THE FORSAKEN OF GRYFFINDOR
Office of the Headmaster
"You know what this conversation is about?" Dumbledore stated as Harold sat in front of the headmaster's desk at 5:30 p.m.
"How I saved a classmate from getting torn apart by a hippogryph?" Harold returned evenly.
"With the Imperius Curse," Dumbledore sighed.
"As I told Weasley, there is time for only one well-placed spell when in close quarters with such a creature," Harold maintained. "I chose one that maximized my control over the situation while minimizing the fall out."
"Minimize the fall out?" Dumbledore questioned.
"How would your soft-hearted cherubs have reacted if I tore the beast's vitals asunder with a Sectumsempra?" Harold pressed. "Decapitated it with a Detrunco? Snapped its neck with an Obfoco? Why, I suspect they would be less panicked by a Cruciatus or Abranax Curse than any of those."
"You, of all wizards, should not speak lightly of the Unforgivables," Dumbledore remarked.
"And you, Chief Warlock, should know that the Wizengamot would forgive my use of an Unforgivable against a beast in these circumstances," Harold argued. "My classmate, a member of my Hogwarts House and my own second cousin, was in mortal peril. With the only adult in the vicinity being an uneducated half-giant, I used the Imperius Curse to pacify the beast threatening my classmate's life. No lasting injury was dealt to any party involved, and no harm came to any wizard."
"Except Hagrid, perhaps, who you knocked to the ground," Dumbledore charged.
"The half-breed that never made it past third year?" Harold shrugged. "Perhaps it tripped."
Dumbledore sighed, momentarily weighed down by all 150 of his years.
"You are correct to contend that the Wizengamot would support your actions, nevermind the school board." Dumbledore acknowledged. "But everyone knows those institutions to be far more conservative than the general population. Tell me, have your actions today increased your favorability in Slytherin?"
"The pretend power jockeys know they cannot control me, and are sowing whatever seeds of dissent they can," Harold dismissed. "They will soon learn the error of their ways."
"I do hope you are not plotting ill against your own housemates," Dumbledore reproached. "But even if you intimidate them by force, and take the prize armchair for yourself, do you think that will win you control of your housemates?"
"My master entered Slytherin with nothing but his magic. He exited with the fealty of his generation's finest," Harold asserted. "Fealty their children assumed as well."
"Perhaps that is what he believed," Dumbledore said in an unconvinced tone. "However, I remember that when I defeated Gellert, the dark lord's acolytes fought in his name for years after. Did such a thing happen when Tom fell?"
"The true believers knew he would return," Harold defended his master. "They did not deny him before the Wizengamot, and await him even now in Azkaban."
"Curious Tom's then-favorite was not among that number," Dumbledore noted. "Even more curious is that he has not raised his son as a dark wizard."
Harold's jaw tensed at the assessment.
"Things change," Harold said ominously.
"That, they do," Dumbledore agreed. "Hopefully, your spell repertoire among them. It would sadden me to watch another promising student devolve into screaming the same three spells at anything in his way."
"Is that all?" Harold inquired.
"The more you use dark magic, the longer it will take you to acclimate to Hogwarts," Dumbledore advised. "Not to mention, you risk running afoul of your Head of House."
Harold hummed noncommittally.
"I also recommend you do not walk out of or skip classes in the future," Dumbledore added. "I have excused your absences for today, but unexcused occurrences are met with house-point loss and detentions."
"Understood," Harold acknowledged.
"Very well. Enjoy the evening with your friend. I believe he has been waiting for you outside," Dumbledore dismissed, eyes twinkling for some reason.
Slytherin Common Room
The new Slytherin pair faced their first challenge upon entering their house after dinner.
"Look who it is," called out a voice from the coveted armchair. "Mal and Potty, our school's newest couple. I heard you positively fell into each other's arms."
Draco stiffened at the taunt and snickers that followed, but Harold simply yawned.
"My inferius supplies livelier banter," the boy sorcerer drawled.
