themselves against each other (or was it just enthusiasm?). Harry watched them, glad to be forgotten himself. He barely noticed when someone called 'Weasley, Ron' was sorted in Gryffindor.

"Of course," Macmillan patronised. "What do they do?"

"My father's a commodities trader," Finch-Fletchley said - boasted, really. Harry didn't know what a commodities trader was. "Mother manages our properties - big houses mostly, in London."

Whatever that meant, it made Macmillan's expression light up. "Big houses? We own a London house - though not anything a Muggle could see, of course. How many do you have?"

Finch-Fletchley made an unhappy face. "Mhmm, about a dozen. Mother wants to buy another while prices are depressed by the war*, but Father isn't so sure."

It didn't take Harry long to figure out what he meant by 'the war'. Even Harry in his cupboard had heard of Saddam Hussein. Uncle Vernon had practically ranted about 'rag-heads' and madmen every time his face appeared on the television. What he had to do with the price of London housing stock, he couldn't even guess.

Just as he was reminiscing, 'Zabini, Blaise' was sorted into Slytherin and Professor McGonagall took the Sorting Hat - and the stool - away.

At the clicking of her boots, Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley stilled like startled prey. But it was not only those two. The whole student body felt it at once, and a hush came across the hall as though it were a moor at mid-winter.

He could not quite explain why afterwards, but Harry felt a compulsion to raise his gaze to the teacher's table. There he saw Hagrid, and that strange man Professor Quirrell - the other Quirinus - and a few others he didn't recognise. But his eyes weren't drawn to Hagrid's vast size, or Professor Quirrell's odd turban, but to a regal figure in the most prominent chair.

Him he recognised. From collectable cards, from sketches on pamphlets, and from drawings in books. Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood tall, his arms held out wide, his silver beard shining. Harry worked hard to take him in. He was a legend. The greatest wizard of the age, the kind produced only once a generation.

And most importantly to Harry, he'd fought the duel of the century against the Dark wizard Grindelwald in a combat so fierce it had shaken a mountain. What had that been like, he wondered? How far was the gap between men like Auror Kneen and Montague, and figures like Dumbledore and Grindelwald?

Perhaps a hundred feet separated him and Dumbledore just then, but it felt like a chasm. Harry felt his hand twitching toward his wand. He was at the best school in Britain, he had all the time in the world, and no distractions. It was so exciting!

"Welcome," said the great man. He was beaming merrily, as though he truly couldn't be happier to see them all. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak! Thank you!"

Without further ado, Dumbledore sat back down.

Harry blinked. What was that? A collectable card he'd once read had called Albus Dumbledore - what was the word? Eccentric? His mind flew to a flyer he'd picked up, which had criticised the Ministries' import-export policy (Harry had barely understood a word of it, but knew that the piece blamed Dumbledore). That had used less… kind phrases of description.

Finch-Fletchley too was looking at the Headmaster, bewildered. "Is he- was that?"

"A mad touch?" Macmillan chuckled. It made him look like a blonde squirrel. "The best ones always are a bit - you know."

Just then, the empty golden plates on the tables filled with food. After the startling surprise, what first hit him was the smell. He'd never been so aware of the aroma of food before. One minute there was nothing, the next a cornucopia of roast chicken, roast beef, roast pork and lamb. Vegetables were piled high beside roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. Most of all, the steaming, mouth-watering scent of gravy hung over the hall like a delicious, invisible cowl.

The dishes weren't as exotic as those at Halt End, but Harry had never seen so much food before. How many House Elves, Harry wondered, served the Hogwarts' kitchens? He was quick to discard the thought, and dug in eagerly, taking a bit of everything; and everything was scrumptious.

Finch-Fletchley and McMillan, meanwhile, continued to converse. Their animosity continued to diminish, as they contrasted and compared the Muggle and magical worlds. Harry was content to listen, along with Hopkins and Susan. The only significant interruption occurred when Susan cried out, dropping her daintily held fork. It fell straight through the tonsured head of a friar, whose ghostly apparition had just risen through the table-top.

"Good evening," the ghost said amicably.

Susan stared back. "Um, eh, g-good evening?" she squeaked like a mouse.

"I'm Simon," the friar said, spinning in place to include them all. His eyes lingered on Harry. "But many call me the Fat Friar! I mind not!" He patted his rotund stomach, which wobbled even as a ghost. "I didn't mind my food when I was alive, I tell you now! On Epiphany*, Annunciation, and Paschal month, I showed my faith by food!"

He laughed a generous laugh, his jowls jiggling, and floated off.

Harry watched him leave. Was that normal for ghosts? He'd only met the Deacon, who wasn't even the Deacon. He'd been scary, but the Fat Friar… the Fat Friar was just a man. He scanned the hall for other ghosts. About a dozen were floating about. Most were talking to each other, or to students. One was chatting to Professor McGonagall. She didn't seem very impressed with whatever he was saying.

