Chapter 4: Greatest of the Hogwarts Four
As Harry followed the Slytherin first years deeper into the dungeons, the air grew steadily colder, the warmth of the Great Hall long behind them. The torches that lined the stone walls flickered eerily, casting long shadows that danced with every step they took. A faint, damp chill clung to the air, the scent of aged stone and water becoming more pronounced. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of dripping water punctuated the otherwise silent corridor. Harry shivered slightly, pulling his robes tighter around himself as they reached a seemingly solid stretch of wall. One of the prefects, an older student with a polished Slytherin badge, stepped forward and announced the password, Serpens. The stone shifted seamlessly, revealing an entrance that led into the common room.
The Slytherin common room was unlike anything Harry had imagined. It was grand yet distinctly different from the warmth of the Great Hall. The ceiling arched high above them, supported by dark stone pillars, and the entire room was bathed in an eerie green light that filtered through large, enchanted windows looking directly into the depths of the Black Lake. Faint silhouettes of fish and other creatures swam lazily past, and Harry could swear he saw something much larger drifting in the distance. Plush emerald and silver armchairs were arranged around a grand fireplace, though the flames burned an unusual shade of green, casting flickering shadows against the walls.
Harry barely paid attention as Gemma Farley launched into a speech-something about house rules, maintaining the dignity of Slytherin, and most importantly, not getting caught if you broke the rules. He was too busy taking in his surroundings, idly wondering if all the Slytherin passwords were snake-related. If so, that didn't seem very secure. If he ever forgot, he could probably just name every snake he knew until the door opened. His musings were cut short when Draco tugged at his robes, steering him toward the dormitories.
"You completely zoned out during the speech, didn't you?" Draco accused, giving him a knowing smirk.
Harry shrugged. "I got the gist of it. Don't embarrass Slytherin. Don't get caught."
"Well, at least you retained the important bits," Draco snorted.
The dormitory doors were heavy and ornately carved, the silver name plaques beside them currently blank. As Draco stepped forward, he pricked his finger with a silver needle and pressed it against the plaque. Immediately, his name-Draco Malfoy-appeared in elegant cursive, the drop of blood vanishing into the metal.
"You have to do the same," Draco explained. "It's a security measure. It locks the room so only you, me, Professor Snape, and the house-elves can get in without permission."
Harry hesitated for half a second before copying the action. The metal cooled beneath his touch as his name, Hardwin Potter, materialized beside Draco's. It seemed foreign to him. Technically he knew his full name as it was on every school form, but he had never been allowed to use it. Petunia had said their names were freakish and insisted that their primary school use Charlie and Harry instead.
As the door swung open, Harry took in the dormitory with quiet surprise. One entire wall was made up of enormous windows that overlooked the lake, the water distorting the dim light filtering through. The occasional dark shape drifted past, some slow-moving and harmless, others too large and indistinct to be anything ordinary. The two beds were large, draped in thick emerald-green covers, and positioned opposite each other against the north wall. A pair of dark wood desks stood near the windows, with matching wardrobes beside them. The whole space exuded an air of elegance-larger and far more luxurious than he had expected for a dormitory.
"Only the best for Slytherin," Draco said smugly, flopping onto his bed.
Harry raised an eyebrow, "Says the person who's never seen the other dorms. For all we know, Hufflepuff has a golden spa."
Draco huffed, clearly choosing to ignore him, as he began appraising the room as if checking for imperfections. Meanwhile, Harry changed into his pajamas, shaking his head at Draco's antics.
"What's it like living with Muggles?" Draco asked suddenly, unbuttoning his robes and slipping into what appeared to be silk pajamas. "Father says they're dull, magicless, and practically useless."
Harry stiffened for a moment, forcing his expression into neutrality. He could feel Draco's expectant gaze, but he wasn't about to pour his life story out to someone he had just met.
"It's fine," he said shortly. "Nothing special."
Draco seemed unimpressed by the lack of detail but mercifully let the subject drop.
As they climbed into their beds, Draco continued chatting. "Father got me a subscription to Seeker Weekly since I'm missing the last half of the Quidditch season. We have box seats for Puddlemere. He knows the team owner," he added with a touch of pride. Then, almost as an afterthought, he asked, "What's your favorite team?"