"Oh–ho-hoh! This one thinks he knows the dark arts, doesn't he?" mocked the blond, sculpturesque seventh year occupying the armchair. "Is that why you nearly fainted when casting the Imperius?"
Synchronized laughter emitted from his posse.
"Who are you?" Harold asked, pretending he hadn't read the interloper's surface thoughts.
"Rowle," the seventh year supplied. "Perhaps if you attended orientation with the other firsties, you would know who your own prefects are. Unless, of course, your dear guardian told you to shame the Slytherin House however you see fit?"
"He saved my life, you fool," Draco snapped back.
"How far the Malfoys have fallen," Rowle sneered. "First your father shines the boots of the Wizengamot warlocks. Then he gives his vault away to the Minister of Magic. And now you owe a life debt to a half-blood Potter, spawn of muggle lovers and a bona fide mudblood."
"You should watch your mouth. Harold's also the godson of Sirius Black," Draco retorted.
"Who could forget?" Rowle laughed. "That is why you've been hiding away all these years, isn't it Potty? Scared the big, bad Black will blow you up like he did those muggles? Or were you afraid of us—the wicked serpents who cast the darkest curses in broad daylight?"
Harold snorted.
"Why come now?" Montague demanded from the couch at Rowle's right. "You don't deign to attend classes. You care nothing for the repute of the house you were sorted in. Why come?"
"Usssing the Imperiusss to defend my housssemate and cousssin brought disssrepute to the Ssslytherin Houssse?" Harold questioned, sibilating his s's. "When Sssalazzar Ssslytherin crafted a crypt for true ssstudentsss of magic to practiccce the black artsss? When Sssalazzar Ssslytherin championed family valuesss above all? When Sssalazzar Ssslytherin'sss chief legaccy is hissstory'sss darkessst lord?"
"That's not—you don't know anything about Slytherin, Potter!" Rowle spat. "Leave his name out of your filthy mouth."
"Inssstead of making asssumptions, I propossse we ask hisss opinion on the matter," Harold challenged as he nodded toward the founder's portrait.
"Ha! You truly know nothing," Rowle barked. "He only responds to the worthiest Slytherins. Generations of students greater than you can ever be have tried and failed to communicate with him."
"Isss that ssso?" Harold replied. "Sssalazzar Ssslytherin, if my claim isss true, if I honor your legaccy, I asssk that you give me a sssign."
Slowly but surely, the portrait turned its head toward the boy sorcerer and gave a faint nod of acknowledgement before returning to its standard pose.
"The founder has spoken," Harold declared to the gobsmacked room. "I wonder, has he ever deigned to notice you, Rowle? You, Montague? Or any of your lackeys?"
Without giving the older Slytherins a chance to respond, the boy sorcerer marched to his residential unit, Draco following right behind.
September 3
Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower
"I hate this class," Draco grouched as he, Harold, Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle ascended the stairs to their Tuesday first period.
"I couldn't tell," Harold drawled.
"He—he's such a damn Gryffindor about this subject," Draco ranted.
"Godric Gryffindor was this school's first Defense professor," Harold replied patiently.
"You're supposed to be on my side!" Draco complained.
"Ignorance of wards and curse counters has been the downfall of many practitioners of the black arts," Harold informed. "You may disagree with Lupin's ideology—I certainly will—but he is a battle-proven warrior. Listen to what he has to say on matters of defense."
Draco huffed, but Parkinson straightened attentively. Crabbe and Goyle considered Harold's suggestion, and even the nearby Bulstrode paused in thought.
This atmosphere was overturned when the six Slytherins found the Defense classroom door blocked by a dark-haired Gryffindor — one of Weasley's friends from the train.
"No dark wizards allowed," proclaimed the Irish boy.
"But we are all white," Harold answered with mock confusion.
"I—that's not what I meant!" the Gryffindor retorted hotly.
Muggle-raised or mudblood, Harold determined. "Please explain then. I am new, so I am perplexed as to why a half-dozen students are being denied entry to a core subject."