At the Gryffindor table a spectacularly dressed ghost was displaying his half severed neck, tipping his head as though it were a hat. Harry blanched as the younger Gryffindors exclaimed in disgust. He turned toward the Slytherins. At the head of their table, a mediaeval figure sat silently, staring seemingly into the nothingness…

Or whatever he could see that mortals couldn't. He was covered in blood.

"The Bloody Baron," Hopkins chimed in, following his gaze.

Blood was dripping down his tunic, dripping, then vanishing before it hit the floor in an eternal stream.

"I've read about him," Harry said distantly. Whose blood was it?

"Hogwarts, A History? We've shared the same reading material."

When the students had eaten their fill, and Harry was feeling his eyes begin to droop, the remains of the meal disappeared. In its place, dessert popped into place. The mere sight of ice cream, rice pudding, and treacle tart dispelled the onrushing spell of sleep.

Harry decided that the ice cream was almost as good as Mr Bellows', while Finch-Fletchley and McMillian were still talking about business. For a while he listened to them discuss the difficulties currency conversion between the Muggle and wizarding world (apparently, Muggle money was almost worthless to a wizard) until he grew bored.

Hopkins was talking to a lanky boy to his left, and he had no chance of joining the young entrepreneurs in their shared lecture, so Harry looked across to Susan. She was eating strawberry ice cream tactfully with a delicate silver spoon.

"Susan," he began… then paused, as she glanced up at him. What did he even mean to say? "What… how… do you have any relatives in Hufflepuff?"

"My aunt was a Hufflepuff," she said softly, then added; "she doesn't talk about it much."

Well that didn't sound too great. "Do you think she didn't enjoy it?"

That made Susan smile - which, like her tone of voice and her demeanour, was characteristically restrained. "Oh no, she's just a private person. I think it helps her with her job."

Harry finished another spoon of ice cream, then licked his lips carefully. Susan was so lady-like, he was becoming very conscious that he should avoid messiness himself. "Is she someone important?"

The red-haired girl drew herself up in her seat proudly. She practically glowed. "Oh yes, she's the head of the DMLE. I think she knows the name of every Auror in the country!"

It was not a difficult acronym for Harry to place. The DMLE was the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where Aurors were the elite - the closest thing magical Britain had to an army. If Susan's aunt knew all their names… "Has your aunt ever spoken about Auror Kneen?"

She bit her lip. "I- I think so. I've seen him a few times, I think. Dark hair, tanned, very… focused?"

Focused was a polite way of describing the man from Harry's judgement. Intense, stern, coldly passionate - those would be his terms. "I saw him apprehend Eu- a- a criminal in Diagon Alley once."

"Was it scary?"

Harry shook his head, recalling that mesmeric dance. "It was inspiring. I-" He paused. Could he admit to such a grand ambition? What if he turned out to be rubbish, what if… But Susan's wide grey eyes were watching him patiently. He got the feeling she'd never laugh at him. "I want to be a duellist."

Harry finished off his ice cream, then savoured the final tiny piece of treacle tart he'd been saving. He must've been one of the last to finish eating, because the remains of the deserts vanished when he put his spoon down.

He heard Susan let out a surprised 'oh!' as what must've been an imperial ton of ice cream disappeared before their eyes.

Once more, the Headmaster stood; and the hall grew silent. "Ahem - just a few more words now that we have all been fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few more of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

His eyes flashed, for but a moment toward somewhere particular at the Gryffindor table.

"I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.

"And finally, I should tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Before Halt End, Harry might've laughed. Now he just stared out at the other faces at the Hufflepuff table, looking for some echo of humour in the older students. There was none.

"And now, before we go, let us sing the school song!"

Thereafter, there was an assault on Harry's ears as, in the Headmaster's own words, everyone 'picked their favourite tune' and proceeded to sing a silly little jitty in a thousand different melodies, keys and beats. Two red-haired twins at the Gryffindor table were the last to finish.

"Ah, music," Headmaster Dumbledore said. "A magic beyond all we do here. And now, bedtime, off you trot!"

While the older students dithered, a few of them - all with shiny 'P' badges pinned to their robes - were standing up and making their way over to the first years. Dennis Falkirk was one of them. "First years, this way!" he called, echoing Hagrid in the strangest way. "First years, this way!"

Harry and the rest of the First Years weaved their way to Falkirk and his female counterpart - who, bizarrely, looked like a female version of him. Wearing the same robes (well, not exactly the same robes), with the same curly hair, square-rimmed glasses and earnest smiles, they might've been siblings. They could be siblings, Harry thought.

Falkirk led them past the tables and through the main entrance, whose door could fit at least four Hagrid's under its arch. That led them to a long gallery which split off to their left and right. Light dappled from stained glass windows, illuminating countless paintings on the hall-side wall.

