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Chapter Five: The First Week at Hogwarts

The first week at Hogwarts was unlike anything Harry had ever experienced. The very walls of the castle seemed to pulse with a rhythm of magic that he could almost hear, as though Hogwarts itself had a life of its own. Classes began immediately, and Harry quickly found himself immersed in a routine that was both exhilarating and exhausting.

Harry's first Potions class took place in the dungeons, a dark and damp setting with rows of ancient workbenches. Professor Snape swept into the room with a flourish of his robes, his dark eyes quickly narrowing on Harry, who tried to keep his face impassive. Snape's dislike of him was apparent from the start, though Harry wasn't entirely sure why.

"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he said, his voice silky and menacing. "As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

Snape's gaze finally rested on Harry, who looked back, holding his wand lightly. Harry felt something like a crackling tension in the air between them.

"Ah, yes," Snape said, his lips curling into an almost-smile. "Harry Potter, our new... celebrity."

Harry stayed silent, unwilling to give Snape the satisfaction of a reaction. As the lesson progressed, Snape asked Harry difficult questions, seemingly hoping to catch him out. But Harry, thanks to his intense study of potions in preparation, knew the answers. He responded clearly and calmly, which only seemed to deepen Snape's frown.

After that, Harry was certain Snape would be watching him closely, and he resolved to be prepared for whatever the Potions Master threw his way.

As if his first week of lessons wasn't tiring enough, Harry also found himself plagued by strange dreams. On the second night after the Sorting, he had a vivid vision—he stood in a great hall lined with banners, their crests depicting dragons, golden griffins, and shields of vivid blue. Harry realized it wasn't Hogwarts but a grand castle, something out of a fairy tale.

He could hear voices, muffled at first, until they grew clearer: knights clad in gleaming armor, a young man with raven-black hair, and a figure seated at the head of a long table—a king, wearing a crown of gold. Harry could feel familiarity in the dream, a sense of duty and comradeship, yet it left him with an aching sadness when he woke up.

Though he could barely recall the exact details, the feeling it gave him remained—a longing, a reminder of a time long gone. There was something that connected him to the vision, but what? He felt pieces shifting in his mind, as if something was calling to him across time.

But whatever it was, he didn't have enough answers, yet.

Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Quirrell was both intriguing and disappointing. Quirrell, with his strange, nervous stutter, seemed overwhelmed by the very subject he taught. His lessons were more theory than practice, and Harry found it difficult to take much from them. He yearned for something more practical, something that would allow him to put his studies to use.

He spent most of his free time in the library, which seemed endless, its shelves full of ancient tomes and magical knowledge. He would read about curses and counter-curses, hoping to go beyond what the curriculum offered. The only time he wasn't reading was when he practiced basic spells and dueling stances in the Slytherin common room late at night when no one else was around.

In Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration class, Harry found himself challenged in ways that excited him. McGonagall was strict but fair, and she recognized potential in her students, demanding the very best. Harry took to Transfiguration naturally, his wand responding with a precision and focus that pleased the professor.

Charms class with Professor Flitwick was more lighthearted. Flitwick's enthusiasm was contagious, and Harry found himself smiling as he successfully levitated a feather with a gentle swish and flick of his wand. Flitwick clapped in excitement, his tiny frame practically bouncing.

"Well done, Mr. Potter!" he squeaked. "Excellent control!"

Harry felt a sense of pride swell within him, but he reminded himself that this was only the beginning. There was so much more magic to learn, so many spells he wanted to master.

During breakfast on Friday, Draco Malfoy finally approached Harry, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. His gaze was appraising, his lips pulled into a faint smirk.

"I heard you were sorted into Slytherin," Draco said. "My father told me about you—Potter, the Boy Who Lived." He looked at Harry as though trying to figure out if he was worth his time. "You're not like the rest of them, are you?"

Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, unsure of where Draco was going with this. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the others—the Mudbloods and the half-bloods. My father says you're from a powerful wizarding family. It's only right you ended up in Slytherin," Draco said, nodding as if approving of a decision Harry had no control over.

Harry didn't respond immediately. He was well aware of the Malfoys' reputation. Draco clearly wanted an alliance, maybe even a friendship, but Harry wasn't so sure he wanted to fall in with Draco and his cronies.

After a long pause, he finally said, "I think I'll decide who I associate with, thanks. I'm not interested in dividing everyone up like that."

Draco blinked, clearly taken aback by Harry's calm refusal, before his smirk quickly returned, though it lacked some of its confidence. "Suit yourself, Potter. But remember, Slytherins should stick together." With that, he turned and strode away, Crabbe and Goyle following closely behind.

Harry watched him go, not particularly worried about whether he'd made a friend or an enemy.

By the time Saturday rolled around, Harry was exhausted but pleased with how his week had gone. He'd managed to make it through all of his classes, avoid any major incidents with Snape, and learn a great deal about Hogwarts itself. He still felt out of place at times, but he reminded himself that he had a purpose here—to learn, grow, and discover why he felt such a strange connection to the past.

That night, he had another dream.

Harry was standing at the edge of a forest. The trees were tall, towering above him, their branches entwined, almost as if they were protecting something sacred. In the distance, he could see the towers of a castle—his heart pounding with recognition. He heard a voice—gentle, wise, yet commanding:

"You must remember, young warlock, that destiny is never simple. It twists and turns, and each choice will lead you to your fate."

Harry strained to see the source of the voice, but the dream began to fade. He awoke, the words echoing in his mind.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, his breathing slightly uneven. He didn't understand yet why these dreams kept coming, why he felt such a deep connection to the castle. But he knew one thing—he was determined to find out.

The first week at Hogwarts had been a whirlwind, filled with new lessons, new rivals, and new mysteries. But as Harry lay back down, staring at the ceiling of his dormitory, he realized that a part of him felt more alive than it ever had at the Dursleys'. Here, in this strange and magical world, he had a chance to become something greater than he ever imagined.

And as he drifted off to sleep, he heard the echoes of ancient voices, a reminder of something waiting to be uncovered—a destiny tied not only to Hogwarts but to a legacy far older, far grander, and far more powerful.