"We learn how to defend against the dark arts here," the Gryffindor stated. "You take your Slytherin coven and slither back to whatever pit you practice your evil spells in."
"A coven takes thirteen, Finnigan," Harold lectured. "As we Slytherins number only twelve, we will require another of our yearmates to join us. Who do you recommend?"
Granger? Harold heard Finnigan think. Nah, not even she deserves that. Maybe.
"I dunno. I reckoned you'd just Imperius someone," Finnigan snarked.
"Imperio someone," Harold corrected. "'Imperius' is the noun and adjective descriptor of the curse. Think, would you Stupefy someone, or Stupefaction them?"
"This isn't a grammar class!" railed a flushing Finnigan.
"Grammar is an art of precision, and precision means everything in spellcasting — especially for the rapidfire hexes, curses and wards cast in combat," Harold rebuked. "Tell me, do you know the difference between casting Incende and Incendo?"
"Incantations for the Ignitio Conjuration, there is no difference," Finnigan claimed.
"Never let this one near a kitchen," Harold recommended to the gathering audience. "When you command a target to just 'burn,' the combustion is rapid. When you say 'I burn the target,' your control is far more precise…and the results more satisfying."
The boy sorcerer smiled as he recalled his use of the Incendo variant against that one muggle wretch's genitals. How it screamed.
"You—you're talking like you'd use it to burn someone alive!" Finnigan accused.
"All the better for you if I have," Harold replied. "Then, you would know what to expect if a 'dark' wizard casts it at you."
"And you'd tell us how to defend against dark spells out of what—the goodness of your heart?" demanded a dirty-blond Hufflepuff—Macmillan—from behind Finnigan.
"I've survived the most lethal of curses," Harold reminded with a smile and parted bangs. "You should listen closely to whatever I divulge on the subject."
"Like the up and coming dark lord could teach us to counter his brand of magic," Macmillan scoffed, causing a number of his classmates to gasp.
"Any dark lord worth mentioning mastered defensive magic," Harold answered. "Do you think Herr Grindelwald and Lord Voldemort never faced challenges to their authority?"
The Slytherin cohort, now present in full, paid heed to his words. Students with blue-and-silver striped ties began murmuring amongst themselves, and a lone Gryffindor boy gave a long look of consideration.
"What's going on here?" Weasley blustered onto the scene. "Taking over the class already, cousin dear? Well, guess you'd know the curriculum."
Harold snorted.
"Oh my, have I been replaced already?" a voice quipped from the edge of the crowd.
"Professor Lupin," chorused most of the class, including four of the Slytherin witches, as they gave the professor room to enter his classroom.
"As lovely as the threshold is, may I suggest we gather inside the room?" the professor mirthfully invited.
The students filed in, though not without grumbling from Finnigan and his close associates.
"Is something the matter, Seamus?" Lupin asked the Irish Gryffindor.
"I just don't see why Slytherins should attend this class," Finnigan complained. "Seems the whole lotta 'em are dark wizards."
"When you lose your friends to a member of your own house, you start to look past the colors of someone's tie," Lupin answered ruefully.
"But Potter used an Unforgivable in front of us on his first day!" Macmillan protested as snappily as the rattling wardrobe at the front of the room.
"You weren't even there, Macmillan," Harold scoffed from the back of the classroom. "You were off studying muggles."
"You should join us. You might learn something or two about morality," declared a brunet Hufflepuff with a posh-muggle accent.
"Mudblood, that one," Draco whispered to Harold.
"Ernie, Justin, please," Lupin addressed the Hufflepuffs. "I'm confident Potter will not give a repeat performance."
"So long as no valued associate of mine finds themself in mortal peril," Harold added.
A tide of abuse hurtled toward Harry for the next quarter-minute, until Lupin released a gunshot-like from his wand.
"Everyone, take a deep breath. In and out," Lupin coached. "There. Believe me, you would rather conserve your energy for today's lesson. And not just because there are no desks."