Harry's jaw dropped. The wall was festooned - he couldn't see an inch of bare stone. Canvas and frame filled half his vision. How many essences were captured here? How many stories? How often did people even talk to the upper-level paintings, which were well above head height?

He didn't get the chance to examine them. The prefects took them down the gallery and made a right. Another long corridor greeted them. Here the air was cooler; the clatter of the raucous feast was fading, and Harry breathed in a long breath. His legs felt like jelly. Only away from the noise, the people - the stares - did he realise just how exhausting the feast had been. All those eyes watching him, all that movement…

He was used to his cupboard, the quiet streets of Little Whinging and, as of late, the plush calm of number ten, the Leaky Cauldron.

Eventually, Falkirk and his female counterpart led them down a tight, twisting staircase. That brought the First Years to a landing. Great casks lined the walls. This, Harry thought, had to be the basement. Hogwarts, A History located the Hufflepuff dorm thence.

Falkirk strode over to a particularly vast barrel. "Watch carefully," he said. Then he tapped the barrel with his wand in time to 'Hel-ga Huff-le-puff'. He stepped away. Nothing happened for a long moment, during which many of the First Years were looking at him askance. But slowly, silently, the head of the barrel swung open.

Inside was perhaps the comfiest space Harry had ever seen. Like the entrance, the room was round, and reminded him distinctly of a wheel of cheese. If cheese were soft and squishy, and emanated that sort of deep warmth that made you want to fall asleep. Everything was yellow. The sofas dotted around the room were yellow; the little balls hanging from the ceiling were yellow. Even the tables were painted yellow. Not a bright yellow of course, but the sort of yellow that was edging into bronze or gold.

And everything that wasn't yellow was black - including the views from the little round portholes set high up in the ceiling. The night was well underway, and the reminder made Harry want to yawn.

In the centre of the room, stood an open brazier, which burned merrily. Its smoke was spun into a little tornado by a strange contraption in the ceiling, which itself slowly rotated.

"Welcome to the Hufflepuff Common Room," Falkirk's female double (sibling? clone?) announced brightly. "We've got sofas you could get lost in, chairs that have more give than a sea sponge, and the tables…"

"... Are just tables," Falkirk smiled his earnest smile. "Sorry, Melissa's mouth sometimes outpaces her thoughts. Anyway, through that door on the left is the boy's dormitory, and through that door on the right's the girls. Obviously, the girl's door won't open for a boy and vice versa."

It was Falkirk's turn to trail off this time.

"And don't mess with Spinner," Melissa pointed to the contraption sucking up the smoke. It, Harry noticed, was one of the few objects not black or yellow (being, in fact, silver) and was itself slowly rotating. "Last time it took ages to get the smell of smoke out."

"Yes," Falkirk said sourly. "Indeed." Then he brightened. "Well, off to bed now!"

Harry was only too eager to make for the boy's dormitory.

...

...

As it turned out, the pair of prefects had actually forgotten to tell them a lot, as the First Years soon discovered to their pain the next day. Since the dormitories themselves were set down another flight of spiralling stairs - and therefore totally below the ground - simulated sunlight would descend from the ceiling of the shared dormitory (which was also round) each day. It was strong enough to shine through the curtains.

It was therefore the source of a dozen groaning, moaning, unhappy boys - except for Harry that is, who was accustomed to early mornings. He was already up, practising giswiftēn movements behind the curtains of his four-poster bed. By now they'd become a routine - something almost meditative.

He could not help but chuckle at the pained groans of his new schoolmates. About fifteen minutes later, he'd ascended the stairs to the Common Room. He was greeted by the stares of half a dozen older students, who were sitting around a (predictably) round table. They'd been talking in quiet murmurs - at least until Harry had arrived. At once, they'd turned to look at him.

Squaring himself, Harry did his best to ignore their observations. Perhaps they were just surprised to see a First Year up so early? He repeated that obvious lie a few times until he arrived at a squashy armchair, where he sat, opened his satchel, and did his best to focus on Tricks to Ensnare and Tips for Victory.

Soon the older students' quiet conversation began again, and he felt the pricking stares divert away. Harry felt himself relax into the overstuffed chair. Tips and Tricks was discussing a classification of duellist the anonymous author called 'the sly ones'. According to the book, these were witches and wizards who preferred guile and deception to defeat their opponents. It was not a kind description, but the author wasn't castigating; at least to him, trickery was just another valid way of winning.

Which, Harry supposed dryly, made sense, considering the title of the book… Stranger was the book's recommendation for countering 'the sly ones' - identifying them before the contest began. He advised researching an opponent's reputation beforehand if possible. If these were not possible, he continued, then examining the opponent's bearing, their face*, and their wand was a suitable contingency. All that seemed a little far-fetched to Harry, but he was interrupted before he could pick fault.