"I don't have one," Harry admitted. "Muggles don't watch Quidditch."
Draco stared at him as if he'd just confessed to having never eaten before. "You've never even seen a match?"
Harry shook his head, tucking his hands behind his head. "I've read about it, though."
Draco groaned dramatically, flopping onto his side. "This is tragic. Don't worry, Potter, we'll fix you."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. Slytherin wouldn't be so bad after all.
§§§
"Alright, first-years, line up," Gemma Farley called, clapping her hands for attention. "I've been voted to be in charge of the firsties this year. I'm only showing you to each of your classes once, so pay attention and memorize the way now."
She paced in front of them like a general preparing troops for battle, her sharp gaze scanning over the assembled Slytherin newcomers.
"Make sure you help some of the others who might struggle for the first couple of weeks. Professor Snape really hates it when people lose Slytherin points, and no one likes a grumpy Potions professor. Trust me, he makes you brew the extra smelly, foul-tasting ones when you get on his nerves," she added after a thoughtful pause staring directly at Crabbe and Goyle as if she innately knew they would struggle with the pace.
A few of the first-years exchanged nervous glances, but Harry just tilted his head, filing that information away for later.
Then, Gemma's gaze landed on him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Potter, next to me. I don't like the fact that you were on the front page yesterday. People will be talking."
Harry blinked, then glanced down at the offending Daily Prophet she held in her hand. To his irritation, there was a full-page spread detailing the Potter twins' Sorting. The article was filled with overblown speculation about their time before Hogwarts, what their Sorting meant for the future, and ridiculous theories about why they had been placed in different houses.
Harry scoffed, "Must have been a slow news day if they care that much."
Draco snickered beside him, "The Prophet does love its sensationalism. You should've seen the stories last year-one was about a wizard who claimed he could talk to vegetables."
Harry shook his head, exasperated, as he fell into step beside Gemma, with Draco just behind him. Crabbe and Goyle flanked them like silent sentries, their expressions unreadable as they marched down the dimly lit dungeon corridors. They hadn't gotten very far before their path was suddenly blocked.
Two older Slytherins stood in their way. One was a burly sixth-year with a square jaw and a permanent scowl-Marcus Flint. The other was a leaner, sharp-eyed boy with dark hair and an impatient tap of his fingers against his robes-Evan Rosier. Gemma stiffened slightly but didn't waver.
"Flint. Rosier," she greeted, nodding at them in what could barely pass as politeness. She attempted to lead them past, but Flint simply crossed his arms, flexing his thick muscles.
"I don't think so," Flint said coolly.
"We want to talk to Potter," Rosier added, his tone edged with impatience.
Harry frowned.
"Why?" he asked bluntly. He had no idea why these two wanted anything to do with him-he had barely been at Hogwarts for a few days.
Rosier smirked, but before he could say anything, Gemma stepped forward, subtly shifting her weight. Her wand hand slid toward her pocket in a way that made Harry uneasy.
"I'm sorry, but he doesn't want to speak with you," she said, her voice still pleasant but firm. Then, before anyone could react, she flicked her wand twice in rapid succession.
Flint and Rosier both let out strangled gasps as they doubled over, clutching at their groins. Flint stumbled backward into the stone wall, his breath coming in ragged wheezes, while Rosier dropped to his knees, cursing under his breath.
"Perhaps you should go see Madam Pomfrey. You seem to be having some… issues," Gemma smiled sweetly. She swept past them, giving Rosier's wand the tiniest of kicks to slide it just out of reach. "Come along, boys and girls, we have a schedule to keep. At this rate, I'll be late for my own class," she said breezily, as though she hadn't just incapacitated two students with ease.
Harry felt a firm push from behind-Draco, no doubt-and quickly hurried past the groaning older students, keeping his head down.
"What did she do?" Harry whispered once they were a safe distance away.
"Stinging hex," Draco muttered back, looking a little paler than usual. "To the bollocks, I reckon."