An active lesson on the first day? Harold found himself impressed.
"If I may bring your attention to this lovely wardrobe in front," Lupin directed. With the majority of the class finally noticing the construct, several students flinched at the violent shakes it produced.
"Intriguing, isn't it," Lupin said. "Would anyone like to venture a guess as to what is inside?"
"That's a boggart, that is," answered the dark-skinned Gryffindor who hung around Weasley and Finnigan.
"Very good, Dean," Lupin congratulated.
"Mud," Draco whispered.
Harold snickered at the pureblood's ignorance of the double connotations at play. On a side note, he wondered if the "Justin" Hufflepuff was one of those fools who judged a person's worth by the skin color and sex. His voice certainly carried the tenor of a Bullingdon legacy.
"…tell me what boggart looks like?" Lupin asked the class.
Silence.
To his momentary shame, Harold found he could not recall his master so much as mentioning the word. The boy sorcerer remembered, however, that before he even held a wand, his master educated him in magics that terrified most of the Death Eaters. If he had not learned about boggarts, they were not worth knowing about.
One of the two Gryffindors from Ancient Runes knew of them anyhow.
"Boggarts take the form whatever a particular person fears the most," rang the crisp, confident voice of Granger.
"Very good, Miss Granger," Lupin answered, deviating from his practice of referring to non-Slytherins by first name. "Luckily, a very simple charm exists to repel a boggart. Let's practice it now—without wands please. Riddikulus."
"Ridiculous," most of the class returned.
"More carefully. Listen. Ri–di–koo–luhs," Lupin repeated.
"Ri–di–koo–luhs," the class corrected.
"Very good. A little louder and faster," Lupin pushed.
"Riddikulus," chanted all but two members of the class.
"This class is ridiculous," Draco whispered to Harold, who shrugged in response.
Unknown to the blond, his friend did pay attention to the spell, but set to cast it silently. Over the course of his final year at Manor Mortis, Harold learned to minimize words and gestures for most applications of magic. While difficult even with Occlumency to hone his mind so, such control was a most necessary step on the road to greatness.
"…the incantation alone is not enough. What really finishes a boggart is laughter," Lupin informed the class. "You need to force it to assume a shape you find truly amusing. Let me explain—Neville, would you join me please?"
Muffled snickers permeated the room as a slightly-built boy shuffled his way to the front.
"Now, what frightens you most of all?" Lupin inquired.
The Gryffindor whimpered indecipherably.
"Sorry?" Lupin asked kindly.
"Professor Snape," Neville whispered, a revelation followed by a classwide round of laughter with few exceptions.
Lupin briefly looked uncomfortable, obviously realizing a number of students were laughing at Neville in contempt rather than as a courtesy. He rallied by claiming Severus frightened almost everyone, but the conversation proceeded to get more awkward.
"Now, I believe you live with your grandmother…" Lupin continued.
"Yes, but I don't want that boggart to turn into her either," Neville rambled, prompting louder laughter.
"No, It won't," Lupin promised. "I want you to picture her clothes — only her clothes, very clearly in your mind."
"She carries a red handbag—"
"We don't need to hear it," Lupin interjected on the pathetic boy's behalf. "As long as you see it, we'll see it. Now when I open that wardrobe, here's what I want you to do."
Thankfully, Lupin had the sense to whisper his instructions into Neville's ear, and the foolish boy didn't repeat them aloud.
"Wand at the ready! One, two, three," Lupin prepared Neville before opening the wardrobe, out of which strode a six-one wizard dressed in flowing robes as dark as his chin-length hair.
"Huh," Harold pondered. Though he had only seen the wizard from afar thus far, the silence prevailing over the class suggested Severus presented an austere demeanor even to Slytherin students. A positive sign the wizard hadn't completely expunged his Death Eater nature.