Susan was tip-toeing toward him. "Hello," she said softly. She was standing awkwardly by a chair, as if unsure whether he'd recognise yesterday's acquaintance. Harry smiled his most reassuring smile - or tried to, at least. He knew that feeling well. How many times had he thought he'd made a friend, only to wonder the next day if Dudley had scared him off?

"Good morning Susan," he said. "Is no one else up in your dorm either?"

Susan shook her head, her long-plaited hair swinging behind her. "No, but Melissa forgot to tell us about the Hake light."

Hake light must've been the proper name for that fake sunlight. Harry shrugged, and made sure to look at the chair beside him. "All the best seats for us then."

She took the seat gladly. "I think they're all comfy. What're you reading?"

Gingerly, Harry handed her his book. Susan handled it equally carefully. "This is odd," she said, examining the spine. "No author?"

"None I can find." Harry measured his words carefully. "It's borrowed from a library. I found it on a shelf everyone seemed to have forgotten about."

It was not a total lie. He did find it at a library - the library of the Rosier's of Halt End, rather than one of the Mutual Libraries as Susan might suppose. Lady Rosier had given it to him as a token of appreciation. It had meant a lot at the time, considering the jealously with which the wizarding world guarded their knowledge. Just then, watching Susan flick through the book, he realised the gift was poisoned. How had he returned it, if not with betrayal?

But she betrayed the Rosier's first, Harry told himself. He took the tome back almost reluctantly, and forgot to feel sorry that he'd lied to Susan.

"That's more like someone's notes than a real book," Susan said. "Like a collection of notes."

Harry returned it to his satchel. He'd think the book over later. "Are you an early riser too?"

Susan didn't appear to notice the clumsy attempt at changing the subject. "My aunt always says that the early morning has gold in its mouth*."

Aunt Petunia was responsible for his waking routine too, but Harry suspected the two aunts had entirely different motivations for their discipline. Susan spoke about her aunt in glowing terms, while Aunt Petunia… Well, the less said the better. He'd never been abused, but neglect stung enough.

While Harry was ruminating, Susan pulled out a book of her own and began to read. Harry mirrored her, swapping over to his charms textbook. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, exchanging occasional words but otherwise focusing on their respective books.

The older students left the Common Room together, while yet more members of Hufflepuff House filtered in from their dormitories. Hopkins was one of the first, then a girl Harry thought was called Abbot, then a boy called Jorkins. Justin Finch-Fletchley and Ernie McMillan arrived last.

None of them really knew what to do. The night before, they'd been told to wait in the Common Room. They hadn't been told why, or for how long. It was awkward to sit waiting while other students were filtering out to their classes. It was more awkward to sit with their fellow first years. No one knew each other.

To pass the time, Harry began to observe his classmates. Finch-Fletchley and McMillan were getting on like two peas in a pod, albeit two peas with over-inflated heads. Then again, if peas had heads, they were only heads, weren't they? Hopkins was sitting on his own, his strange blue eyes shining in the light of the fire. More than once they caught each other's eye, sharing the same thought: you're watching me, and I'm watching you, and we're both watching each other.

Otherwise, the First Years seemed to split into four groups. First into boys and girls, that was obvious. The second split took Harry a long time to figure out, though the answer was right in front of him all the time. Specifically, it was right at his feet - or, their feet. Two of the groups were made, in part, of students dressed in Muggle shoes. The other group universally wore the supple wizarding boots common to robes.

It was intriguing, Harry thought, that they'd all filter themselves until they formed groups with common backgrounds. It hadn't even taken a full day. Did that bode badly for the next seven years? Harry couldn't even guess. How were Muggleborns integrated into magical society?

"Hullo my dears," said a prim and pleasant voice. It almost made Harry jump out of his chair. In the corner of his eye, he saw Hopkins smirk. Harry glared back half-heartedly, then turned to the woman who could only be his head of house.

Pomona Sprout was, in a single word, earthy. In the literal sense, her grey-green robes were stained with dirt; the outline of where she'd been kneeling was obvious. Harry couldn't really expect less from a Herbology professor.

Yet what wasn't entirely expected were her well-formed laughter lines, enhanced by her radiant tan, or the little smudge of dirt on the tip of her nose that spoke of a certain dottiness. Wavy greying hair sat, pleasantly dishevelled, above her earnestly smiling face. In a word: earthy.

"You must be my new first years," she said primly, examining them all with a keen eye. "Oh, how wonderful! Lovely to have you all here!" Her cheerful eyes narrowed. "No one is sleeping in, are they?"

The First Years shared significant looks and, cautiously, shook their heads.

