Chapter Text
Several days had passed since Harry had been announced as the newest addition to the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
“The youngest Seeker of the century,” he heard students murmuring in the corridors, casting curious, admiring glances his way.
Harry was still getting used to the idea. Sometimes, he caught himself doubting it was real—him, a Quidditch player, and in his first year! But whenever he heard someone repeat that title, a warm, proud feeling swelled inside him.
If his father had been there, would he have been happy Harry had achieved something like this? Harry liked to think so.
The morning after Oliver Wood’s announcement in the common room, as Transfiguration class ended, McGonagall’s voice rang out:
“Mr. Potter, a word, please.”
A slight chill settled in Harry’s stomach at the sound of his name, but he stayed behind as the other students packed their things and filed out, whispering among themselves.
McGonagall waited until the last desk had been dragged from the room before turning to him. Her usual stern, composed expression softened for a fleeting moment. A satisfied gleam crossed her eyes, and then—to Harry’s surprise—a rare smile touched her lips.
“Congratulations, Harry,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “I knew I was right about you.”
Harry couldn’t help but grin.
“Thank you, Professor.”
From the warnings whispered in the corridors to wide-eyed first-years, McGonagall was the sort of Professor who rarely showed enthusiasm beyond professionalism. Seeing her so plainly proud made the admiration he already felt for her grow even stronger.
Out of all the professors, she was, without a doubt, his favourite.
Days later, Harry found himself seated beside Oliver and a few fifth-years, invited by the Quidditch captain himself, to discuss strategies over breakfast. Fred and George were there too, but as usual, they seemed far more interested in tormenting Oliver than contributing any serious tactics.
“Harry, as Seeker, you’ve got a vital role on the pitch,” said Oliver, slicing his bacon with near-surgical precision, eyes fixed on his plate as though the fate of the world rested on his shoulders.
“Oh really? Do tell, genius,” remarked Matthews, one of the older students, arching an eyebrow with a sarcastic smirk.
Oliver shot him a withering look.
“Shut it, Matthews,” he said flatly, before turning back to Harry with grave intensity. “The match against Slytherin in November is absolutely crucial. So when you get on that pitch, you catch the Snitch… or die trying.”
Harry, who’d been chewing a bite of toast, froze mid-mouthful.
“What?” he asked, blinking, his mouth still slightly open.
The remark sent Fred, George, and Matthews into fits of laughter.
“Fred, pass me the parchment, I need to write this down!” said George, still chuckling, thrusting out a hand.
Without hesitation, Fred pulled a slightly crumpled, rolled-up piece of parchment from his robe.
George cleared his throat dramatically before scribbling. “On our ‘List of Threatening Wood-isms’, that’s number nine this year alone.”
Oliver scowled, pretending not to hear as he muttered something in Scottish Gaelic that nobody understood—but judging by his tone, it wasn’t friendly.
“Just trying to motivate you,” he grumbled between bites.
Harry was still processing the logic.
“Motivate me by telling me to die trying to catch the Snitch?”
“It’s a figure of speech!” Oliver exclaimed, rolling his eyes impatiently.
Harry raised an eyebrow, amused by the captain’s desperation.
“Oh, you know what I meant!”
“That’s the spirit, Harry—prepare to leave your blood on the battlefield,” said Fred, giving him an encouraging clap on the shoulder.
“Good thing the robes are red,” added George through a mouthful of toast.
Later, nearing lunchtime, Harry was heading back to the Great Hall.
His morning in the library had been long and exhausting—hours spent revising Potions and finishing Defence Against the Dark Arts essays—and now his hunger roared like an irritated dragon.
He was about to step into the Hall when he spotted Malfoy descending the stairs, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, both wearing their usual expressions of utter boredom. As always, Malfoy carried himself like he owned Hogwarts outright, and when his eyes met Harry’s, his face twisted into a malicious smirk.
Harry frowned but decided to ignore him. He wasn’t in the mood for another round of Malfoy’s taunts. If they’d been alone in an empty corridor, he’d probably have had to endure some idiocy—a shove, a jinx from behind, or another attempt to rile him up—but thankfully, the Great Hall was just ahead.
Lately, the provocations had grown worse. Ever since the news of Harry being Gryffindor’s new Seeker had spread, Malfoy seemed determined to make his life harder. The shoves in corridors, books knocked from his hands, the hissed insults whenever he passed… It all grated on Harry, but he forced himself to stay calm. Outnumbered three to one, there wasn’t much he could do.
Still, sometimes, the temptation to retaliate was strong.
The Great Hall was bustling, enchanted chandeliers casting golden light over the long House tables. Students chattered animatedly, and the smell of freshly served food hung in the air. At the staff table, Snape surveyed the students with his customary scowl, dark eyes brimming with disdain as they swept the Hall. His greasy hair reflected the candlelight in a way that made Harry want to look away.
Quirrell, however, was absent. Which, frankly, wasn’t a surprise. Harry suspected he preferred taking meals alone and only showed up for feasts.
Harry settled into a quieter corner, keeping his bag close. He spotted Hermione, sitting alone with an open book, but today, something seemed off. Normally, she’d be so absorbed in reading she’d block out the world. Now, though, her eyes were brighter than usual, her gaze distant—almost sad.
He frowned, hesitating for a moment. But whatever it was, Hermione probably wouldn't want company.
Harry helped himself to grilled fish, rice, and vegetables, and as always, silently gave thanks for the food. He'd never eaten this well in his life as he did at Hogwarts—and that alone felt like a small daily miracle.
“Best part is, you can even go for seconds,” he thought cheerfully, scooping more fish onto his plate.