"Riddikulus!" Neville shouted, transforming "Severus"' respectable garb into the fur attire of an aristocratic witch. As the class roared with laughter at seeing the Slytherin's house head wear a green dress, vulture hat, lioness-fur scarf and bright-red handbag, Harold found minor solace in the fact that one of the four Gryffindor boys hailed from a traditional family.
"Wonderful, Neville, wonderful," Lupin praised. "Incredible! Okay, to the back Neville. Everyone, form a line."
Harold and Draco quickly secured their positions as the last two, with Draco taking the opportunity to trip Neville when the boy shuffled behind him.
"Tsssk, tsssk," Harold chided.
"Serves him right, mocking our house like that," Draco scorned the bloody-nosed Gryffindor.
"Not a moral indictment," Harold whispered. "Just that I'll teach you more…refined…forms of cruelty."
The boy sorcerer then flicked his wand and reset Neville's nose in a gratuitously painful manner. The Gryffindor let out a scream of pain that went unheard due to Harold's silencing enchantment. The Slytherin then completed his charade of chivalry by helping Neville upright with a sympathetic smile, a pat on the back, and a few words of encouragement.
"Ignore Malfoy — he's a tosser," Harold claimed.
Draco flushed in what could easily be mistaken for a display of anger, when in reality he was struggling to withhold torrents of laughter. Harold gave his friend an upturned eyebrow before turning his attention to his classmates' fears.
Weasley, unsurprisingly the first in line, faced off against a gigantic tarantula and took it to the skating rink. A Gryffindor named Parvati faced down a giant cobra and turned into a Jack-In-The-Box. Parvati's sister, also sporting a red-and-gold tie, envisioned a vampire out to drink her blood and turned it into a Brazilian woman seemingly dressed in fruits and flowers. This flamboyant figure turned into a hovering, disembodied eyeball as large as a goblin for Gryffindor's resident mudblood. As crudely as a muggle, the red tie resolved his dilemma by imagining a normal-sized eye on the ground.
Macmillan proved to be the first of a highly disturbing trend, as his boggart transformed into Lord Voldemort — or rather, a disgraceful caricature of him. And when the presumptuous Hufflepuff devolved the effigy into a baby sucking on a pacifier, Harold withdrew his wand and nearly cast a Cruciatus. Only Draco's grab of his wrist gave Harold the presence of mind to occlude his emotions.
But the disrespect of his master continued, as Macmillan's pet mudblood also conjured a horrid caricature of Lord Voldemort and turned it into a pacifier-sucking baby. Finnigan, two Hufflepuffs named Hannah and Susan, and the Ravenclaw Cho Chang followed suit. But the worst offense was when Bulstrode, a supposed Slytherin, did the same!
Harold released a blood-curling roar.
"F-forgive my friend," Draco interceded. "He is distressed…"
"If you're going to conjure the Dark Lord Voldemort, then at least make him look like a dark lord, not like a shade, incubus, or a damn gorgon!" Harold raged. "And a baby? A baby? I assure you, he was far more dangerous as a baby than any of you could ever hope to be!"
The boy sorcerer suddenly realized his mouth had stopped emitting sound for the past half-sentence of his rant. He shot a withering glare at the culprit, but the blond ignored him.
"What Harry means to say is that he actually faced the Dark Lord and lost his parents to him, while the rest of you have only heard stories," Draco interjected.
"None of your fears are real," Harold judged the class, voice reclaimed. "None of you has ever encountered those inane images, and you never will. What power does a boggart threaten you with then? And what meaning does this Riddikuluscharm bring to your coddled lives?"
"Then why don't you show us how it's done, Potter?" Weasley challenged. "Since we're all lowly squibs next to your divine presence."
"Harold, wait," Draco whispered his misgivings. But like his master, Harold would never ignore a direct challenge to his power.
The students parted for the boy sorcerer as he strode to the front of the room. As soon as the baby-shaped boggart locked eyes as with him, night took hold of the room.
The boggart shifted into the form of a 10-year-old boy, the pathetic four-foot thing Harold once was. But something was different, remarkably so. The boy before him was dead.
