Chapter 10: Shadows of the Past
The Hogwarts Express screeched to a halt at Hogsmeade Station, the whistle echoing through the cool evening air. Steam billowed across the platform as students poured out of the train, their chatter filling the night.
Harry stepped onto the platform, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag. The familiar sight of Hogwarts Castle loomed in the distance, its many towers and spires glowing under the moonlight.
"Finally," Draco muttered beside him, adjusting the sleeves of his robes. "No more summer, no more Muggles, no more blistering heat—just magic and actual civilization."
Harry hummed in agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. As much as he longed for Hogwarts, there was a lingering unease at the back of his mind—one that had followed him since that strange encounter in Knockturn Alley.
He barely had time to process it before the weight of someone's gaze sent a shiver down his spine. Dumbledore. The headmaster stood near the entrance of the castle, his usual twinkle noticeably absent. His gaze lingered on Harry,sharp and measuring, before he turned away and greeted McGonagall at his side.
Harry exhaled sharply, shaking off the feeling as he climbed into a waiting carriage.
The Great Hall was as breathtaking as ever, its enchanted ceiling reflecting the star-strewn night sky. The room was warm with the glow of floating candles, illuminating the long house tables as the first-years gathered at the front for the Sorting Ceremony.
Harry barely paid attention to the new students, only vaguely listening as the Sorting Hat bellowed house names one by one.
"Hufflepuff!"
Polite applause rippled from the Hufflepuff table as their newest addition scurried over. Harry's attention, however, was fixed on the staff table. Snape was watching him. Not his usual disdainful sneer—this was something different. A real, scrutinizing stare. Harry clenched his jaw and turned back to his plate. What now?
Dumbledore rose as the last first-year nervously found their seat.
"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "Before we begin our feast, I have several announcements."
Harry listened with half-interest, still keeping an ear out for anything unusual.
"First, a reminder that the Forbidden Forest is exactly that—forbidden. Any students caught wandering within will face severe consequences."
Draco snorted. "Tell that to Hagrid."
"Second, our caretaker, Argus Filch, has requested that I remind students that magic in the corridors is strictly prohibited."
A few students chuckled under their breath.
"And finally," Dumbledore continued, "it is my pleasure to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Professor Gilderoy Lockhart."
The Great Hall exploded with applause—or at least, a section of it did.
Several students, mostly girls, clapped enthusiastically. Others exchanged skeptical glances. At the staff table, Lockhart stood dramatically, flashing a wide, gleaming smile as he waved with both hands like some two-bit celebrity. His peacock-blue robes shimmered obnoxiously under the candlelight, and Harry almost squinted from how bright his teeth were.
"Merlin help us," Daphne muttered dryly. "This is our Defense professor?"
"I don't know what you're all complaining about," Blaise Zabini drawled. "He's written loads of books."
"Yeah," Daphne scoffed, "and half the older Ravenclaws think he's full of it."
Draco groaned, dropping his fork onto his plate. "Just great. Another year of learning nothing."
Harry barely listened to them. He was watching Lockhart closely. There was something… off about him. The way he preened under the attention. The way he absorbed the applause like a sponge, eating up every ounce of admiration. This was not a professor. This was someone who thrived on spectacle.
As the feast began, the Slytherin table was noticeably more subdued than last year. Winning the House Cup had felt like a certain until it was snatched from them at the last second. Now, there was no boasting, no smirking just quiet irritation.
"Absolutely rigged," Daphne muttered, stabbing at her roasted potatoes with more force than necessary.
"And they call us cheaters," Pansy added bitterly.
Draco leaned back in his seat, swirling his goblet. "It's fine. We'll just win it back. Properly."
There were murmurs of agreement, though Harry noticed some of the upper years exchanging glances, like they already expected another Gryffindor-favored upset.
Harry's gaze flickered toward the staff table once more, his mood darkening. Snape was watching him again. For a moment, Harry felt a surge of irritation. He had spent the entirety of last year proving himself in Slytherin, yet his own Head of House scrutinized him twice as much as the rest. Snape was always harsher on him than the others. Never cruel outright, but just enough to make it clear that Harry was different.
Different.