As he ate, the familiar sound of fluttering wings came from above. He looked up just in time to see Hedwig gliding down gracefully, landing before him with a small note clutched in her beak.
He frowned.
“Hedwig delivering mail at lunch?”
That was unusual. Letters usually arrived at breakfast, alongside the papers and parcels.
“What’re you doing here, girl?” he murmured, stroking her head fondly.
Hedwig gave a soft hoot, nudging into his touch.
Harry took the note and, as always, set aside a generous piece of fish from his plate. Hedwig snatched it up, tearing into the tender flesh with her sharp beak, content. After swallowing the last bite, she hooted again and took flight, vanishing into the high ceiling.
Harry unfolded the note, curiosity mounting. The moment he saw the untidy scrawl, a grin spread across his face.
Hello Harry,
Heard you’re Gryffindor’s new Seeker. How’re you finding it? If you’ve time, come down for a visit.
— Hagrid
Harry’s smile widened.
He held the note for a moment, a comforting warmth in his chest. Memories of Hagrid—the giant man who’d rescued him from the Dursleys’ oppressive life—flooded his mind.
“Course, why not?” he murmured to himself, eyes still fixed on Hagrid’s words.
The rest of the Wednesday schedule looked light, and he knew he’d have no urgent commitments after classes. Hagrid’s invitation was perfect. Besides, Harry had missed the gamekeeper’s stories and his simple, honest company.
Decision made, he folded the note carefully, tucking it into his robe pocket. With a final glance around the lively Hall, he turned back to his plate and poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice, already looking forward to strawberry tart for pudding.
Harry let out a long sigh as he stretched, feeling his back crack softly.
He was tired after yet another dull History of Magic lesson with Professor Binns. His eyelids still felt heavy, and boredom seemed to seep into every inch of his body.
It was always like this.
Binns, a ghost who kept teaching even after dying in the staff room while sleeping, spoke in such a monotonous drone that he could turn any topic into a long, sleep-inducing lecture.
“Merlin, what a boring lesson...” Harry groaned inwardly, closing his eyes and resting his head on the open textbook.
At least Potions offered some challenge, aside from Snape being unbearable. But History of Magic? It was pure theory with no apparent practical use. What good would it do him to know about the various Goblin rebellions or who Uric the Oddball or Emeric the Evil were? Harry could barely tell them apart, since the professor kept mixing up their names.
After class, as he walked slowly toward Hagrid's hut, his thoughts kept circling back to the constant temptation to sleep during Binns' lessons.
It was getting harder to resist the urge to rest his head on the textbooks, which seemed as comfortable as feather pillows, and simply let time pass faster with his eyes closed.
“If Snape weren't so insufferable, I'd ask him to teach me an energy potion for Binns' classes,” Harry mused darkly.
The sky was beginning to darken as he walked, the air growing colder and heavier.
As he approached Hagrid's hut, Harry spotted the small dwelling, its garden filled with giant pumpkins, perfect for the approaching Halloween. They glowed a vibrant orange, almost like magical creatures waiting for their moment to shine in the celebration. The hut's chimney was slightly crooked, puffing out thick smoke that showed the fire was lit. Near the door, a massive crossbow rested beside a pair of enormous boots, making Harry wonder what kind of creatures in the Forbidden Forest would justify such a weapon.
He shivered slightly at the thought of what Hagrid might encounter out there and quickened his pace.
When he knocked, a muffled bark and heavy footsteps sounded from inside. Soon, the door swung open, revealing Hagrid with his usual warm smile, dressed in a brown wool sweater that was slightly frayed and patched in places. His beard and wild black hair were as untidy as ever, but his expression radiated pure joy at seeing Harry.
“Harry! Good ter see yeh!” Hagrid exclaimed, grinning so wide it stretched his rosy cheeks even further.
“Good to see you too, Hagrid,” Harry replied, mirroring his friend's smile.
“C'mon in! Gettin' right chilly out there,” Hagrid said, gesturing invitingly with his massive hand.
As soon as Harry stepped into Hagrid's hut, the sound of his footsteps was muffled by the worn wooden floor.
The space was small but exuded a cozy warmth that contrasted with the cold outside. The fireplace crackled with a lively fire, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and the comforting smell of freshly brewed tea filled the air. The kettle whistled softly, releasing little puffs of steam from its spout, while the hut's warmth wrapped around Harry like a blanket—snug and far removed from the vast chill of Hogwarts.
The wooden table, worn by time and use with a few mug stains, stood by the window, with a high-backed chair covered in soft furs on either side. Everything in the hut seemed within arm's reach.
Shelves crammed with jars of preserves and jams made by Hagrid lined the walls, and a slightly ajar door at the back revealed an enormous bed covered in thick fur blankets that Harry suspected were from bears. He glanced around, wondering how Hagrid, with his massive size, managed to move around in such a small space. But somehow, the giant made it work.
Before he could take in more details, a large black dog bounded toward him. Harry flinched reflexively, reminded of unpleasant encounters with Aunt Marge's Ripper, but Hagrid's encouraging smile made him relax.
“Oh, Fang don' bite, Harry. Jus' a big ol' drooler,” Hagrid said warmly, his eyes twinkling beneath his wild beard as he settled onto a stool near the fire.
“Hey there, boy,” Harry said softly, hesitantly extending his hand.
Fang licked his palm enthusiastically, and Harry ended up smiling, giving in to the dog's gentleness. He scratched Fang's head, and the dog, craving more attention, nudged closer, nearly pushing Harry over in his eagerness.
Hagrid snorted, watching the dog.