Harry had no idea what a stinging hex did exactly, but judging by the way Flint and Rosier had crumpled, he had no desire to find out. He made a mental note to never get on Gemma Farley's bad side.
The week flew by without any further incidents, though it quickly became apparent that even the seventh years steered clear of Gemma if they could help it. She had solidified her reputation as someone not to be trifled with, and Harry found himself quietly grateful for her intervention. Draco had taken it upon himself to explain that some Slytherins might hold resentment toward him due to their families' past ties to the Dark Lord. Harry didn't think that was particularly fair. The war had been over for a decade now-why should he bear the weight of something that had nothing to do with him? But whether it was because of Gemma's swift justice or simply because people were content to observe him from a distance, no one else approached him with hostile intentions.
Instead of dwelling on it, Harry focused on his studies. He quickly realized that his reading had been a great advantage. Magical theory played a crucial role in spellwork, and to his surprise, many of his peers had received private tutoring before coming to Hogwarts-at least, those whose families could afford it. Draco, for example, had been drilled extensively in wand movements and potion-making before setting foot in the castle. Still, Harry wasn't far behind. By the end of his first Transfiguration lesson, he had successfully turned a matchstick into a sharp silver needle-a feat that earned him a few points from Professor McGonagall.
Defense Against the Dark Arts, however, was another matter entirely. Professor Quirrell, with his nervous stutter and constant twitching, was difficult to understand at times. His lessons were… interesting, but not exactly inspiring. They had started with a discussion on ghouls, ghosts, and poltergeists, which Harry found somewhat useful. Draco, however, had scoffed, whispering that his father would be appalled by such basic material. Still, Harry took diligent notes-he wasn't about to fall behind in anything.
It was over breakfast on Friday morning that Blaise Zabini, one of their quieter yearmates, made an announcement that caught Harry's attention.
"We have double Potions with the Gryffindors today," he said, lazily spreading marmalade on his toast.
"This should be interesting," Theodore Nott muttered, his tone carrying an unmistakable air of amusement.
Harry, who had been idly stroking Hedwig's feathers as she pecked at bits of his bacon, looked up in curiosity. "Why exactly?"
Draco smirked. "Snape hates the Gryffindors."
Harry wasn't sure how he felt about that. It seemed a little petty for a teacher to openly favor one house over another, but Draco sounded absolutely certain.
"I heard those third-year Weasleys already got three weeks of detention in their first Potions class," Pansy Parkinson added with a prim wrinkle of her nose.
Harry decided not to point out that Snape didn't seem to like him much either. He was beginning to suspect that Snape simply didn't like anyone. The man had already taken points from a passing Hufflepuff for "excessive noise" in the corridors, and when Harry had accidentally made eye contact with him, Snape had narrowed his eyes and all but growled a warning about "idle loitering."
Harry had a bad feeling about this class. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, and suddenly, his breakfast didn't seem so appealing anymore.
"Potter will be my partner, of course," Draco announced to the table, as if it had already been decided. He turned to Harry with an expectant look. "I'm good at Potions. Professor Snape tutored me before Hogwarts."
The rest of the table looked impressed, but Harry just stared at Draco blankly.
"I guess that's fine," he said finally, shaking off his unease. Hedwig took the opportunity to steal the last of his bacon before flapping off to the Owlery.
"You should be thanking Draco," Pansy huffed from across the table, her arms crossing over her chest. "He doesn't have to help you, you know."
"Jealousy really doesn't suit you, Pansy," Theo drawled, smirking over the rim of his goblet.
"So you're taking his side then?" Pansy shrieked, rounding on him.
"Really, Pansy darling, Theo does have a point," Daphne Greengrass interjected, flipping casually through a letter from home.
"Well," Blaise said lazily, watching the exchange from his end of the table with mild amusement, "he did defeat a dark lord as a baby. I don't think we'd stand much of a chance if we made him angry."
A ripple of nervous laughter passed down the table. A few of the other first-years murmured in agreement, shifting in their seats or glancing at Harry with a mix of curiosity and unease. One girl leaned toward her friend and whispered behind her hand, her eyes never leaving him. A boy two seats down sat a little straighter, as if unsure whether to be impressed or afraid.
