Harry had received many letters from those close to him after he had been handpicked by professor McGonagall to be the Seeker for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. First came a letter from Gavril, congratulating him on getting picked and telling him he'd be in for the hexing of a lifetime if he would choose to play for an English team and not a Romanian one. Reading his letter during breakfast, Harry had to stifle his laughter to make sure no one would notice and ask to have a look at the writing in a language foreign for the other students, before hiding it in the pocket of his robe.
Then came a letter from Lena. Harry had forgotten about the letter he had written to her by that time, and found inside her letter, alongside the congratulations, a lurid account of a man who tried to get rid of a strigoi who got attached to him, and how the entire village ended up being tormented for a year, until Porcara (Harry had no idea what the actual name of that witch was, as everyone just addressed her as the swineherdess) managed to grow a specific herb to facilitate a ritual to remove the strigoi.
You saw the part of the ritual that you wanted to see, Harry, not all of it. You don't get rid of evil easily. You must poison the wells and salt the earth to ensure it doesn't come back. What your professor is doing is probably warding off something dangerous for everyone's safety. If you are still worried, tell your Headmaster, or write again to me.
However, Harry had soon forgotten not only about her words and warnings, her letter laying somewhere in his trunk, but also about his worries regarding professor Quirrell, his time preoccupied with Quidditch practice, catching up with his homework, and as of a few minutes ago, a certain photograph he received from Hagrid as a present for getting into the Gryffindor team. It was a picture of his father, a few years older than him, dressed in his scarlet Quidditch uniform, identical to the uniform Harry had right on top of his own Hogwarts trunk.
His dad was grinning ear to ear, holding two other teammates tight by the shoulders. All of them, in fact, were laughing or smiling triumphantly, huddled on the same pitch Harry had just practised on with Oliver Wood. He wondered if there were any details as to what year it was, or what year his father was in, however, when he asked Hagrid, he had said that he only managed to get that picture from some friends from school of his parents', and he didn't look that much before he gave it directly to Harry.
Harry turned the back of the picture, and noticed that there were indeed some details. However, they seemed to have been magically removed, and badly so, as Harry could recognise that about two full lines of text were removed and looked as if they were smudged, covered by what looked like a thick cloud of grey fog, leaving only 'James,' in the middle, and written close to the bottom of the back of the photograph, '1979', visible. He wished he knew a spell to make the erased text re-appear, but from all the spells he'd learnt so far, he couldn't think of anything even remotely close to what he needed.
That didn't make sense. His father looked about fifteen or so in the picture - and even then, surely he must have graduated by then. Harry did the math in his head, and furrowed his brows, confused. He did it again, and again, counting on his fingers, just to make sure. But there was no mistake in his calculations.
His father graduated a year before 1979.
He flipped the picture back and forth, trying to see if there was something he remembered badly, before he opened a journal where he had written at the back the birthdays and addresses of the people closest to him. He checked to make sure he was not crazy, and as he flipped to the back of the journal, he confirmed with himself that of course he was not. He knew his parents' birthdays. As he continued fiddling with the photograph of his father's Quidditch team, Harry noticed that a corner of the picture started to peel, revealing another photograph, in which a burgundy object resembling a rug appeared to be moving.
Whoever did the bad job on removing the handwriting did an even worse job on that Sticking Charm, because even a not-so-talented First Year like Harry, who struggled in his Charms class last week to remove the paper professor Flitwick stuck to the wall, managed to cast a successful Unsticking Charm.
After the two photographs slowly separated themselves in front of his eyes, Harry carefully removed the picture of the winning Gryffindor Team and put it under his pillow, only to find a photograph of an event he had never seen before. An event no one had talked to him about, as he knew no one that attended it.
His parents' wedding. The burgundy object he saw was a curtain swaying in the wind, next to his mum, who had a large glass of wine in her hand and an even larger grin on her face. She was dressed in white lace, holding his father tightly by his arm, and resting her head on his shoulder. His dad was once again smiling brightly at the camera, this time holding out a filled glass in front of him. Next to his dad was someone Harry had never seen before, holding his dad by the arm, and laughing as he jokingly rested his head on his shoulder in an attempt to imitate his mother, before his dad would jerk away from him, all three of them laughing, without a care in the world.