“Traitor, this one,” he remarked with a low chuckle, stirring a wooden spoon in his massive, calloused hands. “Make yerself at home, Harry. Was jus' about ter put on some tea now yeh're here.”
“Thanks,” Harry replied, his voice carrying a note of gratitude as he set his bag in a corner and took a seat in the high-backed chair.
The seat was so tall for him that his feet dangled slightly. He felt strangely childlike but relaxed, momentarily free from the weight of classes and pending assignments. Without thinking, he began swinging his legs back and forth as he waited for the tea.
On the table lay a folded copy of the Daily Prophet. The figures in the photos moved restlessly, but Harry, tired, paid little attention. His eyes wandered over the shelves and furniture as Hagrid set steaming cups of tea on the table.
“So, how've yeh been findin' Hogwarts? Settlin' in alright?” Hagrid asked as he carefully poured the tea, the heavy kettle nearly disappearing in the gamekeeper's giant hands.
Harry watched the steam rise from his cup and smiled, though his eyes showed faint weariness.
“It's... incredible, to say the least,” he began. “Might sound odd, but... everything's so magical. Every day's a new surprise.”
His smile widened slightly, but there was something in his expression that hinted at exhaustion—the pressures, this unknown world, all weighing on him despite the initial wonder.
“Ah, I know jus' what yeh mean, Harry. Lots o' Muggle-borns say the same. Reckon fer you lot, it's all the more amazin'.”
As Hagrid spoke, he sat at the table, the stool creaking under his weight.
Fang rested his heavy head on Harry's lap, giving him a pleading look for more pets. Harry stroked the dog's thick fur, a small smile on his lips. Fang closed his eyes, content.
“Thought yeh might bring that friend o' yers... what's 'er name? 'Ermione?” Hagrid asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to recall the exact name.
Harry paused, his fingers still scratching Fang's head, and glanced out the window where the sky was darkening.
He shrugged, trying to sound indifferent, but his expression betrayed a hint of sadness.
“She... sort of stopped talking to me,” he said quietly. “Don't know what I did, but after a few days, she just... cut me off.”
Hagrid nodded slowly, his expression understanding, his eyes kind behind his beard.
“Hmm... these things happen, Harry. But I'm sure yeh'll work it out. Made other friends, then? Heard we got quite a few new Gryffindors this year.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised by the question.
“You were in Gryffindor, Hagrid?”
“Oh, aye,” Hagrid replied with a nostalgic smile, his eyes distant with memories. “But that were many years back. Age creeps up faster'n yeh think.” He laughed, a loud, warm sound that filled the hut like the fire in the hearth.
“Well, actually...” Harry hesitated for a moment, his hands wrapped around the warm teacup.
He met Hagrid's attentive gaze before shrugging—there was no point hiding it.
“I don't really have any proper friends,” he admitted bluntly. “Seems like everyone avoids me, and even Hermione stopped talking to me. Heard some think I'm dangerous or something—maybe she got worried like the others. The Quidditch team's nice, but... it's not the same.”
Hagrid frowned, his kind face falling into a sad, concerned expression. He let out a deep sigh, as if Harry's words weighed on his heart.
“Ah, kids...” he murmured, more to himself, before taking a long sip of tea. “Can be cruel, I tell yeh.”
He pointed his teaspoon at Harry before continuing.
“But it'll pass. After a while, they knock some sense inter their heads.”
Harry gave a faint, sad smile, his eyes fixed on his tea.
“Don't think it will, honestly. Everyone's already in their groups. Hard to fit in when no one wants you around. And I... well, I had Hermione, but she cut me off.”
Hagrid, still frowning, gave Harry a sidelong look, trying to understand.
“What's got inter her?” he asked, scratching his beard. “Know witches can get tricky 'round certain times o' the year, but I doubt she'd stop talkin' ter yeh over that. They go back ter normal after a bit.”
Harry, however, looked confused. He wasn't entirely sure what Hagrid meant by “certain times,” but he decided not to ask.
“I really don't know what happened,” he admitted, shaking his head slowly. “Never rude or disrespectful, far as I know...”
He paused, thinking back to his interactions with Hermione and how often she'd raised her hand in class just that day.
“Sometimes I wanted to tell her to ease up on the bossiness, but I tried to be as nice as possible. One day, she said she had some work—don't remember what—and needed to be alone. Since then, she hasn't spoken to me. Just gives me cold looks and turns away... Am I bad company?” he asked, the sadness clear in his eyes.
Hagrid looked at Harry with deep compassion, his large eyes reflecting the soft firelight.
“Oh, Harry, 'course not! Yeh're great company. Remember how much we talked on yer birthday? Didn' find yeh borin' one bit!” He paused to let his words reassure Harry. “I'm sure whatever's botherin' her—or the others—ain't about yeh.”
Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“Maybe you're right... but I really don't know.” He looked down at his tea before meeting Hagrid's gaze again. “Heard some things, but didn't dare ask anyone. And about the Sorting, Hagrid... you've seen others, right?”
“O' course I have!” Hagrid said firmly, lifting his head proudly. “Seen more Sortin's than I can count, why?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, thinking back to what had troubled him since that day.
“Is what happened with the Sorting Hat normal? Heard it was the first time something like that happened—I mean, it freaking panicked before even touching me. Everyone seemed... shocked.”
Hagrid frowned, his expression thoughtful as he considered the question carefully.
“Well... ter be honest, never seen anythin' like what happened with yeh.” He admitted, taking a sip of tea. “The Hat's never acted like that before, that much I can tell yeh.”
Harry sighed more deeply, a pang of frustration hitting him.