Pansy, who had been primly buttering her toast, froze mid-swipe. Her eyes went wide, then narrowed. With an offended sniff, she turned up her nose and pointedly shifted her plate farther down the table, putting as much space between herself and Harry as possible. She didn't speak to him again for the rest of breakfast.
Harry set his fork down with a clink and pushed his plate away. His appetite was gone. He could feel them watching again. Every glance lingered a second too long, every whisper quieted when he turned his head. They were trying to be subtle, but it didn't matter. He could still feel it. The weight of their attention followed him like a shadow, creeping behind his every step. He didn't ask for any of this. He hadn't chosen the scar on his forehead, or the story that came with it. But Hogwarts, for all its wonder, felt like a place built to remind him of it at every turn.
He slouched a little lower in his seat and stared at the table, jaw tight. It was only the first week of school and already, he was exhausted.
By the time they arrived outside the Potions classroom, the Slytherin first-years were left waiting while Gemma headed off to her own classes. Harry was just beginning to appreciate the quiet when his moment of peace was shattered. The Gryffindors were approaching. Even before they rounded the corner, he could hear them. Their voices carried loudly through the stone corridors, all chatter and excitement. He braced himself.
"Harry-"
It was Charlie. Harry's jaw clenched.
"I have nothing to say to you," he cut in swiftly, his voice cold.
The Slytherins around him shifted almost instinctively, subtly closing ranks in a way that blocked Charlie from stepping any closer. It wasn't a direct challenge, but it was certainly a clear warning. Harry didn't have time to analyze it, but he appreciated the support all the same. Charlie opened his mouth as if to argue, but before he could get another word out, the classroom door creaked open. Professor Snape stood in the doorway, his dark eyes sweeping over the assembled students like a hawk surveying its prey.
"Inside," he commanded silkily. No one needed to be told twice.
Harry barely had time to take in the classroom before Draco grabbed his sleeve and dragged him toward the front row. Draco had that look in his eye, the same one he got whenever someone mentioned Quidditch, and Harry already knew better than to argue.
Snape didn't waste time with introductions. He swept to the front of the class, his black robes billowing behind him as he fixed them with an intense, scrutinizing stare.
"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, yet commanding absolute attention. "As such, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly understand the subtle science and exacting art that is potion-making…"
Harry found himself enthralled despite his earlier apprehension. Snape had a way of speaking that demanded focus, that made Potions sound like something ancient and powerful. Draco was already scribbling furious notes, his quill scratching against parchment with a level of intensity that made Harry want to laugh. Instead, he followed suit, scrawling down key points as Snape continued. It wasn't until Snape began calling names that Harry's nerves returned.
"Potter!"
Harry barely had time to process Snape's cold, cutting tone before Charlie answered at the same time.
"Yeah?"
"Yes, Professor?"
Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, drawn-out sigh, as though the mere act of acknowledging them was a great burden. Harry had a sinking feeling that this class was about to go poorly for them both.
"Gryffindor Potter," Snape clarified with deliberate slowness, fixing Charlie with a glare, "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Charlie hesitated. His mouth opened slightly before closing again. His ears tinged red as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"I… I don't know," he admitted.
Snape's lip curled in something akin to triumph.
"Apparently, fame doesn't teach you everything," he sneered. Then, his dark gaze slid over to Harry. "Slytherin Potter, perhaps you can enlighten us?"
Harry shrank back slightly at the sudden attention but forced himself to answer.
"A sleeping potion, Professor?" he guessed, his voice more unsure than he would have liked.
"Are you asking or telling me?" Snape's sharp tone sliced through the room.
Harry straightened his spine.
"I believe it would be some sort of sleeping potion, Professor," he repeated, this time with confidence.
Snape paused, regarding him with an unreadable expression before turning back to Charlie, his expression darkening further.
"Tell me, where would I find a bezoar?"
Charlie swallowed, his blush deepening. "I… I don't know," he said again, shifting in his seat.
Without a word, Snape turned back to Harry and motioned for him to answer.
Harry hesitated for only a second before responding, "In a goat."