He was a handsome man around his father's age, a bit taller than both of his parents, with long black hair. While his dad appeared to carry himself in a carefree manner, Harry could notice a haughty look on the man's face, and his movements, visible under his elegant robes, exuded an air of casual aristocracy.
Over the next few days, whenever Harry found himself free and not dragged to practice by Oliver Wood, he would spend his time in the library, not for homework, but researching spells. He would not only go over his own copy of The Standard Book of Spells, but those in more advanced years as well. Sometimes Ron would join him as well, as Harry had shown him the hidden photograph, with the wiped names, and the strange man that was next to his parents, who appeared utterly happy to celebrate with them.
Was this man, who was at their wedding, still alive? Could he tell him more about his parents? Maybe he could write to him, or ask Lena if they could visit him during the winter holidays?
He tried asking Hagrid, but that only caused poor Harry more confusion. At first, Hagrid appeared flustered and denied knowing about the photograph or knowing who the man was, then tried changing the subject, just like when Harry pointed out the Gringotts break-in, and then said he'd ask the person he got it from, asking if he could have the wedding photo. However, Harry had no intention of parting with it, no matter how many times Hagrid asked him to, promising to try to obtain more pictures from his parents' wedding. He had that one, and as the saying goes, the one dirigible plum in your hand is worth more than the two dirigible oranges in the tree.
The only First Year who spent as much time in the library as him was Hermione Granger, the Muggleborn girl with the wild hair, and Harry couldn't help but notice that she was only using the library to write enormous - about twice as long as requested!- pieces of homework. Harry sighed as he thought about how he had to juggle his practice, his quest in finding out the name of the man in the photograph, and his homework, and how easy it would have been to only worry about how long his essays were.
At one point, she'd asked him how come he was spending so much time in the library when his professors, especially Snape, kept commenting on how rushed and careless his homework appeared, with Snape even deducting one House point for what he claimed was 'The hideous handwriting you subject me to, Potter. You are expected to write this with your glasses on, you know that, I hope?'. He shot her a look in response as she passed his table in the common room, before shoving his head back in the mountain of books by his side, and waiting for Ron.
He figured, however, a few weeks into his first year, that he perhaps needed to pay a bit more attention to his studies, as he noticed that Ron, who he thought was spending as much time on this issue as he was, had just earned ten House Points for his wandwork in their Charms class, while Harry was still struggling, his mind not focused at all on any of the tasks professor Flitwick had given them.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked him as they settled for lunch. "You've been quiet all day."
"Yeah, just thinking…" Taking a bite of his steak pie, Harry chewed on it idly, shrugging. Noticing that Ron was still looking at him concerned, he swallowed and opened his mouth to speak, not really sure what he wanted to say, and he was thankful when Neville stepped in and spoke instead.
"You know, Ron, that was a great spell."
"Couldn't have done it without the extra lesson this morning, you know. It's all about the long gaaaar, you know? The person I got teamed up with this morning taught me that." Ron grinned from ear to ear, taking a bite out of his own pie as he pointed to Hermione.
After lunch, and with some time to spare, Harry decided, for once, to not rush to the library, but take a break from the task of finding the spell that could shed light on the man in the photograph. Leaning against a chair, he stuck his hand in his pockets, not sure what to do with his free time. He certainly didn't feel like doing any homework, that was for sure. As he dug around idly in his pockets, he felt something oddly shaped inside, and pulled out the birthday gift aunt Petunia had given him months ago.
"Hermione… uh, you know things, right? Do you know what this is? Ron's said it's broken."
"It sure is." Hermione raised her wand, and touched the broken tip of the little plastic object. "It's to put in your hair - well, for old ladies to put in their hair. It's not very fashionable.?"