"Good, good. May I be the second - no, third person to welcome you all to Hufflepuff House! First, the rules; they're simple and short, so I'll keep it simple and short. Always put your best wand forward, don't be afraid to mix with the other houses, and no bullying."

The latter command was said with such a stern tone that Harry suddenly felt the desire to stand a little straighter.

"Though Ravenclaws are renowned for their academic work, this is a school, is it not? Hufflepuff have produced some of the greatest witches and wizards of our history - and they've all had help. No man is an army - except perhaps our own Headmaster Dumbledore-" Here she let out a chuckle that sounded like two rocks grinding together. "-So you all mustn't think you've got to do it alone!

"That goes for the other houses too. This is a school, not a four-way Quidditch game! The House Cup is for the fun of it, not a matter to prioritise over friendship - which is not to say we don't have our pride!

"The last rule is certainly not for fun."

Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet. He felt as though he'd been dipped headfirst in cold water. Was this even the same woman?

"Any ill-hearted mischief, terrorising or intimidation will be strongly discouraged. After all, the greenhouses always need cleaning, don't they?"

She let the thought drift through the air like an evil odour. Facts about Hogwart's vast greenhouses jumped straight from Hogwarts, A History into Harry's mind. The number of flowering trees, the total acreage they covered, the tons of gnome-mulch employed as fertiliser…

"Do you all understand?"

The Hufflepuffs shared another glance. "Yes Professor Sprout."

Professor Sprout beamed, gesturing with a grubby hand. "Good, good. Now, all of you off, off to charms! This is a school, is it not?"

The First Years filed out of the Common Room, a little bit pleased, a little bit fearful, and more than a little bit bemused.

...

...

Bemusement turned to surreality for a while, a sensation to which Harry had become somewhat used to since that first owl delivered his Hogwarts letter back in the summer. He'd dreamed of walking the halls of the school, studying magic in her classes, and staring out at the Highlands from the tip of the tallest tower. Until now, Harry's imagination had always remained in his head. The reality of reality therefore made reality barely believable.

And what a reality! Even getting to his first class - Charms - turned out to be a minor adventure in and of itself. There were one hundred and forty two staircases in Hogwarts - and all of them moved. Some would shift at a right angle at random, others led to doorways that opened to different places each day. A few even circled around themselves forever like one of those trick Muggle paintings. Ernie Macmillan got caught in one of those on his third day and ended up collapsing in a pool of his own sweat.

Nor did the inhabitants make the school any smoother to navigate. Ghosts could pop out anywhere, at any time - from any wall or ceiling and at the most inopportune moments. Sometimes Harry thought they did it on purpose, and ran their own schemes to better scare the students. They were for the most part very different to the Deacon of Halt End (not that the Deacon was the Deacon, but that was beside the point).

Susan in particular was very frightened by Nearly Headless Nick, when she looked up from her Charms homework to see him peering at her work over her shoulder. His long nose was inches away from her face. Her scream was the loudest sound Harry had ever heard her make.

Worse, apparently, were Argus Filch, the old caretaker, and his cat, Mrs Norris. Harry had been fortunate enough not to cross paths with them yet.

Charms, as it turned out, was both delightful and disappointing. Professor Flitwick, a tiny little figure of a wizard, stood atop a pile of books to better lecture his classes. The first time he'd read Harry's name off the register he'd squeaked, swivelled, and promptly fell off his perch.

Not only did he have great comedic timing, but the professor was also an able wizard of great wit and intelligence, and a great talent for teaching. But his first classes were also comedically simple.

The contents of his first class Harry had learned a month ago at the beginning of his self-study. It became even more ridiculous when the practical section arrived, about half the class pretended not to know how to cast Wingardium Leviosa - a basic levitation charm.

Harry looked at Susan knowingly. She was staring down at a white feather on her desk. She was supposed to levitate it into the air. Of course, the Trace wouldn't detect Susan casting spells in her manor house… And reading Charms theory before the age of eleven wasn't illegal.

Her unimpressed expression, set on her cherubic, faintly freckled features, was hilarious. Harry couldn't help but comment. "Having difficulty Susan?"

She turned to him, pouting. There was a mockering of anger in her eyes, which soon turned to mischief.

Over her shoulder, Harry saw a Ravenclaw boy with curly brown hair scowling at his wand. "Wing-ardium Levi-osa," he said firmly. Nothing happened. His scowl deepened.

Meanwhile, Susan casted; "Wingardium Leviosa."

A moment later, the feather was tickling Harry's nose. He swiped ineffectually at it. "Pfherr- gerrof!"

Harry laughed as Susan manoeuvred the feather away from his grasping hands. Behind her, the Ravenclaw boy looked like he was going to snap. Something broke across his features though, and he sighed instead, looking forlornly at his own, static, feather.

What was his name again? Jorkins? Harry plucked Susan's feather right out the sky. "Wait," he said, nodding to the Ravenclaw.