Snape hummed low in his throat, then swiftly rounded on Charlie once more.
"And perhaps this Potter," he continued, voice silky and slow, "can tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Charlie clenched his jaw. "I don't know! Why don't you ask Hermione?" He jabbed a finger at the bushy-haired Gryffindor who, up until this point, had been stretching her arm so high into the air it was a wonder her shoulder didn't dislocate. The class erupted into laughter, even some of the Gryffindors snickered at the jab. Hermione, for her part, looked positively affronted, her face going pink as she dropped her hand to her lap.
Snape's expression turned positively deadly.
"If I wanted Granger to answer, I would have asked her," Snape snapped. "Now sit down."
Charlie grumbled but followed orders, looking positively miserable as he slumped in his seat.
"Slytherin Potter!" Snape barked again.
"They're the same plant," Harry answered quickly, this time certain he was correct.
"At least one Potter," Snape drawled, his voice full of slow, cold amusement, "decided it wasn't beneath him to open his textbooks before coming to class." He swept a piercing gaze over the rest of the students. "Wormwood and asphodel make a powerful sleeping draught called the Draught of the Living Dead. A bezoar is found, more specifically, in the stomach of a goat. Wolfsbane and monkshood are indeed the same plant-though Slytherin Potter failed to mention that it is also referred to as aconite."
He let the silence drag out, ensuring everyone was paying full attention before his voice cracked through the air once more:
"Well? Why aren't you writing this down?!"
A frantic flurry of quills scratching against parchment filled the room as the students scrambled to keep up. The rest of the lesson went marginally better for Harry. Snape, seemingly satisfied with humiliating Charlie, spent the rest of the period breathing down the necks of the Gryffindors, snapping at their mistakes with sharp, well-placed insults.
Harry, meanwhile, found himself pleasantly surprised by Draco's aptitude in potions. Unlike the exaggerated bragging he'd heard from the other boy, Draco actually knew what he was doing, efficiently delegating tasks and explaining details from their textbook with ease. Harry, despite initially dreading the subject, found himself engaged in the precise art of brewing. To his satisfaction, their potion turned out almost perfectly-enough that Snape even praised it to the entire class.
"Surprising," Snape murmured, eyeing the swirling contents of their cauldron with something almost like approval. "It seems some students actually came prepared."
Harry felt a swell of pride. He had dreaded Potions class, but now? Now he felt like he might actually enjoy it. He had just finished filling a vial with their potion when a loud hissing noise filled the room. Before Harry could react, Draco yanked him onto his stool. A thick, corrosive-looking liquid was rapidly spreading across the stone floor, smoke rising where it touched. Several students shrieked, scrambling onto their seats. Harry's head whipped around just in time to see a horrified Neville Longbottom staring at his rapidly dissolving cauldron.
"Move, now!" Snape barked, his wand flicking upward. A shimmering barrier flared between the potion and the nearest students, but not before a few stray droplets splashed onto Crabbe and Goyle. The two let out startled yelps, clutching at their arms where the potion had landed. Snape descended upon the Gryffindor side of the room like an avenging shadow.
"You-clumsy-dolt!" he hissed at Neville, who looked close to fainting. "Did I not specifically warn against adding the porcupine quills before removing the cauldron from the heat?!"
"I-I-" Neville stammered, his face sickly pale.
"Silence!"
Snape turned sharply toward the rest of the class. "Class dismissed! Slytherins, leave. Now."
Harry didn't need to be told twice.
Despite the near-disaster, the Slytherins left Potions class in relatively high spirits. Their house had gained points, while Gryffindor had lost several-and though Harry thought Snape's punishments were a little excessive, he wasn't about to say so out loud. Crabbe and Goyle had been escorted to the hospital wing, their injuries deemed minor, and the rest of them were left to bask in the knowledge that, the Slytherins had come out victorious.
"You see what I mean about Snape?" Draco said, his tone smug. "Gryffindors are a disaster at potions. Imagine if they had to brew something actually dangerous."
"That potion was supposed to cure boils, wasn't it?" Theo mused. "Instead, it nearly burned a hole through the floor."