Or rather, undead.
The boy's hair was black instead of dark brown, his eyes ice-blue rather than azure, and his stark white face bore minor signs of decay. But worst of all, the boy seemed completely lost and alone. As abandoned in the post-mortem as he had been in his short, hellish life.
"The freak deserves it," Harold heard the voice of Dudley Dursley echo all around him. "I'm doing everyone a favor by taking him out. Out like the trash he is."
"What that boy intended to do with you," resounded the baritone, multi-voiced rasp of Vastator Mortis' wraithlike form. "Completely erased from this world."
"No," Harold blurted.
"Unmourned. Unmissed. Unremembered," his master's voice continued.
"No!" Harold shouted.
"For all you have survived, your struggles less significant than a speck of dust," came the cold finish.
"I hate you!" Harold howled at Dudley.
Instantly, the boggart shifted into the Dursley boy — a teenage version rather than the 10 year old Harold knew. However, despite wearing a well-tailored suit and displaying an attractive, athletic build, the muggle reeked of terror. Understandable, as it was chained to a stake with blazing at its base.
"No, no, get away! Get away!" the muggle squealed.
Harold chortled as flames set its legs alight and elicited wails that put banshees to shame. As the fire and the muggle's screams grew, so too did the glee of the boy sorcerer. He could taste the torment Dudley endured, and the sensation proved more euphoric than the excruciation he subjected Marge Dursley to. The scent of burning flesh overtook the boy sorcerer's olfactory nerves, and he threw his head back and laughed as he had never laughed before. As Dudley's flesh blackened and his form warped, glacial cackles reverberated through the air — cackles exactly like those the Destroyer of Death released when Harold put down the Beauxbatons pretender.
The pride at causing his master such joy elevated Harold's own. Thus, the boy sorcerer barely noticed the light change from crackling orange-white to a bright, solid silver. His reverie dimmed only when daylight flooded the classroom once more.
"Wh–what?" Harold choked out as he wiped tears away from his eyes. "Hold on, where did you go, you half-witted phantom? I am not done with you! Not nearly."
"I say you are," Lupin solemnly declared. "That's all for today. Please collect your books at the back. Class dismissed."
"Ridiculous," Harold grumbled as he and Draco walked down a deserted corridor. "'Force it to assume a shape you find truly amusing,' he said. Well, I did! Then he interfered before the best part."
"Best part?" Draco inquired.
"The boggart fought against my hold," Harold explained. "Oh, how it fought. You heard its genuine pain, not just a projection of the suffering I will claim from that muggle. I would have destroyed the spirit too, if Lupin had not interposed himself!"
"Perhaps he wished to keep it for future uses?" Draco suggested.
Harold slammed a fist into the wall.
"Harold?" Draco asked.
"It is no bother," Harold dismissed the concern over his torn knuckles.
"Who…who was that?" Draco inquired.
"The muggle? That—you! Anyone tell you it is rude to eavesdrop?" Harold abruptly demanded a lurking Neville.
"S–sorry. I just w–wondered if you could h–help me with something," Neville stammered.
"Following us are you, worthless squib?" Draco sneered.
"I—I—" Neville stuttered.
"I do not have all day," Harold cut.
"It's just—I just—" Neville tried again.
"Are you deaf?" Draco interrogated. "Do you need donkey ears again?"
Neville reddened in humiliation.
"You are not friends with Weasley or his associates," Harold observed. "And you have followed Mal—Draco and me down a dark corridor while being on unfriendly terms with one of us. Why?"
"I—the way you spoke about magic. It's like a boo—friend, friend that I have said," Neville asked. "I don't know if I can t–trust him, but you know about d–dark magic too…"
"Has the sky turned green?" Draco wondered. "Or is Puffbottom asking about dark magic?"
"What-bottom?" Harold asked.
"Oh, this one's grandmother confounded the Sorting Hat. Hence, we call him by his true house, isn't that right Longbottom?" Draco sneered.