That word had haunted him all summer. And judging by Snape's piercing stare, it wasn't going away anytime soon.
The moment the Slytherins stepped through the stone archway into their underground common room, the tension from the Great Hall followed them like an unwelcome shadow.
The familiar green light from the Black Lake cast eerie patterns across the sleek stone walls, its glow shimmering through the enchanted windows. Emerald flames flickered in the large fireplace, illuminating the deep greens and blacks of the room's décor.
Harry barely paid attention to the usual murmurs of students settling in, claiming their favorite seats and exchanging summer stories. He was too busy replaying the night's events. Snape's unwavering gaze, Dumbledore's unusual mood, and Lockhart's insufferable dramatics. Across the room, Draco flopped onto one of the black leather couches with a satisfied sigh, stretching his arms over the back.
"Well," he drawled, "at least we have a chance to redeem ourselves this year."
Daphne Greengrass arched a brow, dropping gracefully into a nearby armchair.
"You mean you do."
Draco shot her an unimpressed look. Daphne smirked, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve.
"Your father practically bullied the other governors into letting him be the one to 'inspect' Hogwarts this year. You don't think you'll be a little unbearable about it?"
Blaise chuckled from his place near the fireplace.
"Lucius Malfoy walking these halls like he owns them? I give it a week before the Gryffindors are crying foul."
Pansy leaned forward, lips curling into a wicked grin, "Honestly, they're just lucky he didn't buy the place outright."
Draco rolled his eyes, but he wasn't exactly denying it. Harry, meanwhile, barely heard them. His mind was still turning, trying to piece together why Snape had been watching him so closely all night. His relationship with Snape had never been anything like the one the other Slytherins had with their Head of House. Snape wasn't outright cruel, but he was always watching, always scrutinizing—always finding fault.
It wasn't the same as his loathing for Charlie. Snape had expectations of Harry, ones he had never explained, ones Harry had never agreed to, and ones he would never meet, apparently. Harry exhaled sharply and shoved his hands into his pockets, heading toward the dormitories.
When the professor strutted into the classroom, his shimmering violet robes billowing dramatically, Harry knew they were in for a long lesson.
"Welcome!" Lockhart proclaimed, flashing his signature dazzling smile. "I am, of course, Gilderoy Lockhart—Order of Merlin, Third Class; Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League; and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award—though I don't talk about that."
Harry barely held back a groan.
Draco, seated beside him, rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell off his chair.
The lesson went downhill almost immediately.
Lockhart had set up a dramatic "practical demonstration", claiming he would show them how to subdue a cage full of freshly caught Cornish Pixies. It became very clear—very quickly—that he had absolutely no control over them. The pixies erupted into chaos, zipping around the room, yanking at people's hair, knocking over books, and throwing inkbottles against the walls.
Pansy shrieked as one of them dangled from her braid.
Draco swatted at another, looking absolutely furious. Lockhart, utterly unconcerned, stood there beaming, like a man who had already decided this was going well.
"See?" he declared, raising his wand. "It's all about confidence! Watch and learn—Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
Nothing happened. The pixies screeched with delight. Lockhart's smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, brushing a stray feather off his sleeve.
"Well!" he said, clapping his hands. "I think that's enough of a demonstration. Who wants to—ah—take a shot at rounding them up?"
No one moved. After a long pause, he coughed, straightened his robes, and strolled toward the door.
"Well then," he said cheerfully. "Best of luck! Homework—two rolls of parchment on the practical applications of my method!"
With that, he left the room. A moment of stunned silence passed.
"I hate this class," Draco declared, dodging a pixie as he stormed toward the door. Harry had no arguments.
If there was one good thing about Lockhart's incompetence, it was that he wasn't their biggest problem. The Board of Governors had dramatically increased their presence at Hogwarts, citing "security concerns". And with it came Lucius Malfoy. The man was often seen around the castle, striding through the halls with an air of effortless authority, silver cane tapping softly against the stone floor.
It wasn't just Hogwarts students who noticed. The professors weren't pleased either. One afternoon, on his way to Potions, Harry spotted Snape and Lucius Malfoy locked in conversation near the entrance to the dungeons.