"Unfortunate for them," Blaise added, utterly unconcerned, "but we did well."
As they ascended from the dungeons, Harry exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the tension from the lesson faded. Potions had gone better than expected, and he hadn't made a fool of himself-not yet, anyway. The knowledge that he could hold his own, even under Snape's scrutiny, settled a quiet confidence within him. Draco was still talking animatedly about their potion, gesturing with his hands as if recounting a great victory. The rest of the Slytherins were in good spirits, their easy laughter echoing through the stone corridors. Harry let himself sink into the moment, listening but not speaking, absorbing the hum of conversation around for the first time, it didn't feel like he was bracing for the next disaster.
Harry let his fingers linger over the fabric hanging inside his wardrobe, debating whether he should even leave his room today. The robes were new-purchased on a whim in Diagon Alley-but he hadn't dared to wear them outside his dorm yet. Instead, he had spent the week in his Hogwarts robes, avoiding the scrutiny of his housemates. He had seen the quality of the clothes they wore, the way their fabrics gleamed in the candlelight, the way their fits were seamless and tailored just for them. Draco, especially, flaunted an endless supply of silk and velvet, his wardrobe a display of wealth and refinement.
A familiar tension curled in his stomach. The robes he had bought were simple-better than Dudley's cast-offs, certainly, but still just basic, off-the-rack purchases. He tugged on the sleeve, smoothing out a wrinkle, and sighed. He would look ridiculous wearing school robes on a weekend, and there was no way he would risk stepping out in anything from the Dursleys. That would be worse than staying in his room all day. Finally, he steeled himself and headed for the common room, tugging self-consciously at the hem of his robes as he descended the stairs.
Instead of the teasing he had half-expected, Draco merely rolled his eyes. "Merlin, it doesn't even take my mother that long to pick an outfit. We're going to miss breakfast."
Relief washed over Harry as he fell into step beside Draco. If Draco didn't complain, no one else would either. Draco had standards, after all. Of course, they hadn't actually come close to missing breakfast, despite Draco's lamenting. The Great Hall was still buzzing with conversation when they arrived, students filtering in and out at a leisurely pace.
"Did you see the notice?" Blaise asked, glancing up as they sat down.
"Flying lessons are starting," Theo clarified, before taking a bite of toast. "Thursday. With Gryffindor."
Harry barely suppressed a groan. He had hoped Potions would be the only class where he'd have to deal with Charlie. At least there, Snape's strictness kept the Gryffindors in check. Flying lessons, on the other hand… anything could happen.
"Excellent," Draco said, though his tone suggested otherwise. "Shame they won't let us bring our own brooms. Father says the school brooms are old and barely flyable." He stabbed at his eggs with unnecessary force.
"Isn't your father on the school board?" Daphne asked with a smirk. She often liked to provoke Draco, especially when he brought up his father. It had become something of a game.
"So is your father," Draco shot back, eyes narrowing. "And I don't see him doing anything about it either."
The words landed hard. A few heads turned, sensing the shift in tone. The tension at the Slytherin table spiked, not loud, but sharp and humming beneath the surface.
Daphne raised an eyebrow, unbothered. She gave Draco a look that belonged to someone who had already won and didn't need to argue. With a practiced flick, she tossed her hair over one shoulder and turned her attention to Tracey, who leaned in with a conspiratorial smirk. They spoke quietly, as if Draco had ceased to exist entirely. Draco's jaw clenched. He set his goblet down too hard, and a splash of pumpkin juice leapt over the rim, staining the edge of his silk sleeve. He swore under his breath, yanking a napkin off the table and dabbing at the dark spot like it had personally offended him.
Gemma strolled past behind them, casually ruffling Harry's hair on her way by. "That girl is going places," she murmured in amusement.
Harry scowled and immediately tried to flatten his hair, but it was useless. His fingers only made it worse, the mess spreading like static. He turned his head just in time to catch Daphne giving Gemma a rare, victorious smile. Gemma winked in return before vanishing around the corner with the ease of someone who always knew how to exit on the beat of her own applause.
Theo blinked. "What just happened?"