“Great, another reason for me to be the weird one,” he muttered bitterly.
“Oh, don' think like that,” Hagrid said quickly, raising his hands as if to soothe the boy's thoughts. “That Hat's ancient, yeh know? Older'n Merlin, I reckon! Bound ter start glitchin' sooner or later.”
“How does it work? What does it actually do?” Harry asked, still uneasy.
Hagrid scratched his head and smiled sheepishly. “Well, I'm not the best ter explain it, but... from what I know, the Hat thinks on yer character an' personality when it's on yer head—somethin' ter do with a wizard's aura too. Then it decides which House yeh belong in.”
“It didn't just talk about my personality,” Harry said, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the experience. “It said I was like someone... felt my power, said I seemed familiar.”
Hagrid scratched his forehead, clearly perplexed.
“Can' say I know what ter tell yeh. Maybe the Hat's gone barmy... Think 'bout how many heads have worn that thing! Never was all there ter begin with, now that I think 'bout it. Likes ter talk in riddles too, but reckon that's just so the Hufflepuffs don' feel too bad.”
Harry, however, wasn't convinced. Something about what the Hat had said felt too real, too precise.
“But, tell me!” Hagrid said, adopting a brighter tone, trying to bring back the light in Harry's eyes. “Heard yeh're the youngest Seeker in a century! How's that feel, eh?”
Harry lifted his head, a smile finally brightening his face.
“Brilliant, honestly. The team's really nice. We sometimes talk strategies and train twice a week,” he explained. “Oliver, the twins, and the girls are always decent to me. It's been good.”
“Ah, that's grand, that is!” Hagrid exclaimed, slapping the table amiably. “Yer dad would be right proud, Harry. Didn' even make the team in his first year, did he?”
“Was told he was a Chaser, right? What were his matches like?” Harry asked, now curious.
Hagrid paused, his gaze distant, as if reliving memories.
“James was a prodigy. A real speedster on a broom. Once he got the Quaffle, no one could stop him. Won Gryffindor more'n one Cup playin'.”
“I want to win a Cup for Gryffindor too,” Harry said, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Want to do it for Professor McGonagall.”
“Fer her? That's noble, Harry. But why her?” Hagrid asked, surprised by the reason.
“She's the one who gave me the chance to join the team. Want to prove I can break Slytherin's winning streak.”
“Ah, now that's a match I'll enjoy watchin'!” Hagrid said with a wide grin. “I'll be in the stands come November, cheerin' yeh on!”
“Thanks,” Harry said, feeling a little lighter.
The conversation ebbed and flowed, Hagrid, seated in his large high-backed chair, watching Harry with genuine interest as he stroked his beard.
“How're yer classes goin', any easier or harder ones?” Hagrid asked, raising a curious eyebrow as his fatherly gaze remained fixed on Harry.
Harry shrugged, but his face brightened briefly.
“Charms and Transfiguration are my favorites... I think,” he said, his eyes drifting over the table as he reflected. “Though I reckon I like Transfiguration more because of Professor McGonagall than the subject itself. It's way more complex and interesting, but the theory's much worse than Charms, for sure.”
Hagrid smiled, nodding. “Minerva's a strict witch, but fair, and a brilliant Professor.”
Harry returned the smile but then frowned.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts, though... Quirrell's...” He hesitated, searching for the right words.
“Barmy? Missing a few screws an' jumpy?” Hagrid finished with a rough laugh, watching Harry nod silently. “Know jus' what yeh mean. Came back odd after some trip last year. Now he barely shows up fer breakfast an' jumps at his own shadow. Was helpin' Filch get Mrs. Norris down from a wardrobe in his office when I heard some students sayin' his lessons're borin'.”
Harry laughed along with Hagrid, his eyes shining with a mix of amusement and weariness.
“Can confirm that last bit,” he admitted, laughing more openly now.
“Don' yeh worry,” Hagrid said with a wink. “Might be a bit... odd, but he's harmless.”
Harry shook his head, still smiling. “Then there's Snape, and... well, you know.”
Hagrid scratched his beard thoughtfully.
“Severus keeps ter himself, don' talk much with 'im, but when I do, he's straight ter the point, no fussin'. Knows his stuff, no denyin' that, but if he smiled more, maybe he wouldn' scare the first-years so much.”
As a comfortable silence settled over the hut, Hagrid suddenly stood, making his chair creak.
“Meant ter offer yeh these earlier, but clean forgot!” He grabbed a plate of dark, lumpy cakes. “Jus' baked these—got raisins in 'em—not sure if yeh like 'em. Fancy one?”
Harry accepted politely, but his eyes wandered to the table where a newspaper caught his attention.
The bold headline jumped out at him:
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
He picked up the paper:
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on July 31st, widely believed to be the work of unknown dark wizards or witches. The goblins of Gringotts insisted today that nothing was taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day.
“But we're not saying what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesperson this afternoon.
No trace of the culprit has yet been found, with some experts suspecting they may have entered by flying or floating, though nothing has been confirmed.
Harry's heart raced as he recognized the date.
“Hagrid! Did you read this?” Harry exclaimed, pointing at the article. “Gringotts was broken into on my birthday... when we were there!”
Hagrid, who was reaching for a teacup, glanced at the paper and nodded with a slight smile.
“Oh aye, old news that. But don' you worry, we emptied that vault before the break-in. Bunch o' stupid thieves, I tell yeh.” He laughed proudly.
But his expression quickly hardened.
“I shouldn’ta said that,” he said, staring fixedly at the wall.
Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously as pieces of the puzzle began falling into place.