Susan turned. "Oh," she said. But she did not immediately go to him, and Harry wouldn't have expected anything else. He'd not known her for long, but he did know that Susan was shy. The problem was, so was Harry. If he hadn't forced himself to go to Rosier's Trifles, he never would've made friends with Hercules. Similarly, if he hadn't gotten into that boat, he wouldn't have spoken to Susan…

Harry frowned. It was painful to watch Jorkins (?) irritation, especially when he could help. On the other hand, he really didn't want to approach someone he didn't know, especially someone his own age… But Professor Flitwick was on the other side of the classroom, and the Ravenclaw was only getting more annoyed.

Come on Harry, he told himself, it wouldn't be like before, you're the Boy-Who-Lived. The legend was almost universally loved, and for a moment the thought lightened his mood - at least until he recalled the exceptions. But would a family member of a Death Eater not know Wingardium Leviosa by the time they were eleven?

Biting the bullet (or was that biting the spell? No, that sounded awful), Harry approached Jorkins (?). "Hello," he said lamely. "Are you okay?"

Jorkins (?) jumped. He'd still been staring angrily at his feather. "No," he said harshly. "No, no. I'm sorry." He gestured to the room. "Everyone else is, you know, getting their feathers moving, and I'm just- just-" He blinked. He finally saw who he was speaking to. "Wait, you're…"

Harry struggled not to blush. "Someone has to be."

He definitely hadn't worked on that joke.

"Ah, uh, sorry. I'm Alan Jorkins." He smiled sheepishly and held out his hand.

Harry took it, studying his face. He had eyes the colour of steel, and looked older than his age. Some girls, he knew, would already call him handsome, with his defined chin and sunken cheekbones.

"Harry Potter," Harry said. "Or Nobody, as one of my housemates calls me."

Jorkins laughed. "Must be a funny chap. I suppose the great Harry Potter has come over here to teach us mortals how to do magic?"

His tone was light, and Harry mirrored his sheepish smile. "Not all magic, just this spell. I leave conjuring lightning to the Headmaster. Oh, and this is Susan Bones by the way."

He gestured over his shoulder, where Susan was almost hiding.

"Hi," she said quietly.

Jorkins nodded back, grinning. "Susan the nose-tickler."

A genuine burst of laughter left Susan's mouth, and with it all the tension drained from her shoulders.

"Don't let the spell worry you," Harry said. "After all, the people who've successfully cast it all have something in common…"

Jorkins took the bait, casting his eyes around the room. He had a very expressive face; you could almost see the gears turning. "They're all Purebloods or Half-bloods."

"Yep. The Trace doesn't work in magical areas, and they've had years to read magical literature."

"That's not fair."

Harry shrugged. He was right - it wasn't fair, but neither of them could do anything about that now. "I agree. All we can do is play catch up."

"We?"

"I didn't know about the wizarding world until a month ago, but someone tipped me off about the Trace pretty quickly. I've been staying at Diagon Alley ever since."

Jorkins looked flabbergasted. Probably because he'd just revealed that The-Boy-Who-Lived grew up a Muggle. "So, you stayed at Diagon Alley because…"

To break the law, Harry thought, in more than one way, thinking of the Lightspeed buried in his trunk. "I can't really say, can I?"

"Suppose not," Jorkins said. "Thanks for the tip though, I'll remember it."

Susan, finally, chose that moment to pipe up. "Wait," she said, in that customary quiet, breathy tone. "Jorkins is a Pureblood name. You- you should already know all this."

Jorkins grimaced. "It's… it's a long story. My parents were- you know- they didn't make it out of the war, and I ended up with Muggles." His smile grew strained. "I'm a 'Pureblood Muggleborn'."

Susan's face told Harry she thought that was a fate worse than death. "Oh," she breathed. "That's terrible. Have you talked, you know, with your family since -since you came back to the wizarding world?"

"Another long story."

Harry didn't judge himself the most socially able, but even he could sense they were treading to sensitive ground. He and Susan shared a look. "Another time then," he said. It was not a subtle change of subject. "Let's get this feather in the air."

Jorkins smiled in relief and gestured with his wand in a way most wizards would consider too close to en minaciae . As Susan launched into an explanation of Wingardium Leviosa and the theory behind it, Harry began to realise that they'd have time later to tell him about that too. It seemed that they'd made a friend.

They shared Transfiguration with Ravenclaw, a class Harry had been looking forward to ever since he'd read the introduction to A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch, Hogwarts' designated First Year textbook. The first few pages were littered with inspirational examples of complex and large-scale transfigurations - on one end, turning a whistle into a ticking pocket-watch, and on the other, transfiguring a slab of limestone into a colossal stained glass window. Transfiguration was truly a powerful technique.

