Chapter Eight: Shadows and Silhouettes

The Ravenclaws filed into their first class of the afternoon with muted enthusiasm. History of Magic, it turned out, was as thrilling as a wet sock, even to the Ravenclaws. Professor Binns, a ghost, floated lazily through a lecture on the Goblin Rebellions of the seventeenth century. Harry tried to pay attention, he really did, but the monotony dulled even his sharpened mind.

He sat next to Terry, who was diligently taking notes, though whether out of genuine interest or sheer determination to succeed, Harry couldn't say. Michael appeared to be sketching something that vaguely resembled Professor Binns being exorcised.

By the time they were dismissed, Harry had retained perhaps two facts: goblins were persistent, and magical Britain was even worse at diplomacy than he remembered.

The moment they stepped out into the corridor, Harry glanced at the schedule. Potions was next. With the Slytherins.

Wonderful, he thought. Time to see if the past can truly be rewritten.

~OvO~

The Potions classroom, located in the dungeons, was colder than the rest of the castle, with an ambient dampness that clung to the air like mildew. The stone walls were lined with shelves of bottled ingredients: bat spleens, bundles of nettles, crushed beetle eyes, and the room smelled of vinegar and herbs.

The Slytherins were already seated when the Ravenclaws arrived. Draco lounged in his chair with the kind of ease only those born to pureblood prestige ever seemed to manage. To his left sat a quiet boy Harry recognized immediately: Theodore Nott. He was pale and thin, with a thoughtful, closed-off expression. Observant.

Harry chose his seat deliberately, taking the empty spot at the table behind Draco, but turned toward him with a calm, courteous nod.

"Malfoy."

Draco blinked, surprised at being addressed so directly. "Potter."

"I do hope you've enjoyed your first day so far" Harry said easily. "We all grow up hearing different things. Sometimes it takes Hogwarts to separate fact from fiction."

Draco tilted his head, assessing. "You talk like a grown-up."

Harry smiled. "Just trying to avoid acting like a child."

Draco didn't respond, but his lips twitched, half-smile or sneer, it was hard to tell. Across the aisle, Theodore Nott glanced over.

"I hear you were raised by Muggles," he said, voice low and even.

Harry met his gaze. "I was. Doesn't mean I don't respect the wizarding world."

Nott gave a slight nod, and said nothing else, though the flicker of interest in his eyes remained.

The door snapped open with a gust of cold air. Professor Snape glided in, robes billowing like a thundercloud. He stopped behind the desk and peered at the first-years like a hawk sizing up prey.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving in this class," he began, the familiar script unfolding. "I can teach you to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death..."

Harry kept his face unreadable, hands folded neatly atop his desk. Snape's eyes flicked toward him once, just once, but Harry held the gaze without flinching.

Ten minutes into the lesson, Snape began firing questions.

"You, Corner - what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

Michael stuttered and failed to answer.

"You, Boot - what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Terry gave a weak guess. Snape sneered.

Then his eyes landed on Harry.

"Potter. Since you're clearly not distracted by trying to impress your classmates, perhaps you can tell us where one might find bezoars."

Harry spoke clearly. "In the stomach of a goat, sir. They counteract most poisons."

Snape's lips thinned. "And how would you distinguish a swelling solution from a boil-cure potion mid-brew?"

"The swelling solution should be clear whereas the boil-cure potion should be cloudy. The crushed snake fangs and dried nettles in the boil-cure would also give it a sharp vinegar-like scent, whereas the swelling solution wouldn't smell of anything before the fermentation had begun."

Snape stared at him for a whole, uninterrupted minute. "Correct," he said shortly. Then, muttering, "Let's see how long that lasts."

Harry didn't look smug, just turned back to his cauldron and began dicing ingredients with practiced precision. He could feel the shift in the room; the Slytherins confused, the Ravenclaws impressed, and Snape... wary.

When the lesson ended, Snape swept to the front.

"Potter. Stay behind."

Harry didn't hesitate.

Snape waited until the others were gone before speaking, voice low and measured.

"You're not what I expected."

Harry met his gaze calmly. "I get that a lot, sir."

Snape studied him for a long moment, then said simply, "Don't get comfortable."

Harry gave the faintest nod. "Wouldn't dream of it."

~OvO~

Dinner was subdued, the fatigue of the first full day settling over the Great Hall like a blanket. Candles floated above, flickering lazily, and the staff at the High Table looked just as tired as the students. Professor Flitwick was leaning toward Professor McGonagall, deep in discussion. Hagrid gave a wave when he caught Harry looking; Harry smiled and waved back.

Across the hall, Harry spotted Ron sitting with Fred and George, laughing about something they had said. Hermione was on the far end of the Ravenclaw table, nose already in a book even while eating. She looked up once, met Harry's eyes, and gave a tentative smile.

He returned it, then turned his gaze back to the staff table.

Dumbledore sat serenely at the centre, blue eyes twinkling as if nothing in the world could surprise him. Harry wondered, idly, whether that was true, and what it would take to shatter that illusion.

As the plates cleared and the students began to file out, Harry looked once more at the Head Table, then at the students surrounding him.

The world won't change itself.

He stood, cloak sweeping behind him, and followed the crowd out into the darkening halls of Hogwarts.