"Longbottom?" Harold repeated. "Longbottom, as in the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom?"
"Allegedly," Draco answered.
"You—you're the other one?" Harold questioned the boy just ridiculed by almost everyone in their class. "Why do you let Weasley's pride walk all over you? Why aren't you prince among the witches and wizards our age? Why do you allow them all to taunt you?"
"I—I—" Longbottom stammered, but Harold was having none of it.
"You cannot hide from me, Longbottom," he growled at the boy he now pinned against the wall. "I see you for who you truly are. So drop the act now, or I will force the truth out."
"W—what do y–you…" Longbottom tried.
"Ah, was I speaking Coptic?" Harold scoffed. "Allow me to restate. Either you speak to me like the apprentice of Dumbledore I know you are, or I will make Bellatrix's playtime with mommy and daddy look like the charmwork of a white witch."
Harold hurtled into the opposite wall, barely managing to slam his arms flat against it to mitigate impact force. Draco gaped in noncomprehension, but Harold simply laughed.
"There he is," the boy sorcerer applauded. "Judging from your shock, cousin, he's never shown you his power before. Such control, such dedication, such longsuffering. I applaud you, Longbottom, but you could not hide from me. No, we Mortises see into the soul."
"So now, Longbottom, that we speak as equals, what do you think?" Harold interrogated. "Did my years in the muggle world weaken me as much as your master hoped? Do you reckon you could kill me in a duel? Or are you questioning this strategy of concealing your might, and ceding leadership of your peers to Weasley?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about," Longbottom protested.
"Come, come, there is no need for pretense here," Harold asserted. "If your secrecy is paramount, I am willing to remove Draco's memory of our friendly chat."
"What!" Draco yelled.
"I'm not pretending," Longbottom insisted.
"Do not dare insult my intelligencce or my powersss, Longbottom," Harold growled. "Do you think any of your classmates — nay, any of your schoolmatesss — could hurl me as you just did? Without a wand, no less? No. Such power existsss only between usss."
"It just happened. I've never done anything like that before!" Longbottom maintained.
"Impossible," Harold rejected.
"I didn't show magic until I was eight!" Longbottom yelled.
"When you were eight," Harold whispered. "What day?"
"Halloween! There, happy?" Longbottom shouted.
Harold stared deep into the Gryffindor's green-hazel eyes, seeking the faintest trace of a lie. He found none.
"That day. That exact day is when everything changed for me too," the boy sorcerer divulged. "When I also learned I was not the filth of this world. That I would not be subservient to them forever. That one day, I would claim dominion over them."
"That boy you saw me burn? That was filth of my mother's blood, one of the last two remaining," Harold told both Draco and Longbottom. "He and his cursed mother held me captive for nine years, subjecting me to indignities even house elves do not suffer. I will kill them one day, and certainly not with a simple stake burning. But I am not the only wizard who has suffered, am I? I've only been here a day, and I see the derision your housemates dole upon you, Longbottom. That mudblood boy wouldn't even be here without the efforts of your parents, yet he thinks himself your better, does he not?"
Longbottom remained silent.
"And Weasley," Harold continued. "His uncles fought alongside your parents, and how does he treat you? What job would his muggle-serving father work if not for our parents?"
Longbottom opened his mouth to protest, but closed it after five seconds — not one word spoken.
"Now, from your brief exchange with Draco, I understand Slytherins have not been kind to you. This shall be corrected henceforth," Harold promised. "So long as you promise to seek my counsel for whatever dilemmas you face."
Draco looked affronted, but he wisely held his tongue.
"Y–yes," Longbottom answered.
"Very well, Longbottom," Harold accepted. "Now, you wished to ask me about a book?"
"Yes—I, it's unlike anything I've seen," Longbottom introduced as he produced a black book from his robes. "It was written by a Slytherin from fifty or so years ago. Have you ever heard of someone called Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
Harold barely withheld a gasp as he felt the diary both physically and spiritually.