Harry's thoughts, of course, had immediately sprang to duelling. How difficult would it be to turn inane objects into weapons to be propelled at the opponent? Would it be possible to transfigure an object into a shield fast enough to block a spell?

Switch had also warned of the subject's dangers, so Harry had restrained himself from practising. It had not prevented him from studying the theory, which could be mind-bending at times. The author had even teased the possibility of conjuring material from nothing. When asked, Falkirk had told him they wouldn't approach that technique until the Fifth Year at the very earliest.

The lesson itself was similarly humbling. Professor McGonagall was as strict as she looked, and reiterated the dangers of transfiguration in her clipped Scottish tone. Her stern warnings made Harry feel slightly queasy, but the lesson itself was disappointingly simple. After transfiguring her desk into a pig, she handed out matches, lectured for a while (most of which Harry, thankfully, understood) then asked them to change their matches into needles. By the lesson's end, Harry's match was thinner, pointier and shone with a metallic sheen. Frustratingly, it could not be called a needle - but then again, no one else had seemed to have so much as touched their match. Susan and Alan were looking very frustrated.

The most interesting part of the lesson came when Jacob Smythe, a rather lofty-looking boy, asked why witches and wizards didn't simply transfigure everything they required out of pebbles or stones or other odds and ends. If it was possible to make a transfiguration permanent (as they'd briefly been told it was), then what, he said, was the point of the wizarding seamstresses he'd seen in Diagon Alley? Susan had rolled her eyes at that, but to Harry it was a very good point, and one he was surprised he hadn't considered himself. Alan too seemed intrigued.

"This," Professor McGongall began, "is a two-fold issue. First, it is a side-effect of Hermeric's Law of Incongruity. So named after Hermeric, who soon discovered, after the advent of the wand and its transfigurative powers, the bonds that bind transfigured objects are most dissimilar to those of mundane objects - mundane, in this case, referring to a non-transfigured object. A 'mundane object' may still be magical in essence.

"We witches and wizards can sense the strangeness of a transfigured object - and even muggles may notice something off about them. A transfigured robe is uncomfortable to wear, and may react in unpredictable ways with the Generalis Aura* - that is, the magic of the air. A transfigured post holding up a house, may one day decide to explode entirely of its own accord. Nor would this post hold the characteristics of the timber it was transfigured to emulate.

"Moreover, the magic required to induce permanence in a transfiguration is vast. In most cases, it is more sensible to cut down a tree for the post. You may substitute whatever example you wish. Does that answer your question, Mr. Smythe?"

It certainly wiped the haughty smirk of Smythe's face.

That monologue alone made Harry's first Transfiguration class more entertaining than Herbology. Maybe it was Edward that'd put him off, or maybe Aunt Petunia and her gardening, or maybe it was the knowledge that Herbology couldn't be used in duelling, but Harry found the class intensely… boring. Professor Sprout was just as straightforward, just as kind, and just as quietly terrifying as he'd first thought, but no amount of kindness could make him enjoy cropping the gross fungi they'd been given.

In fact, the only noteworthy event in Herbology was his run-in with the pale boy from Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. After Halt End, that seemed a lifetime ago. He introduced himself as Draco Malfoy, and this time Harry took the moment to properly study him.

His clearest, most immediate impression was of wealth and pride - wizard's pride, the sort of raiment Ernie Macmillan clothed himself in, not his muggle-born friend Justin Finch-Fletchley. Malfoy was tall for his age, with slicked-back hair as pale as his skin which emphasised his piercing blue eyes. They were looking at Harry with an emotion he couldn't quite pick-out.

He was flanked by two thickset boys who towered over them both, even the taller Malfoy. Harry couldn't have found any distinct emotion in their eyes if he'd looked for a week.

Harry took Malfoy's outstretched hand. "Harry Potter," he said, then added jokingly; "not that you didn't know."

Malfoy smirked. "Nice to meet you Potter. The well-born should stick together, don't you think?" He eyed Susan, who did not look back. "I think I can see you agree."

Harry let go of Malfoy's hand. He wasn't trying to be rude. They'd shook hands for long enough, and he'd felt his heart begin to race. He didn't want Malfoy to feel it through his palm. It didn't solve his problem though. After all, what did he say to that? People were listening; if he agreed, they'd think he was a snob. If he disagreed, then he'd injure Malfoy's pride and probably anger him. Harry didn't want to upset anybody.

"I can see where you're coming from," Harry eventually replied. He did his best to keep his voice level. "But I've just been…" He searched for the most abstract word he could find. "Reintroduced to the wizarding world. I'm still finding my feet. Before I find my place, I think I need to look around first."

He eyed Malfoy's friends by way of implication.

"Too true," the Slytherin chuckled, glancing at the large boys he'd introduced as Crabbe and Goyle. "Could we perhaps see you at the Slytherin table one day for lunch, to help you find this place?"