Or rather it seemed that Snape was interrogating him.
"Your presence here is… unexpected," Snape said smoothly, though Harry could hear the underlying irritation.
Lucius merely arched a brow, ever the picture of cool indifference.
"Unexpected?" he echoed. "I was under the impression that Hogwarts was taking its security matters seriously this year."
Snape's lip curled slightly, but he did not interrupt.
Lucius continued, tone perfectly even.
"As a governor, it is my duty to ensure the safety and standards of this institution. After all, with recent… incidents—" his gaze flickered to Harry, then back to Snape, "—one must wonder whether things have been properly supervised."
Snape's expression didn't change, but there was a sharpness in his gaze.
"This school does not require outside interference," Snape said coolly.
"Of course not," Lucius said smoothly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "But you understand—I must look after my son's education. And, of course, that of his friends."
Harry got the distinct impression that he was included in that statement. Snape's dark eyes flickered toward Harry for half a second, then back to tension between them was palpable. Finally, Snape inclined his head slightly.
"Then I trust," he murmured, "that your inspections will be… brief."
Lucius smiled thinly. "Naturally."
And with that, he strode past Snape and disappeared into the corridor, his cane tapping softly against the floor.
If Lucius Malfoy looming around the castle wasn't enough, Draco had suddenly become insufferable. He boasted endlessly about having been made Seeker of the Slytherin Quidditch team—without even needing to try out.
"Really," Draco said smugly, leaning back in his chair at dinner, "Flint said it was pointless holding tryouts when it was so obvious I was the best candidate."
Across the table, some of the older Slytherins didn't look pleased.
"Obvious, was it?" Adrian Pucey drawled, twirling his fork between his fingers.
Draco's smirk faltered for half a second before he covered it up.
"Naturally," he said. "I mean—who else would they have picked?"
Adrian and another older player, Terence Higgs, exchanged a glance.
"Flint's favoritism is going to get him killed one day," Terence muttered.
"At least we got new brooms out of it," Adrian sighed.
Harry watched the exchange, noting the small flicker of unease on Draco's face. Because as much as Draco was a good flyer, it was clear that not all the Slytherins were happy about Flint's decision.
Harry had never been fond of visiting the Hospital Wing, but after suffering through the worst headache of his life following a particularly tedious double Potions lesson, he figured a quick visit for a Headache Cure Potion wouldn't hurt.
Madam Pomfrey, however, was nowhere in sight when he entered.
Instead, he found Gemma Farley, hunched over a desk surrounded by parchment and vials, furiously scribbling notes while flipping through a Healer's Guide to Spell Damage.
She looked exhausted.
"Farley?" he greeted, glancing around. "Where's Pomfrey?"
Gemma groaned, rubbing at her temples. "Off dealing with some Hufflepuff who managed to hex himself in the face. What do you need?"
"Headache Cure Potion," Harry said, dropping onto the nearest cot.
Gemma wordlessly slid a small vial across the desk without even looking up.
Harry uncorked it, swallowing the bitter-tasting liquid in one go before watching her carefully.
"You look awful," he observed bluntly.
Gemma sighed heavily, pushing her notes aside and rubbing her hands over her face. "I'm swamped," she admitted. "NEWT classes are brutal, the Hospital Wing's always packed, and prefect duties are a nightmare."
Harry raised a brow. "The first week isn't even over yet."
"Tell me about it." Gemma let her head fall back against her chair. "And do you know what's making it worse?"
"Enlighten me."
She huffed. "Girls keep sneaking out after curfew to try and visit Lockhart."
Harry blinked. "You're joking."
"I wish I was." She scowled. "Homework help, my arse."
Harry didn't doubt her. Lockhart had a disturbingly large fan club among the older years, and the man himself seemed far too pleased with the attention.
"I've had to take more points and hand out more detentions in one week than I did all of last year." Gemma's expression darkened. "And, of course, the idiots don't listen. I caught a group of sixth-years hiding outside his office just last night."
Harry frowned.
He had no interest in Lockhart's personal fan club, but he wasn't about to ignore the fact that students were actively breaking curfew to see him.