“Wait... that thing the Professor took from the vault... was that what they wanted to steal? She said it was Hogwarts business... so it's here?”
Hagrid quickly shook his head, looking nervous.
“Now, Harry, that ain't nothin' you need ter worry about, alright?” he said, trying to sound natural. “Best leave it be.”
Harry hesitated but ultimately relented with a sigh.
“Alright... I guess,” he said, his curiosity still evident but reluctantly suppressed. He took one of the rock cakes Hagrid offered, biting into it cautiously.
Immediately, his face twisted into a discreet grimace. The cake was incredibly hard, almost like a rock, and the taste didn't help at all. Harry tried not to show his disappointment, but each bite felt like a battle to avoid breaking his teeth. He glanced sideways at Hagrid, who seemed oblivious to his discomfort.
As he struggled to chew, Hagrid looked at him expectantly. Harry forced a smile.
“Really good, Hagrid,” he said with his mouth partially full, trying to sound convincing.
“Glad yeh like it!” Hagrid replied cheerfully, completely unaware of Harry's culinary suffering.
Outside Hagrid's hut, twilight had fallen, painting the sky in rapidly darkening shades of orange and pink as the shadows of trees surrounding Hogwarts' grounds lengthened. Inside the hut, the soft firelight illuminated Hagrid's large, bearded face as he laughed while finishing a story about a particularly misunderstood magical creature.
Fang had woken at some point and moved from Harry's lap to sleep soundly at their feet, though not touching since Harry's legs were dangling in the air.
Throughout their conversation, Harry had begun to understand just how much Hagrid truly knew about magical creatures, despite his somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm for some of them — especially dragons. Harry remembered when Hagrid had said dragons weren't as dangerous as everyone thought. He'd doubted it at the time, but knowing Hagrid, he realized his passion for these creatures came more from deep respect and a desire to protect them than from ignorance.
“Most creatures are just misunderstood,” Hagrid insisted, his eyes shining with excitement. “People are afraid 'cause they don' understand, but they're not all dangerous like the books say.”
Harry smiled back but internally remained cautious, remembering a passage from his copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them:
"Dragons, which many mistakenly consider to be merely large winged lizards, possess thick scales that protect them against numerous spells, while their fire is nearly as deadly as their large claws and powerful jaws. The important thing about these creatures is to maintain distance and hope not to be spotted by one, otherwise the chances of survival are quite low."
But he respected Hagrid's opinion and didn't want to contradict him, appreciating how much the giant loved these creatures.
After more stories and laughter, Harry looked out the window and noticed the darkening sky outside.
“It's getting late, Hagrid,” he said, standing up with a slight sigh. “I'd better head back before I miss dinner.”
Hagrid, distracted by their conversation, widened his eyes and looked at the magical clock on the wall, his eyes growing even wider at seeing the time.
“Blimey, has it been that long? Nearly three an' a half hours of talkin' an' we haven' even started on trolls yet!” Hagrid let out a loud laugh, his massive frame shaking slightly with the motion.
Harry laughed along, leaning down to remove Fang, who was still fast asleep, from his legs.
“Well, I definitely want to hear that story,” he said, excited at the prospect.
“Glad yeh stopped by, Harry,” Hagrid said, standing up with a heavy sigh and stretching. “Good ter see yeh settlin' into Hogwarts... despite everythin'.” He made a broad gesture with his hands, clearly referring to the challenges Harry had faced since arriving.
Harry nodded, understanding what Hagrid meant. “Yeah, I get it.”
Hagrid walked to the door, opening it with a warm smile as the cool night breeze entered the hut.
“Chin up, lad,” he said with a friendly wink. “Things'll get better with time. Just don' lose heart, eh?”
Harry smiled, comforted by the words.
“Will do, Hagrid. Thanks for the tea... and the cake,” he added with a slightly forced expression.
“Come back anytime!” Hagrid said cheerfully, waving as Harry crossed the small garden surrounding the hut.
When Hagrid's door closed behind him, Harry sighed in relief, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other as he began the walk back to the castle.
“Sorry Hagrid, but I'm not eating that cake again,” he murmured to himself with an amused smile as he looked at Hogwarts castle, now torch-lit in the distance.
The windows glowed like small stars, promising warmth and familiarity after a long day. Soon he could be sleeping peacefully in his dormitory with a full stomach - a luxury he now had every day.
Harry groaned wearily, anticipating the effort required to return to the castle.
“Why, Merlin? Why does our common room have to be in the highest tower?”
Fatigue weighed heavily on Harry's shoulders, but his growing hunger gave him no respite. That hard cake he'd eaten earlier seemed to have only opened a bigger hole in his stomach. Dinner awaited, and on the way, only the crackling of torches on the cold stone walls kept him company. His footsteps echoed through the empty corridors, an uncomfortable reminder that he was alone at this moment - as so many other times.
Then he saw them.
At the end of the corridor, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson emerged like unwanted shadows. Malfoy stood with crossed arms, his mouth curved in a sneering smile, while Pansy watched him with a look mixed with malice and cruelty.
Before Harry could react, he heard heavy footsteps behind him.
A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed what he already feared: Crabbe and Goyle were approaching. Their blank expressions were the same as always, but their puffed-out chests made it clear they believed themselves on some mission of great importance.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing a sigh. A wave of exasperation and anger rose in his chest.
“Really, now?” he said, not bothering to look at Malfoy directly.
The situation was becoming a cruel joke.
Draco raised his head, his smile widening with false interest.
“Really what, Potter?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as if genuinely curious.