Harry swallowed. He'd not been at Hogwarts long, but knew what Malfoy was asking. Slytherin was looked upon with suspicion. A low-level suspicion, for the most part, but an exception might be made for the Boy-Who-Lived… "Maybe one day," Harry said. "But I should settle in first. I'm afraid my appearance over there could cause a ruckus."

Malfoy acquiesced to his reasoning and returned to his fungi.

Harry had let out a long breath and did the same.

Only for Susan to elbow him in the ribs. "Do you know who that is?" She whispered angrily.

Harry blinked, rubbing his sternum. It was strange to see her so animated. "A bit," he whispered back. "I'm sure you know more than me."

"That's the son of Lucius Malfoy. His father's the leader of the Gampist Party - a Death Eater Harry, a Death Eater!"

Her whisper had grown so loud that Hannah Abbott looked over at them, alarmed. She'd probably heard the words 'Death' and 'Eater'. Harry, meanwhile, chewed over her exclamation. He'd heard of the Gampists before - in flyers mostly, but Eric had mentioned them once too. He'd said the Gampists were the Rosier family's enemy, which didn't make much sense in light of this new knowledge. Quirinus Rosier had been a Death Eater too. So why were the Rosier's and the Gampists at odds?

The contradiction was making his head hurt, so he decided to discard it and focus on the present. "I'll stay away from him then," he allowed. "But I don't really want to annoy him either. I'm practically a muggle-born too, remember? I don't know what I'm doing."

It had taken less than an hour for that fact to come out. His early ideas of hiding his ignorance were well shot-through. Susan had been horrified.

After Herbology, they'd been given time to shower. The delectably warm water soothed his body and his heart, and helped him calm down from his meeting with Malfoy. It also gave him time to muse - mostly on the nature of the shower itself. Not only was it perfect, not once wavering in temperature, but, if Hogwarts were a Muggle school, they would never have been given the time to wash, never mind take a shower. They'd be out of the door and straight to another lesson.

Instead, Harry and Susan took a gentle stroll around the grounds, met up with Alan by a quadrangle, and went to dinner. A few heads still turned to him as he wandered into the Great Hall… but as the scent of freshly baked bread hit him, and as he saw the brilliant dappling as the sun shone brightly through the stained-glass windows, Harry decided he couldn't care less about his fame. Hogwarts was wonderful.

A/N:

*It's now mostly forgotten, but the world suffered a recession in the early 90s, which led to a brief period of falling house prices in Britain. Justin Finch-Fletchley is here laying blame monocausally on Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait. Both were (are?) OPEC members, which is the reason for the rise in oil prices. Justin, of course, is eleven, and though he's clearly business-interested, he can't be expected to grasp the deeper reasons behind the recession - he's merely grabbed the headline, the cause he is aware of.

*Epiphany commemorates the baptism of Christ, while the Feast of the Annunciation celebrates the Archangel Gabriel's announcement to Mary that she would be the Mother of God, while Paschal month is an old English name for what is now called Eastertide - the broad Easter period.

*The practice of reading characteristics from the face is called physiognomy. It is an ancient idea at base, but received a scientific revisitation during the long Victorian period, during which time it became commonplace. Of course, past the epoch-line of World War II it faded from the common consciousness, as physiognomy implies that characteristics of personality and intelligence could be connected to genetics. As of late, the theory has been tentatively revived, and so far evidence has validated what is, ultimately, common collective wisdom. This is likely because genes are multi-causal - e.g. genes which affect appearance may also affect the mind and vice versa.

*An English translation of a German proverb.

*Generalis Aura can be read to mean something like 'General Air'.

Here it is, the traditional run-through of Harry's first classes at Hogwarts… or at least, half of them. After all, I write at my pace, and in detail particular to me. :)

I suppose this might be called slice-of-life, and I think that's fair. Though nothing especially dramatic happens in this chapter (excluding the brief encounter with Malfoy), I believe that occasional slice-of-life chapters are important to the weight of a long-form story like this. If I were to skip from one major plot point to the next at speed, there would be no time to savour the moments.

That aside, Harry has found his own trio… huh, and it's two boys and a girl, how about that? I wonder where I got that idea from? Who knows. Anyway, in the next chapter we'll discover the identity of Gabriel… and Harry will finally get to his purpose.

I've also received a message or two abou N. I'll look into it. Obviously, I've never done anything like that before, and I wouldn't know where to start. A Harry Potter-based Discord perhaps, where people can hang out and discuss the fandom? Chapters in advance? (that would be difficult, considering my work schedule and the amount of work that goes into each chapter). I'll take a look into it (read: I'll see what other people are doing).

I hope you had a Merry Christmas, and have a happy New Year… Which is still ongoing, right? How long does the 'New Year' period really last?

Take care,

JoustingAlchemy