He looked between Daphne and Draco, then back at Harry, genuinely lost. Harry didn't answer. He was too busy watching Draco, who was still blotting the sleeve of his robe with short, angry swipes and pretending not to notice that Daphne hadn't looked at him once since turning away. Whatever had happened, Harry was starting to understand that power in Slytherin didn't always come from shouting the loudest. Sometimes it came in whispers. And sometimes it wore lip gloss and had perfect hair. Harry quickly finished his breakfast as the conversation shifted to Quidditch and flying. He had little to contribute, not fully understanding the game beyond what he had read.
Instead, he decided to take advantage of the rare sunny weather and headed outside. He had insisted on going alone, despite multiple protests. He felt suffocated at times, unused to the constant attention, the thick atmosphere of magic that clung to the very walls of Hogwarts. This was his first chance to breathe. Students were scattered across the grounds, some lounging in the courtyard, others walking in groups along the pathways. Harry veered toward a more secluded area, finally settling beneath a tree, threading his fingers through the grass. The cool breeze ruffled his robes, the distant murmur of students fading into the background.
He had just begun to doze off when a voice yanked him back to reality.
"Oi, Harry!"
His eyes snapped open. It was Charlie. Harry sat up, immediately scanning for an escape. Unfortunately, Charlie was already too close. There was no slipping away unnoticed.
"What do you want?" Harry asked, standing and brushing off his robes.
Charlie stormed up, his expression dark. "My Gameboy is broken. It won't turn on. What did you do to it?"
Harry blinked. "I didn't do anything to it," he said, tilting his head. "I told you. The magic around here eats away at electronics. Can't you feel it? It's not good for Muggle technology."
Charlie's face turned red. He looked furious-not just at the Gameboy, Harry realized, but at everything. His gaze really focused on him as it swept over Harry's robes, and his expression twisted into something ugly.
"Where did you get those?" Charlie demanded, voice rising.
Harry frowned. "I bought them."
"You look like one of them," Charlie snapped, his voice laced with venom.
Harry let out a slow breath, trying to steady himself, but Charlie wasn't done.
"Uncle Vernon works hard to put clothes on you, you should be more thankful!"
Harry stared, incredulous. Surely, Charlie couldn't mean the rags the Dursleys had given him? The oversized, stained, second-hand clothes that barely clung to his frame?
"Yeah, I don't think so," Harry replied, voice steadier now. A smirk ghosted across his lips as he caught sight of Gemma approaching from behind.
Charlie didn't notice. "Wipe that look off your face," he growled, stepping closer.
"Or what?" Harry asked, tilting his head. "You gonna make me?" He let his voice drop lower, sharper. "You don't have the guts, coward. Dudley isn't here, and I don't think you even know how to use your wand. Too busy acting like a filthy muggle like our so-called family."
Charlie's fist connected with his face before he even had time to brace for it. Harry knew it was coming, but that didn't make it hurt any less. His glasses flew off, and before he could recover, Charlie tackled him to the ground, pinning him easily with his size advantage. It only lasted a moment.
"Potter!" Gemma's furious voice rang through the air. Suddenly, Charlie was yanked off him, thrown backward with surprising strength.
Charlie sputtered, "H-he started it!"
"Very likely," Gemma drawled, brushing off her robes as she helped Harry to his feet. Her sharp gaze flicked between them, then settled on Charlie. "He's the one with the bleeding lip. You are coming with me to McGonagall's office."
Charlie's face turned an alarming shade of red. "I don't have to listen to you."
Gemma's lips curled into a dangerous smile. "Actually, you do. I'm a prefect. Now move."
A small crowd had gathered outside the castle steps, drawn like moths to the simmering tension. Whispers rippled through the students, some half-formed, others not bothering to hide their curiosity.
"Did you see that punch?"
"Was that really Charlie Potter?"
"Why would he hit his own brother?"
Harry kept his gaze low, the weight of every stare pressing in on him like thick fog. Beside him, Charlie had frozen, only now seeming to realize just how many eyes were locked on him. His posture wilted under the scrutiny. Shoulders tense, fists still half-curled, he dropped his head and followed Gemma Farley toward the castle in sullen silence. They didn't have to make the trek to the Gryffindor tower to reach Professor McGonagall's office. She stood waiting at the entrance with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She peered at them over the rim of her square glasses, lips pressed into a disapproving line.