Harry looked around. No exits. The corridor was narrow, with no side passages or open doors. Walking away without confrontation wasn't an option. He cursed himself for being so inattentive. Crabbe and Goyle weren't exactly synonymous with stealth; if he'd let them approach unnoticed, he must have been truly tired.
A familiar feeling of helplessness settled in his chest. His stomach twisted with anger as he remembered all the times Malfoy and his cronies had provoked him, knowing he couldn't fight back here.
It was always the same idiots, always in groups. The cowards never acted alone, not even once.
“Don't be stupid, Malfoy. You know what I'm talking about.” Harry's voice came out sharper than intended. His patience had already run out.
Draco frowned and took a few steps forward, his expression turning dangerously dark.
“What did you just say?” he asked through narrowed eyes, trying to appear threatening.
“Besides stupid, are you deaf too...” Harry muttered to himself.
Unfortunately, Draco heard.
“Say that again, Potter!” he snarled, pulling out his wand. His eyes flashed with irritation. “I dare you to repeat that.”
Crabbe and Goyle were now just steps away from Harry, blocking any chance of retreat. Malfoy, with wand in hand and Pansy right behind him like a venomous shadow, completed the encirclement.
Harry cursed himself for not having learned any defensive spells yet. Quirrell seemed to have given up on teaching them how to protect themselves, preferring long lessons about creatures and basic theory without any practical application. As if that would help in situations like this.
Harry felt melancholy and frustration mixing in his chest.
“Bloody hell, not this again,” he thought, bracing himself for what was coming.
It was always like this.
Draco laughed with that unbearable air of superiority.
“Seems you're alone again, Potter. But I didn't come here to fight. You think you're clever, but you're not.”
Harry crossed his arms, trying to stay calm. “Then what do you want?”
Draco tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a predatory smile.
"A fair deal, of course," he said, confidence dripping from his words. "Either you choose Quidditch and we promise to leave you alone. Or... things get complicated."
Harry stared at him, his stomach churning with suspicion. Whatever it was, nothing good would come from “negotiating” with Malfoy. But there was no choice. No way out. He'd have to play the game.
“Well? Going to accept or not?” Draco pressed, the threat evident in his voice.
“I haven't even heard the full proposal to decide,” Harry retorted, feigning indifference.
Draco smirked.
“It's simple: quit the Quidditch team, and we'll leave you alone.”
It was the stupidest proposal Harry had ever heard. Malfoy's audacity in presuming he'd give up the one thing that truly made him feel part of Hogwarts was almost laughable.
“And if I refuse?” Harry arched an eyebrow challengingly.
Pansy Parkinson stepped forward.
“We'll make your life hell,” she said, her eyes gleaming with malice.
Harry felt anger burning in his chest but forced a smile.
“Tell me something... who's the leader here?” He casually pointed at Malfoy. “You, or your shadow back there?”
Pansy clicked her tongue, ready to advance, but Draco stopped her with a quick gesture.
“You'll see what a shadow is, you miserable wretch!” she spat.
Draco narrowed his eyes, irritated. “You're in no position to joke, Potter.”
Harry maintained his gaze. “I don't see anything fair about this negotiation.”
Draco smiled coldly. “I give you my word.”
Harry let out a short, bitter laugh. “Seriously? Your word? You don't even believe that yourself.”
Draco's face turned red with anger.
“How dare you!” He clenched his fists. “You think my word means nothing? You'll pay for this, Potter!”
In a quick motion, Draco drew his wand.
“Locomotor Mortis!”
Harry tried to dodge, and the spell whizzed past, nearly hitting Goyle in the shin.
“Watch it, Draco!” Goyle exclaimed, jumping clumsily aside.
"Just hold him, for Merlin's sake!" Draco bellowed.
Crabbe and Goyle moved like two walking wardrobes, grabbing Harry's arms before he could escape. Draco repeated the spell, and Harry's legs locked together instantly. He nearly fell, managing to brace himself against the wall at the last second.
“You're weak!” Harry shouted, his eyes flashing with anger. “Always needing these idiots to do everything for you! Can't accomplish anything on your own!”
Draco hissed with rage. “Calling me weak again?!”
Without hesitation, Goyle pushed him to the ground and Draco delivered a vicious kick to Harry's ribs. The impact forced a muffled grunt of pain from Harry.
“Learn to keep that mouth shut. You're nothing here, Potter! Should've taken the deal!”
“Next kick's in the bollocks,” Crabbe threatened, laughing like an idiot.
The Slytherins' laughter echoed down the corridor as they walked away. Pansy lingered last. She leaned slightly toward Harry, looking down at him with a venomous gaze.
“Know something?” She smiled cruelly. “I should pity you, because the weak one here is the one on the ground. And worse, you’re lonely and miserable.”
Harry felt his breathing become uneven. He clenched his teeth, furious. It wasn't the first time she'd poked at his greatest pains and insecurities, but hearing them stated so explicitly still hit him like a curse.
“You're a disgrace even to Gryffindor,” Pansy hissed before finally walking away.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying to contain the throbbing pain in his ribs. With trembling hands, he murmured the counter-curse to undo the leg-locking spell. He'd learned it out of pure necessity.
“Bunch of idiots,” Harry muttered, his voice laden with growing fury like a storm brewing inside him. “I'm sick of this.”
With a sharp motion, he grabbed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. One hand pressed against where he'd been kicked, as if pressure could alleviate the pain. Each breath was a cruel reminder of the humiliation, of how the Slytherins despised and underestimated him. And above all, the loneliness.
Again.