Gemma crossed her arms. "At this rate, I might as well start sleeping in the corridors to catch them."
"Wouldn't recommend it," Harry said dryly. "The dungeons are freezing at night."
Gemma let out a tired snort. "Thanks for the wisdom, Potter."
Harry stood, feeling the potion's effects already dulling the ache behind his eyes.
"Sounds like a disaster," he admitted, adjusting his bag.
"Oh, it is." Gemma sighed, rubbing at her temples again. "And it's only going to get worse."
Harry didn't doubt that for a second.
The Hogwarts Library had always been a place of quiet refuge, but for Harry, it had become something else entirely. It had become a battlefield of knowledge—a place where he picked apart history, pieced together whispers, and tried to understand the past that no one seemed to want to talk about.
The official accounts of the First Wizarding War were frustratingly vague, often focusing more on Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix than on Voldemort himself.
And that was the problem. No one seemed to know where Voldemort came from. One day, he simply appeared—a name spoken in fear, a dark shadow rising, gathering followers, spreading terror.
And yet… nothing about his origins. Nothing about how he had risen to power in the first place. Harry sat hunched over a thick, leather-bound tome titled The Dark Reign: A History of the First Wizarding War, flipping impatiently through its pages. Another dramatic retelling. Another chapter glorifying Dumbledore. Another list of victims and tragedies without so much as a single clue about how Voldemort became the monster everyone feared.
"Lord Voldemort, once a whisper in the shadows, rose to power with an insatiable hunger for dominion, his name alone enough to strike fear into the hearts of wizards and Muggles alike—"
Harry exhaled sharply through his nose and snapped the book shut. That was all they ever said. Fearsome. Terrifying. Unstoppable. But where did he come from?
Harry ran a hand through his hair, pushing the book aside and reaching for another—this one thicker, dustier, the kind that looked like it had barely been touched in years.
"The Making of a Dark Lord: A Psychological Profile of You-Know-Who."
His fingers trailed along the title, then flipped it open. He scanned the introduction—something about Voldemort's uncanny ability to command absolute loyalty, to bend minds to his will, to instill such fear that even in his absence, his name alone was forbidden. But it was all speculation.
No facts. No records. No name before Voldemort. No place of origin. No family history.
Harry's fingers tightened around the edges of the book.
There had to be something. A clue. A name. A place. Anything. People didn't just become monsters overnight. They were made. A shadow fell across the table.
"Potter," a smooth voice drawled. "Don't tell me you're actually enjoying that garbage?"
Harry looked up to see Blaise Zabini standing nearby, one brow raised as he eyed the concerning stack of books Harry had amassed over the past hour.
Harry leaned back slightly, tilting the cover of his current book just enough for Blaise to see.
Blaise's lips twitched as he read the title. "A psychological profile? Are you planning to become a Dark wizard or diagnose one?"
Harry smirked faintly. "Maybe both."
Blaise chuckled, sliding into the seat across from him. He plucked up another book from the pile—Bloodlines of Britain: The Lost and the Noble—flipping through a few pages before setting it down with a bemused shake of his head.
"You do realize," Blaise said conversationally, "that if you keep this up, people are going to start talking."
Harry already knew that. He had heard the whispers, felt the curious, wary glances. Slytherins weren't stupid, they noticed things. And what they had noticed was Harry Potter spending an inordinate amount of time researching the Dark Lord.
"Let them talk," Harry said flatly, flipping another page.
Blaise studied him for a moment, then smirked. "Careful, Potter. You're starting to sound like you belong in this house."
Harry finally looked up, meeting Blaise's gaze. He could have denied it. Could have brushed it off, made some excuse. But instead, he smirked.
"Maybe I do."
Blaise chuckled, but his dark eyes flickered with interest. "Now that's the kind of answer that gets people nervous."
Harry said nothing, his eyes drifting back to the page before him. Because that was fine. Let them be nervous. He wasn't searching for Voldemort's past to embrace it. He was searching because he needed answers.
Because knowledge was power.
Disclaimer:
JK Rowling is a TERF. Protect Trans Youth.
I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or world.
Chapters 1-8 have been heavily edited as of March 2025, I recommend rereading through them if you have read the story before.