"Fighting is not tolerated at Hogwarts," she said coldly. "Especially between siblings."
Before Charlie could speak, Gemma stepped forward with crisp authority. "Harry did not raise his hands or wand toward Charlie. I witnessed the entire thing."
Charlie's head snapped up, his eyes burning with disbelief. "You can't trust her! She's a lying snake!"
"Enough, Mr. Potter," McGonagall snapped, voice sharp and final. "Miss Farley is a well-respected student and prefect. I trust her word over your temper."
Harry blinked rapidly, letting a few tears slide down his cheek. It wasn't hard to summon them. He tilted his face toward the light just enough that the bruising on his jaw caught their attention.
"I didn't do anything," he said quietly, voice trembling. "He just… lost it."
McGonagall exhaled heavily, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," she said curtly. "And detention with Filch. I do hope you've learned your lesson, Mr. Potter."
Charlie opened his mouth to argue, but one look from her silenced him. He slouched on the bench nearby.
Gemma gave a small, satisfied nod. "Come along, Harry."
They left the scene behind, the gossip already circling through the students like wildfire.
Back in the dungeons, the atmosphere was cooler and quieter. The weight of the castle above seemed to settle here more heavily, soaking into the stone walls and snuffing out the noise of the upper floors. Flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the Slytherin common room. Harry sat perched on the arm of a worn chair near the hearth, the cold cloth he pressed to his lip damp and pink-stained. Gemma stood a few feet away, arms folded across her chest, one eyebrow arched like a blade.
"Alright," she said, her tone dry but curious. "What did you actually say to him?"
Harry glanced up, the edge of a smirk tugging at his mouth despite the swelling. He winced slightly, dabbing the cloth more gently now.
"I said something I knew he couldn't ignore," he replied. "Something that would make him swing."
Her expression didn't change, but he saw the flicker in her eyes. It was approval, tempered by caution.
"You planned that?"
"Not all of it." He shrugged, shifting his weight. "But I figured if he hit me, it wouldn't be my word against his. Not with half the school watching."
Gemma's mouth twitched, fighting a smile. "Next time, dodge him before he hits you."
Harry chuckled, low and tired. "He got in more trouble this way, hopefully he'll leave me alone for now."
A pause stretched between them. The fire cracked behind her, and somewhere in the far corridor, a door creaked open and shut. Footsteps echoed across the flagstone floor. The Slytherins were returning from dinner, voices low and sharp with interest. A few glanced Harry's way. One or two gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Others just stared. Draco Malfoy came in behind them, unhurried. He scanned the room quickly, then caught sight of Harry and made his way over. Crabbe and Goyle trailed behind, saying nothing.
"Well," Draco said, coming to a stop near the hearth, "I heard your brother made a scene."
"Something like that," Harry replied, his tone casual.
Draco's eyes flicked to the cloth in Harry's hand. "Did you hit back?"
"No."
Draco gave a thoughtful pause. "Good. More effective that way."
Gemma snorted softly but didn't argue. She turned back to Harry. "You're learning."
Harry looked down at the cloth in his hand, then up at her again.
"I have to."
Draco watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, then slowly sat across from Harry, stretching out like he owned the space.
"You really did let him swing at you?"
Harry nodded once.
Draco looked pleased. "Takes restraint."
"Not really," Harry said. "He's easy to get a rise out of."
Gemma's smile returned. It was sharper now. Not kind, but honest. She pushed off from the hearth and stepped closer, her voice lower.
"Just don't make me clean your blood off the stone."
Harry gave a faint laugh, more breath than sound.
"Deal."
Draco leaned back, his gaze steady on Harry. "We'll make you into a Slytherin yet, Potter."
Disclaimer:
Disclaimer:
I disagree whole heartedly with many of JK Rowling's views.
Protect Trans Youth.
I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or world.
This is a reupload of a story with the same name and plot. Things have been heavily edited and expanded. Please enjoy.