The hunger that had driven him to the Great Hall had completely vanished, replaced by a dense, suffocating bitterness. He walked through Hogwarts' cold corridors with firm, angry steps, his eyes burning with frustration. The torches on the walls cast long, flickering shadows that danced as he passed. The play of light and darkness mirrored his own inner turmoil.
“Who do they think they are?” The thought hammered in his mind.
He clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Every insult, every taunt, every veiled and explicit threat from Malfoy and his gang replayed in his head like a cursed spell.
“I should show those idiots.” The words escaped in a low growl, laden with hatred.
And then, something happened.
Harry began feeling angrier, something inside him stewing over what had just happened combined with all the other humiliations. The air around him grew heavier, vibrating as if filled with static electricity. His fingers tingled, skin prickling as a warm current surged through his body. He'd felt this before — the raw magic that emerged when pushed to his limits, when his emotions overflowed. But now it was different. Stronger.
Rather than the desperation he'd felt at his aunt and uncle's house, this was easier to identify.
It was hatred. Anger in its purest form.
Translucent red threads danced around him, ribbons of energy sparking whenever they touched the stone walls. The sensation was wild, hot, uncontrolled. As if his rage had taken physical form, yearning for something. Something he, for a brief moment, wanted to give it.
The pain in his ribs, the insults... None of it mattered anymore.
Draco Malfoy had dared to threaten him. Demand he quit the Gryffindor Quidditch team. As if he could tear him away from the one place where he truly felt he belonged. As if he could dictate the rules of his world. The contempt Harry felt burned like liquid fire. He would never yield to something so absurd. The mere thought disgusted him.
But what to do? Tell a Professor? As if that had ever solved anything. How many times had he been humiliated with no one doing anything? Asking for help would only give Malfoy and his cronies more ammunition.
His heart beat erratically, pounding against his ribs with force. He stopped mid-corridor, shoulders tense, breathing short and ragged. The magic continued simmering beneath his skin, the torchlight threatening to dim as it reflected in his intense eyes.
In the deep emerald green of his irises, thin red streaks now pulsed like glowing embers.
He swore then and there that next time, he wouldn't let it slide.
It didn't matter if he was tired. It didn't matter if he had to face Malfoy and his gang alone. He would make that arrogant blond taste the same bitter flavor of humiliation. And then, perhaps, the others would think twice before following him like trained dogs.
Gradually, he regained control, the momentary anger that had nearly exploded subsiding.
The red aura around him began weakening, the magic dissipating as he reined it in. He blinked, and the red streaks vanished, leaving only the usual green of his eyes.
“Next time they try to corner me...” He narrowed his eyes, determination burning in his chest. “I'll show them who they should really pity.”
Harry climbed the stairs to the seventh floor with heavy steps, each movement betraying his accumulated exhaustion. His shoulders were tense, and he gripped his backpack strap tightly, as if that could relieve the physical and mental fatigue he felt.
Dinner had passed in a blur, and he could still feel the humiliation of their laughter as his legs remained immobile under the jinx, powerless to do anything but watch... as always, apparently.
He was tired of it - that slimy, arrogant blond and his gorilla-like backup. He needed to come up with a solution.
As he dodged two older Gryffindors in the corridor, an idea struck him.
"What if I trained on my own? Maybe learnt some proper defensive spells?" he mused. "Bloody hell, it's nigh impossible alone... not to mention completely against the rules, even if I'm not in the corridors proper..."
The anger from the humiliation still pulsed in his head, making his thoughts feel disorganized and boiling.
He panted slightly - he'd eaten relatively well at dinner.
“Merlin... I'm still... not in shape,” he gasped, staggering as he began climbing the sixth-floor stairs.
He couldn't help thinking how lucky the Hufflepuffs were, with their common room on the ground floor.
“Fewer stairs, less effort,” he reflected with a twinge of envy.
The icy corridor air burned his lungs as Harry tried to catch his breath. Suddenly, an unnatural silence settled around him — the kind that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His wizarding instincts screamed a warning, but not fast enough.
WHOOSH!
A water balloon shot toward him like a bullet. Harry lunged sideways, swinging his satchel out of the way, but the projectile hit him square in the face. Water exploded, drenching him from head to toe, leaving a dark puddle on the stone floor.
“PEEVES, YOU BLOODY MENACE!” Harry roared, his face burning with rage.
It was the third time that week, and his patience was wearing thinner than a Freezing Charm in the desert.
CRACK!
With a loud sound, Peeves materialized mid-air, hovering above him like a malevolent specter, eyes gleaming with pure glee.
“Ooooh, ickle Potter's all soggy!” the poltergeist sang, spinning with delight. “Four-Eyes turned into Fish-Fingers! Did 'ee like Peevesy's little prezzie?”
Harry tried wiping his fogged glasses with his soaked sleeve but only smeared them further.
“Piss off!” Harry spat, fists clenched.
Peeves let out a shrieking laugh, echoing off the walls like a jinxed bell.
“Ooooh, naughty naughty! Tsk, tsk!” He twisted his face into a grotesque imitation of Professor McGonagall, pitching his voice shrilly: “Ten points from Gryffindor for foul language! Minnie's gonna weeeep when I tells her!”
Harry felt magic thrum under his skin, the air around him shimmering with heat. He took a deep breath, counting to three in his head.
“You're unbearable,” he bit out finally, snatching up his satchel with a sharp jerk.
“Toodle-oo, Squishy!” Peeves whistled, bowing exaggeratedly as Harry stalked away, leaving a trail of water down the corridor.
Harry's teeth were clenched so tightly they hurt. Hogwarts had many wonders - but Peeves was certainly not one of them.
As he finished climbing the stairs, he strangely seemed unable to stop dripping water, as if he'd just stepped out completely soaked.