Thank you, aunt Petunia. Your kindness is truly immeasurable.
"How come you have a hairpin in your pocket?"
"My- uh, I found it. I was just curious what it was."
"Maybe it's Professor McGonagall's." Hermione decreed, and Harry nodded, as if that was surely, the only explanation for why he had a hairpin in his pocket.
Ron opened his mouth, however Harry could see him decide against it in the final moment, and was quite thankful for it . He didn't feel like explaining once again, this time to Hermione, how his aunt, a Muggle, did not like him very much, and would often send him gifts that amounted to pocket lint.
That night, Harry could not find sleep easily. He held his wand, clean and shiny, having been taken care of for the first time since he'd gotten it from Ollivander's, in his hand, and looked at the others in his room sleeping soundly. Slowly, he raised himself up, and pointed his wand at his trunk.
Swish and flick. Swish and flick. And say the words. That was it. And the could make it levitate.
The first few times, nothing but a light movement happened. Sometimes upwards, sometimes to the left or right. Yet the more he did it, the more he whispered under his breath, careful not to wake anyone up, the trunk gained more and more height, until, in an excess of zeal, he made the trunk rise so violently it hit the ceiling, landing with a loud thud.
In an instant, Harry jumped back under his sheets and pretended he too had been sleeping, as he heard other students grumble and wake up. He heard Dean ask what that noise was, Neville saying it must've been a nightmare. He had to cover his mouth and stop himself from wheezing with laughter when Ron sarcastically asked Neville if, by chance, they were all having a collective nightmare. They all described the exact sound Harry's trunk made when it hit the ground, however no one, save for him, could figure what it was, and they all decided to go back to sleep, with the final consensus being that it could have been thunder.
Right as they all went to sleep, Harry realized that there was something else he could practice on, something less unwieldy than his trunk. Slowly, he got the small, golden dragon he got on his birthday from its box, and watched it gain life as he ran one finger along its back. He watched it shake its head from its last remnants of sleep, and placed it on his palm.
"Listen, Rhys." He'd named it after the first Welsh Hogwarts Headmaster, and the dragon seemed to have recognised its name, as it lifted its head up. "I want to practice some spells. You just sit there, alright?"
Propping himself up in bed, Harry fumbled for his wand, and started his practice again. As he made Rhys levitate higher and higher, in more and more fluid movements, until the little golden dragon curled into a ball as Harry lulled it to sleep in the air, he remembered being little, watching Lena as she would make his toys float above his eyes and enact stories and fairy tales. She would hold him propped against her arm, and narrate stories of princes and dragons, men with enchanted hats that would trap devils, or horses that would fly and speak with humans.
He would sometimes only watch the movement of her wand, her stories paling in comparison with the magic she used. The fluid movements, how sparks would fly out and suddenly the dragon plush he had would have three heads instead of one as it would float above them, above him. And years later, in Hogwarts, as a Gryffindor, it was now him, finally, holding the wand, making a dragon fly. His own small, miniature dragon.
And in a few weeks, it would be his turn to fly, in his first Quidditch match.
Since he got picked for the Quidditch team, even with the man in the picture taken out of the equation, Harry could have sworn that he was spending more time on the field than actually doing homework. He had to thank Hermione for helping him with his work, even if she was more keen on guiding him when it came to the theoretical parts of it, and wasn't that eager to help him practice in the common room.
With each instance of Hermione rolling her eyes each time Harry drew his conclusion the moment his essay reached the minimum length necessary, he couldn't help but think about the point Ana made that one day in the owlery.
How were they supposed to learn magic, if it was mostly kept in the classes? Well, he was thankful they weren't supposed to brew potions without supervision at least, and he could just throw his cauldron in a forgotten corner, until next time he'd have to face Snape.
Maybe that's why he enjoyed Quidditch. There was no theory behind it. There was just…well, flying. And on the field, more than anything, he felt good at something. He was not Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived.
He was Harry Potter, the youngest Seeker the Gryffindor team had ever seen, and he was damn great at it.