Harry huffed.
“Of course the balloon's enchanted... brilliant,” he said sarcastically, stressed.
Approaching the Fat Lady's corridor, Harry frowned.
Hermione was sitting on the cold stone floor, back to the common room entrance, chatting animatedly with the portrait. Her tone was full of curiosity and admiration, her hair falling in waves around her face as she hugged her knees.
Harry, however, had no interest in the subject. He was soaked, exhausted, and just wanted a hot shower and a comfortable place to rest. Preferably without anyone around.
“And what did you used to do for fun?” Hermione asked, tilting her head, clearly fascinated.
“Oh, we had snowball fights outside!” exclaimed the Fat Lady, a nostalgic smile lighting her face. “The losers had to spend the night in the Forbidden Forest with the other defeated ones. Those were the days! The Ravenclaws always got the worst of it! Ha! Too many books, not enough action — that's their downfall!”
She sighed dramatically, her eyes twinkling with memories.
“How barbaric!” Hermione exclaimed, eyes wide. “What happened if someone got lost?”
“Oh, nonsense!” the Fat Lady scoffed, waving her hand as if swatting away a trivial concern. “Back then, youngsters were braver - and less stupid! Everyone knew how to handle themselves! These days, just suggest something like that and parents run to the Ministry threatening lawsuits for emotional distress! Can you believe it? This new generation is so weak...”
Hermione frowned, visibly bothered.
“That's still completely inappropriate for students!” she said indignantly. “Someone could have been seriously hurt!”
Harry cleared his throat loudly behind her. Hermione turned and gaped at him.
He was so wet that water streamed from his hair, pooling at his feet.
“Oh! Sorry!” Hermione jumped up, stepping back slightly and casting a nervous glance at the floor.
“No problem,” Harry muttered, not really looking at her, his shoulders tense and expression closed.
“Are you going to go in and soak the entire common room? Really?” said the Fat Lady, now holding a wine glass and looking at him disapprovingly.
“Caput Draconis,” Harry replied flatly.
“I still think you should dry off first! You'll ruin the wooden flooring!” she insisted in a scolding tone.
“Caput — Draconis.” Harry repeated, slower now, each syllable dripping irritation.
A warm breeze blew around him, making his hair flutter slightly. He forced himself to maintain control. What he wanted most right now was to rip that portrait off the wall and throw it out the window.
The Fat Lady narrowed her eyes and rolled them dramatically.
“Honestly, you're hopeless!” she grumbled, huffing as the painting reluctantly swung open.
The frame's creak echoed down the corridor.
When the passage opened, Harry cast a quick glance at Hermione.
Normally, she walked with her chin up and shoulders squared, always radiating that unshakable confidence. But now... something was different.
He frowned, observing her more closely.
Her shoulders were hunched, her chin tilted downward, as if carrying an invisible weight. Her eyes, which usually shone with intelligence and determination, now had a strange, moist gleam — as if holding back tears. Her face looked exhausted, dispirited. Hermione hugged one arm, almost unconsciously, while avoiding his gaze.
Even exhausted, Harry felt a twinge of concern. Something was clearly wrong.
Hermione rarely showed weakness, but now she looked as beaten down as he'd felt earlier.
For a moment, he fought the impulse to ask what had happened, to offer some kind of comfort.
But then, the memory of his own rejection settled in his stomach like a stone. Hermione wouldn't want his help. Not even his company.
He merely pressed his lips together as she gave him a quick glance and their eyes met, but she immediately looked away in silence.
Her aura seemed to shrink with that desolate look — he didn't understand why he felt this way, as if he didn't want to leave her side at that moment. But he forced himself, even if it was uncomfortable.
Without another word, Harry stepped through the portrait and entered the common room, leaving Hermione behind, lost in her own thoughts.
Still dripping, Harry entered the room, stomping his feet and muttering thoughts about idiotic Slytherins, dinner full of stares, and that damned poltergeist, ignoring the curious looks he received.
The stares were becoming commonplace for him, but now, with his soaked clothes, it seemed even more evident.
He headed straight for the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
The water had left a soaked trail on the floor as he peeled off his clinging clothes and left them in a puddle. Then, he stepped into the shower and turned the faucet, letting hot water cascade down his back, relaxing his tense muscles as he sighed deeply, trying to shed the weight of the day.
As the warm water flowed, his thoughts turned to what had been happening these past few days. The jokes and laughter about him spread like a virus, and now even some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs occasionally laughed at him. His status as threatening had been replaced by pitiful — he'd become the school joke.
Again.
Just like at the Muggle school he'd attended while living with the Dursleys. When no boy his age could approach him without Dudley and his gang chasing them off. They loved making Harry the weakling and humiliating him whenever possible.
“How long until I become a joke here, in my own house? What if I already am and don't know?” he thought to himself.
“No, enough,” he decided as he scrubbed his soapy hair.
“Sod it if offensive spells are forbidden outside class,” Harry murmured to himself, frowning. “I need to know how to defend myself... and attack if necessary. A good spellbook or something decent about Defense Against the Dark Arts would help. The library must have something...”
He finished showering, grabbed a towel, and began drying off, lost in thought as he studied himself in the mirror.
“But how could I practice alone?”
That was a problem. Practicing spells without a partner or instructor wouldn't be easy - and if caught, he'd be in serious trouble. Still, the idea of standing idle, waiting for the next attack unprepared, bothered him more than any detention.
There was much to plan tonight.
What Harry didn't know was that he would cross paths with someone who needed to talk to him. Someone who, like him, knew all too well the weight of being the butt of jokes.